Page 7 of Duke of Iron (Unyielding Dukes #2)

Seven

“ H ere we are,” Logan said as he descended from the carriage and turned to offer his hand.

May placed her gloved fingers in his, her expression unreadable as she stepped down to the sidewalk. She looked up at the modest storefront before them—a narrow shop tucked between a milliner and a tobacconist, with a tidy sign overhead that read ‘Wilmot’s Optical Supplies’ in gold lettering.

“A spectacle shop,” she said slowly. “Truly, Your Grace, your sense of romance is quite singular.”

He led her toward the door. “If I recall, it was flowers earlier. I thought I might aim for practicality now.”

She arched a brow but followed him inside. “Next, you will give me a sewing kit. Or perhaps a fire screen.”

“Tempting,” he murmured. “But no, today is for spectacles.”

The little bell above the door gave a cheery ring as they entered. The shop smelled faintly of varnished wood and dust. For a moment, there was silence.

Then came a tremendous thud.

“Ow! Dash it all—oh, pardon me! One moment!” A muffled voice called out from beneath the counter, followed by a clatter and the appearance of a bespectacled man with tufts of gray hair that stood in all directions.

He beamed at them. “Customers! And not just any customers—a lady and a gentleman! How rare. How refreshing!”

Logan nodded. “She requires spectacles. And not the sort she already owns.”

May glanced between them. “My old ones are perfectly fine.”

“They are not,” Logan said.

The shopkeeper nodded enthusiastically. “Not fine at all! Let us see what we can do, shall we? Come, my lady. You shall need something fine. Something light. Let us begin.”

He dashed toward a wall lined with cases and drawers, pulling several open and extracting wires, frames, and glass in quick succession. Soon, a small pile had accumulated on the counter.

May sat as instructed and began trying them on, one after another. Some were too narrow, others too thick, and one pair made her look, in Logan’s opinion, like a startled owl.

She glanced at him over the latest pair. “These are not terrible.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “But they are not right.”

She tried another.

“That one makes your nose look short.”

She laughed, removing them. “I was not aware that was possible.”

“Anything is possible in the wrong frame.”

She tried another, more slowly this time. “This is not necessary. You know that, do you not?”

“Indulge me.”

He stepped forward again, his fingers lightly angling her face. A thumb under her chin, his hand grazing the curve of her cheek. It was nothing more than a practical touch, meant for examining the line of her face against the frame.

But May stilled beneath his hands.

He is looking. Truly looking.

“And what do you see, Your Grace?” she asked, only half-teasing.

“Something quite difficult to look away from.”

She flushed.

“Careful,” she said, adjusting the current pair on her nose. “You are beginning to sound as though you mean it.”

“I do. You asked me to act in love. I never do things halfway.”

“Is that what this is? Love by half a dozen accessories?”

He smiled faintly. “Love by design. If you must look at me over the rim of something, it ought to be elegant.”

She laughed. “Are you planning to choose all my future adornments?”

“Only the ones that touch your face.”

The shopkeeper appeared again. Logan turned. “Gold wire. A softer metal, but it suits her complexion better than the silver. And do ensure it is a proper thickness. The old ones bend too easily.”

May blinked. “How do you know that?”

“You hid them as if they had offended your sensibilities. One lens tilted—meaning the frame had been bent.”

She looked away. “They do that. Often.”

“Then they must not do so again.”

The shopkeeper bobbed his head and bustled to the back.

May stood slowly, smoothing her gloves. “You did not have to do this.”

“I know.”

They stepped outside into the bustle of Piccadilly. The air was crisp and the light pleasant, the usual thrum of London shifting around them as they began a slow walk past shops and stalls.

“If we linger much longer,” Logan said, “we shall be the toast of every gossip sheet by morning.”

“You sound as though you mind.”

“Not at all. Provided we look sufficiently besotted.”

“Then you must gaze at me more longingly,” she teased. “You have looked only moderately attentive, thus far.”

“And you must sigh more. Perhaps clasp your hands to your chest and speak dreamily of our future.”

She laughed. “I might. But only if you promise to compose poetry in my honor.”

“Ah. A satire, of course. Thoughtful, witty, and devoted to clearly expressed reason.” His thoughtful glance made May want to hide, even as something within her wanted to step forward and cheer. Even for something as frivolous as poetry, he looked at her.

“I’d prefer a sonnet,” she said, grinning. “Method and feeling, together.”

He chuckled. “I am no poet, May.”

“No,” she murmured. “But you did buy me gold-rimmed spectacles. That counts for something.”

He glanced down at her. “Do you know why you disliked the old ones so thoroughly? Because they were not designed for you. Worse, they hid your eyes.”

She looked up at him. Her mouth opened, then closed.

That sounded like ? —

“That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“That is because it was. Is it so surprising that I think my betrothed is beautiful?”

In truth? Yes.

“Your Grace, Lord Calenham is here. He awaits you in the salon.”

Logan glanced up from his gloves as Mr. Bexley spoke, his voice echoing faintly in the marble foyer. “Calenham?”

“Yes, Your Grace. He arrived not five minutes ago.”

Of course he did. The man had a sense for turning up precisely when one least wanted an audience.

Logan gave a brief nod and made his way toward the salon.

He stepped through the door and found Edward Sinclair, Marquess of Calenham and one of his oldest friends, sprawled with his usual careless elegance on one of Logan’s favorite chairs, his boots crossed at the ankle, a plate of sandwiches on his lap.

“You might have waited for your host,” Logan said.

Edward lifted a sandwich. “I was hungry. Your cook, by the way, deserves a dukedom of her own. These are excellent.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Edward took another bite. “Returned from the north this morning, and what do I hear before I can even unpack? That Irondale is getting married.”

Logan crossed the room and reached for a sandwich himself. “So I am. I have decided to put my neck in the sacred noose.”

Edward leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “What happened? Did you ruin the poor girl and find yourself with Lord August at your back, pistol drawn?”

Logan gave him a look. “Do you think me so incapable of restraint that the only path to marriage is through scandal?”

Edward considered. “You have avoided marriage longer than most. If you are marrying now, I can only assume it is by choice.”

“Exactly.”

Edward’s brows lifted. “Then I must ask, is it love?”

Logan gave a soft chuckle. “What if it is?”

Edward shook his head. “I would not believe it.”

Before Logan could respond, a shrill cry pierced the air, slicing through the genteel calm of the house like a blade.

Edward straightened. “Was that a babe?”

Logan sighed. “Yes.”

Edward set his plate aside. “Whose?”

“He was left on my doorstep,” Logan replied, walking toward the hearth. “No note. No name. Just the child and a basket.”

Edward blinked. “Good God. You are certain he is not…?”

“Quite certain. I am doing everything in my power to find his family.”

Edward rose at once. “Show me.”

Logan led the way up the stairs and down the hallway, pausing outside the nursery. Inside, the wet nurse was pacing with the child in her arms, trying to soothe his cries.

“He is just irritable, Your Grace,” she said as Logan entered. “Some days are like this.”

Edward stepped forward, arms outstretched. “May I?”

The wet nurse passed the babe to him, and Logan watched, somewhat stunned, as Edward rocked the child gently. Within moments, the crying ceased.

Logan frowned. “When did you learn to do that?”

Edward chuckled. “You forget—I have four nieces and nephews.”

He stepped toward Logan. “Here, hold him.”

Logan took a swift step back. “No.”

Edward’s gaze narrowed just slightly. He handed the babe back to the nurse and followed Logan out into the hallway.

Back in the salon, Edward resumed his seat, this time without the sandwiches. “So. Why are you truly marrying Lady May?”

Logan glanced out the window before answering. “Because the presence of this child—unexplained as it is—makes me a ripe target for the sort of whispers that could ruin reputations.”

Edward leaned back. “And marriage provides the illusion of order. A shield.”

“Exactly.”

Edward nodded slowly. “Then let me help you find the parents.”

“Very well. Thank you.”

Edward inclined his head as he studied Logan, thinking. “But tell me, how did you come to know Lady May in the first place? I am certain you had no prior attachment to the Vestieres.”

Logan’s lips twitched. “I attended the Duke of Stone’s ball. It was late, I had just retrieved my coat and was stepping toward my carriage when a young lady approached me. Quite directly.”

Edward blinked. “She approached you?”

“She believed I was her brother. August.”

Edward barked a laugh. “How the devil do you resemble August Vestiere?”

“We are both very tall,” Logan laughed.

“Heavens! Her eyesight must be appalling.” Edward frowned, as if commiserating with May. “I feel quite sorry for her.”

Logan had felt the same that night. “I thought she was teasing me at first,” he continued, “but then I recognized her. Lady May, but without the spectacles.” Logan shook his head. “She could barely see five feet in front of her. I realized she truly had mistaken me.”

“And you allowed her to climb in?”

“I did.”

Edward stared at him. “Without correcting her?”

Logan’s smile deepened. “I was curious. I acted on impulse. I wanted to see where it might lead.”

There was a moment’s pause as Edward assessed him with shrewd eyes.

In truth, Logan could not fully explain the strange compulsion that had overtaken him that evening. The sensible choice would have been to step aside, to send her back into the ballroom and be done with it. But something about her had made him forget caution entirely.

And for once in his carefully ordered life, he had let instinct guide him. Whether it would lead to good fortune or not was yet to be seen.