Page 6 of Duke of Iron (Unyielding Dukes #2)

Six

“ Y ou look very fine today, my lady,” Miss Abbot said as she gathered the rest of May’s hairpins and put them away.

May offered a smile and a nod before she moved to her bedchamber and sat on the chaise by the window, the same one that the Duke had lounged upon the day he snuck into her chambers.

Waiting until the maid exited, she reached for the folded paper half-hidden beneath a shawl beside her. She slipped on her spectacles and opened the gossip sheet.

It is now firmly established that the Duke of Iron is to wed Lady May Vestiere. Who would have imagined that the Grand Rake of England would be felled by the May Wallflower? Some whisper it is to avoid scandal; others wonder if it might be something more genuine. We remain skeptical.

And what of love? Is it possible that the Duke who has so long been a creature of solitude, brooding glances, and bachelor infamy, has truly fallen? Or is this another artful deception to keep our eyes away from another, deeper scandal?

Still, perhaps the Duchess of Wildmoore is determined to marry her triplets to England’s most eligible dukes. If she succeeds, what shall be left for the rest of the ton—particularly those with mothers of more modest ambition?

May huffed and crumpled the sheet. Then she lobbed it toward the fireplace, but it landed on the hearth with an undignified flop.

Shaking her head, she picked up a book and opened the pages, determined to read and forget what had occupied her thoughts ever since she returned from Logan’s townhouse.

Looping endlessly was the sound of his voice, the brush of his thumb against her palm, the flush he seemed determined to coax to her cheeks.

“Focus, May,” she muttered and squinted at the page.

“Come quickly, May! He is here. The Duke is here!”

May blinked up from the book on her lap. “What?”

The door opened, and her mother stood breathless, one hand fluttering near her throat, the other pointing emphatically behind her. “Now, May. Come now!”

She adjusted the spectacles on her nose and followed her mother down the hallway, only to stop short as they reached the stairs.

The drawing room was full of flowers. Baskets of them, placed on every surface. Pale pink roses, white hyacinths, clusters of violets and peonies—a sea of blooms that spilled over tables and windowsills, their fragrance rising like a dream.

“Oh my,” she whispered.

“Oh, indeed,” June said, appearing at her side. “And to think, we used to wonder whether your charms would ever be recognized.”

“Where is he?” May asked, ignoring the jab.

“Upstairs,” said Dorothy. “With your father and August.”

Their mother had begun to drift about the room, her hands clasped to her chest as she surveyed the baskets with tears in her eyes. “So romantic,” she murmured. “So very grand. Imagine what it shall be when he begins to truly court you.”

May stared at the flowers, at the abundance of them, each one more elegant than the last. He remembered. He listened. She could hardly take it in.

Then came the sound of voices above. August’s firm cadence, then Logan’s lower, smoother reply.

May’s hand flew to her face. Oh no. My spectacles!

She yanked them off at once, looking frantically for somewhere to place them. They would not fit in her sleeve, and her book was upstairs?—

Cummerbund. It would have to do. She shoved them against her waist, hoping the folds of her muslin dress would hold them well enough. They did not. The wire poked at her fingers, threatening to fall.

The door opened, and Logan entered, looking like a dark, Grecian deity in a deep blue coat. Her family took that precise moment to vanish. Truly, it was a marvel how swiftly a room could empty when parents and siblings wished to give the illusion of privacy.

He was holding a massive bouquet of white lilies. May’s eyes widened. “More flowers?”

Irondale walked toward her and offered the bouquet. “I could hardly bring a basket. It did not feel very ducal.”

She eyed the grand display surrounding them. “Yes, well, I believe you have sufficiently depleted London’s florists.”

“Do you not like them?” he asked, almost casually, though the glint in his eyes suggested he was enjoying himself.

“There are so many,” she said slowly. “I could supply Gunter’s with centerpieces for a fortnight.”

He shrugged, the corners of his mouth lifting. “I am besotted.”

She stared. “You are…”

“Besotted,” he repeated, sounding thoroughly unapologetic.

Her fingers fumbled against her waist. “I—well, that seems rather sudden.”

“Not at all. I am merely following orders. You instructed me to act properly besotted, and so I am.”

She gave him a look. “Sending an entire garden to my drawing room is hardly an act. It borders on theater.”

“Ah, but you must recall, Lady May, I was accused of lacking enthusiasm. This is me correcting course.”

She tried to balance the bouquet with one hand, still shielding the spectacles with the other. The bouquet was heavier than it looked.

“Is there a reason you’re cradling those as if they might flee?” he asked, nodding toward her strangely rigid posture.

“I am… adjusting my dress.”

“Your dress appears unbothered. You, on the other hand, seem to be hiding contraband.”

She pivoted slightly. He stepped to match.

“Lady May,” he said, one brow lifting, “I am not in the business of handling women. If you were anyone else, I might let this slide.”

He paused, eyes glinting. “But I can hardly allow my future wife to keep me in such suspense.”

“It is nothing,” she muttered.

“Nothing? Then you will not mind showing me.”

She sighed, knowing she had lost. “It is just my spectacles.” She withdrew them, mortified, and thrust them toward him.

He took them carefully. “These?”

“I do not always wear them. Only when I read. Or attempt to read. Or… need to read. And sometimes when the signs are very far away. Or very close. But mostly it is reading.”

He studied them a moment. “They are rather charming.”

She blinked. “They are horrid. They make my nose red, and they never stay straight. And they fog up when it rains. I always look ridiculous in them.”

He gave her a look that made her instantly regret speaking.

She fumbled on, unable to stop. “I do not always need them. Outdoors, I manage quite well. Unless there are carriages. Or curbs. Or signage. But I have never stumbled more than twice.”

“May.”

She looked up, her cheeks burning.

The Duke shook his head once, slowly. “You are the only person I know who can simultaneously charm, confuse, and terrify me with a single sentence.”

Her lips parted, unsure whether to thank him or flee. He looked at her for a long moment, then held out his hand. “Come with me.”

She stepped back. “I should fetch my parasol if we are walking.”

“You will not need it.”

Her stomach gave a small twist. “We are not going to Hyde Park?”

He paused at the door, glanced back, and smiled. “No. We are not.”