Page 5 of Duke of Iron (Unyielding Dukes #2)

Five

L ogan stood motionless by the cradle, his arms crossed as he gazed down at the sleeping babe. The child’s small fists were curled near his head, his lashes long and dark against plump, rosy cheeks. His chest rose and fell with the soft rhythm of sleep, a tiny wheeze escaping with each breath.

He looked… adorable. It was a ridiculous word, one Logan would never admit to using aloud, but it was the only one that came to mind.

The child shifted, stretching one arm before curling back into himself. Something about the movement tugged unexpectedly at Logan’s chest. He had a strange, inexplicable urge to reach into the cradle, to hold him.

But he didn’t. Because he couldn’t.

He knew with unwavering certainty that this child—however charming—could not possibly be his.

The wet nurse cleared her throat from behind him. “He’s a lovely babe, Your Grace,” she said gently. “It’s important for them to be loved, especially so young.”

The warmth that had momentarily filled Logan’s chest iced over in an instant. He turned to her, voice clipped. “This is precisely why I am making every effort to locate his family. The boy has kin somewhere, and he will be returned to them as soon as possible.”

The wet nurse lowered her gaze and bobbed a curtsy. “Of course, Your Grace.”

Before Logan could say another word, Mr. Bexley appeared at the nursery door, clearing his throat with a quiet sort of urgency.

“Your Grace. Lady May is here. She requests an audience.”

Logan blinked. “Lady May?”

“Yes, Your Grace. She is in the drawing room.”

What the devil is she doing here?

Moments later, Logan stepped into the drawing room and froze.

She was standing next to a high-backed chair near the fireplace, clothed in a delicate frock of pale pink that made her skin glow and her honey-brown hair seem spun from sunlight. Her cheeks matched the hue of her dress, whether from the warmth of the fire or something else entirely.

She was a vision. Like something out of a painting.

He approached and took her hand before she could retreat it. “Lady May,” he said, brushing his lips over her knuckles. “What a pleasant surprise. You look… entirely too fetching to be making calls unchaperoned.”

She reclaimed her hand quickly. “Miss Abbot is present, Your Grace,” she said, gesturing discreetly toward the far end of the room. “And I assure you, she is quite alert to impropriety.”

He chuckled. “A shame, really. I much prefer when you forget to be wary of me.”

“Wary of you?” she lifted a brow. “No, Your Grace. I am wary of society.”

Logan gestured toward the settee. “Shall we sit?”

May inclined her head and moved to sit. He took the chair across from her, his forearm resting lazily over one knee while she straightened her spine.

“I’ve come to discuss the terms of our engagement.”

“Already?” he murmured. “Eager bride.”

May rolled her eyes. “If we are to maintain the ruse of being besotted, we must at least appear somewhat aligned.”

He tilted his head. “You wound me. Are you suggesting I do not appear besotted?”

“You barely appear awake,” she said. “You’re meant to look at me with longing, Your Grace, not mild confusion.”

He laughed. “You have very specific requirements, Lady May. Do you come with a handbook I might borrow?”

“If I did, you would have already mislaid it.”

He leaned back, studying her. “Very well. What exactly would you have me do to prove I am madly in love with you?”

She leveled her gaze at him. “For a start, you might attempt to look as though you enjoy my company. Perhaps even seek it out, rather than waiting for me to call unannounced.”

“I was attending to a rather important matter.”

“Certainly.”

He shifted slightly, casting a glance toward the fire. “Now, tell me. What do you require of me?”

“You may find this amusing, but I do not,” May said. “I was shopping with my sisters today, and I overheard two ladies at the modiste’s speaking about me.”Logan arched a brow. “They said I trapped you into marrying me.”

That drew a sharp breath from him. “You did no such thing.”

“I know that.” She folded her hands tightly in her lap. “But they do not. And I am not na?ve enough to think they are the only ones saying it.”

He sat forward. “You ought not pay them any mind. The world is full of busy tongues and vacant heads.”

“I do not pay them mind,” she replied quickly, then added, “But you did promise to help me prove them all wrong.”

Logan studied her. She was holding herself with a sort of quiet determination, though her cheeks still bore the flush of embarrassment. That pink dress was doing her no favors—he found himself entirely too aware of her. And worse, she had a point.

“I did,” he said slowly. “And I intend to keep my word. What do you require of me, Lady May? Shall I stand in the square and declare myself wildly besotted?”

“Nothing quite so theatrical,” she said, though a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “But if we are to convince the ton of our great affection, we must do more than exchange glances at soirées.”

“Such as?”

She lifted her chin. “Hyde Park. During the fashionable hour. A promenade or two would do nicely.”

“Done.”

“And Gunter’s. I would like to have ices.”

He gave a slow nod. “Vanilla or lemon?”

“I have not decided. I shall require both.”

He grinned. “Very well. Both.”

“And…”

Ah. Here it comes.

“I should like you to call upon me at home.”

“That,” he said, “would be my greatest pleasure.”

She glanced at him, clearly suspicious of how easily he had agreed. “And perhaps… flowers. Not hothouse ones. Something seasonal. And in a basket, not a bouquet. Bouquets wilt too quickly.”

“You are terribly particular.”

She nodded. “I am not finished.”

He leaned back, bemused. “Do continue.”

“There is one thing I have always wanted to do, but my mother has never permitted it.”

“Oh?” he raised a brow. “Do tell.”

“I should like to attend the races.”

Logan laughed. “The races?”

“Yes.”

“You wish for me to take you to an event filled with shouting men, galloping horses, and drunk earls waving betting ledgers?”

“Yes.”

He rose, brushing an invisible speck from his sleeve. “Stand up.”

She looked puzzled. “I beg your pardon?”

“Come,” he said, offering his hand. “You have made requests. It is only fair that I begin fulfilling them immediately.”

She eyed him as though he had grown a second head, but placed her hand in his nonetheless. He drew her gently to her feet, letting her stand close enough to feel the heat between them.

They began a slow, meandering circuit of the drawing room, her hand resting on his arm, his pace deliberately unhurried.

“Is this what you envisioned?” he asked. “A grand promenade in the park?”

“Not quite,” she said, glancing about. “Parks tend not to have fireplaces or drawing room rugs.”

“An oversight on their part,” he murmured.

They neared her lady’s maid, who had taken a discreet interest in the pattern of the wallpaper. Logan turned his head slightly. “You may leave us, Miss Abbot.”

The young woman startled, then curtsied and hurried from the room.

May’s head snapped toward him. “You cannot simply dismiss my chaperone.”

“I can and did,” he said. “I am not fond of people listening to what I say to my fiancée.”

She exhaled in what might have been frustration—he found he rather liked the sound.

They stopped near the tall windows. Light filtered in, casting a pale gleam across her cheek.

“You’re awfully confident for someone accused of being tricked into matrimony,” she muttered.

He turned toward her and, with great deliberation, brushed her curls from her brows.

She stiffened. “What are you?—?”

“Hold still.”

He tilted his head and regarded her. Her eyes were large and green and entirely unguarded. Logan stilled.

Good God.

How had he not noticed her eyes before? Or the tiny freckles dusting her nose? Or her rosy lips that, when she was not talking, appeared to be in a lovely pout?

“You asked me to act besotted,” he said, lowering his voice. “Tell me, is this what you envisioned?”

He brushed the back of one knuckle against her cheek, watching as the pink deepened. She looked down, then up again, unsure whether to retreat or stand her ground.

“You are being far too forward,” she said.

He smiled. “You asked me to act like a man deeply in love. I am simply following orders.”

“I did not ask you to be indecent.”

“That is not indecency.” He traced her jaw lightly, pleased when her breath caught. “That is admiration.”

She swallowed. “You are impossible.”

“You are indecisive.” He stepped just slightly closer. “Would you have me dote or remain cold? Choose, Lady May. I cannot be both.”

Her eyes flicked to his mouth, then away. “I… I choose ‘dote.’”

Dangerous girl.

“You are playing a dangerous game, ordering a duke around,” he said. “Do you really think that is wise, little doe?”

That got her. Her lips parted as if to retort, but her words failed her. She tried again, attempting a businesslike tone, though her gaze remained locked on his. “Then let us be… professional about it.”

“Professional,” he repeated, reaching for her hand. “Of course.”

Her gloves were made of soft kidskin, a pale ivory that suited her complexion far too well. He turned her palm upward and began tracing circles with his thumb.

She stilled.

And then she stumbled over something—words, air, reality, he could not be sure. Whatever it was, it amused him greatly.

He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles, letting them linger for a moment longer than necessary.

She flushed violently.

God, she was expressive. Every passing thought etched itself upon her features, no mask, no artifice. He wondered—purely out of intellectual curiosity, of course—what she might look like when kissed.

But he did not say it. He only murmured, “Very well, little doe. You may have your requests.”

She stared at him, still visibly flustered. “Under one condition,” he added.

“And what is that?”

“When you marry me, you will wear this dress. It brings out your features.”

Her gaze dropped to the pink silk, then flew back to his. One hand lifted instinctively to her cheek.

“You—”

He placed a finger lightly over her lips.

“We have work to do.”