Page 8 of Duke of Iron (Unyielding Dukes #2)

Eight

“ Y ou are late, Your Grace.”

Logan grinned as he stepped down from his phaeton. “You wound me, Lady May. I am precisely on time.”

She descended the steps, gloved hands tucked neatly before her, the soft folds of her pale green dress catching the sunlight in a manner that seemed intentional. Her spectacles—new, delicate gold wire—rested upon her nose with quiet elegance.

“And must you call me ‘Your Grace?’” he asked, offering his hand. “Surely we can dispense with formalities by now. Call me Logan.”

Her brow arched, but her fingers slid into his. “Very well, Logan. Then you may call me May.”

May, he repeated inwardly, liking the sound far more than he ought.

She allowed him to help her into the Phaeton, settling beside him with an air of restrained excitement.

“My mother nearly fainted when I told her. The races, of all things! She said no decent lady attends such affairs.”

He flicked the reins lightly. “A tragedy, indeed. And your father?”

“Toasted me for inheriting his sense of adventure. August muttered something about public disgrace, and June refused to help me select a bonnet out of protest.”

Logan laughed. “So the household aligns itself with your mother, it seems. What did she do?”

“Attempted to stow away under my skirts.”

He glanced at her. “I admire the dedication.”

May launched into a lively account of the morning’s commotion, recounting her mother’s dramatics and the seamstress’s horror when asked for a shorter hem. Logan listened with increasing amusement, surprised by how little effort it took to remain engaged.

She had a way of drawing him in, her speech full of odd digressions and vivid detail. It was as if she saw the world in color while he had grown used to grays.

Then she asked, “What of your family?”

He kept his gaze on the road. “My mother died in childbirth. My father never remarried.” There was a moment’s silence before he continued. “He had his heir. That was all he required.”

He did not look at her, but he could feel her eyes. She said nothing, did not prod, and that silence told him she understood far more than she let on. Clever woman.

They arrived at the race grounds, the energy of the crowd already humming in the air as Logan handed May down from the carriage.

He led her toward a private box with an excellent view of the track. It was shaded by a striped canopy and comfortably furnished with plush chairs and a small table already set with refreshments. As they approached, May’s eyes widened slightly.

“All this for me?” she asked, her lips twitching. “You certainly went through a lot of trouble to impress me.”

He offered a roguish shrug. “Naturally. I only attempt to impress Lady May Vestiere.”

She laughed and rolled her eyes before taking her seat. As she looked around, her smile faltered.“Everyone is looking at me,” she mumbled.

Logan followed her gaze to the many faces turned toward them and whispers beginning to swirl. He leaned closer. “Let them look. All they see is something worth envying.”

May’s face lit up as he said that, then she looked out at the bright pennants fluttering in the breeze, and the colorful silks of the racers lining up with their restless mounts.

“Oh, look! That chestnut one is practically prancing.”

Logan followed her line of sight. “They are all prancing.”

“Yes, but that one looks as though he knows he is handsome.”

“Vanity in a horse. Dreadful trait.”

“Says the man who took thirty minutes selecting his cravat.”

He turned his head slowly toward her. “I beg your pardon. It was twenty-two minutes.”

She grinned, pointing with enthusiasm to a gray horse standing a little apart from the rest. “That one. He’s mine.”

“He is lanky and entirely unimpressive.”

“Precisely. He has a tragic backstory and something to prove.”

“Or he will place dead last.”

“That, too. But I have faith.”

He tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Are you wagering?”

“A shilling. I intend to live scandalously.”

The trumpet sounded, and the race began with a thunder of hooves, the ground trembling with their charge. May’s entire body leaned forward, her gloved hands gripping the rail, eyes fixed on the track with single-minded focus.

Logan, however, found himself watching her.

She clutched her reticule, breath caught in her throat as she muttered under it, “Come on, Gray Glory, prove them all wrong.”

Gray Glory?

Her cheeks flushed with excitement, her lips parted, and her eyes—those ridiculous spectacles catching the light—sparkled with undiluted joy. Her entire being seemed to radiate life, unfiltered and incandescent. He could not recall the last time someone around him had looked so thoroughly alive.

The horses rounded the final bend. Predictably, Gray Glory trailed behind by several lengths.

“Tragic,” May sighed.

“Predictable.”

“Still. There is something noble in his determination.”

“There is something mad in your optimism.”

She elbowed him lightly. “You are impossible.”

“You are delusional.”

They both laughed, a warm, spontaneous sound that made several onlookers glance their way. Logan handed her a glass of lemonade from the tray nearby.

She accepted it with an exaggerated curtsy, dipping so low he feared she might topple. “Your Grace is most generous.”

“And you are most dramatic. But not nervous,” he observed.

“Why should I be?”

Because every eye is upon us. Because they want a scandal and would settle for a misstep.

But she only sipped her lemonade and looked at him over the rim of her glass. “I am with a duke. What could possibly go wrong?”

He leaned against the railing, raising his own glass. “You would be astonished.”

The trumpet blew again for the second race. May leaned in, whispering with mock gravity, “That one with the white blaze. He is clearly the villain.”

Logan raised a brow. “And yet you are cheering for him?”

“He is misunderstood.”

“You have a concerning habit of siding with the least likely candidates.”

She smiled, eyes dancing behind the wire rims. “I have always had excellent instincts.”

God help me, Logan thought, watching her adjust her spectacles and lean forward once more, eyes filled with anticipation. For the first time in weeks, the knot between his shoulders eased.

And as she laughed at the white-blazed horse’s hopeless dash toward second-to-last, he found himself thinking, Let the ton gossip. I rather like being seen with her.

During the moment between races, he led May away from their seats to stretch their legs. Vendors passed trays of pickled eggs, ginger biscuits, and tankards of ale.

Logan noticed her eyeing a tray of drinks with keen interest, even craning her neck for a better view. He felt a corner of his mouth tilt upward as he studied her.

“You cannot possibly be thirsty enough to want that,” he said, watching her gaze settle on a mug of ale.

May glanced sideways at him. “I have never tasted it.”

“There is a reason for that.”

“But it is always in the books,” she countered, taking a step forward. “The roguish heroes drink ale, and so do the charming scoundrels. Surely a sip of literary curiosity is permitted.”

“You are neither rakish nor a scoundrel.”

“And yet,” she said, grinning as she approached the vendor.

He followed her, mostly to ensure she did not spill something ruinous on her frock, and handed a coin to the vendor before she could reach into her reticule.

“Thank you,” she said, lifting the mug with both hands. “To curiosity.”

She took a sip. Her nose crinkled almost instantly.

“Not what you expected?” he asked.

“It is… bitter.”

He plucked the mug from her hand and took a small drink himself. “Still not as bitter as your gray horse’s finish.”

She nudged him lightly. “He had spirit. That counts for something.”

“So do alley cats,” he chuckled and took her hand.

May shook her head as one would when a child acted out of turn. “You are impossible.”

They made their way back to their box, the crowd parting slightly as Logan offered her his arm again. She took it without hesitation this time, her gloved fingers warm against his sleeve.

The next race began moments after they were seated, but Logan found himself distracted. It was not the horses, nor the crowd, nor the distant flare of bugles. It was her .

May had resumed watching the track with focused attention, her brows drawn slightly, mouth pursed in a way that suggested calculation.

She was not merely pretty. He had thought her pretty from the moment she stumbled into his life with an offer of scandal. But this?—

This was different.

He liked listening to her. Liked the way she brought color to dull topics and warmth to otherwise tedious conversations. He liked that she asked questions and waited for real answers, that she did not fear a room full of strangers, nor his sharp tongue.

He liked being near her.

Which is convenient, he reasoned. A fondness makes marriage smoother. Friendship, even better. Plenty of successful marriages are based on mutual affection.

He could be friends with his wife. That was all this was.

Friends are easy. Friends are safe. Friends do not complicate matters.

Certainly, friends did not provoke inconvenient urges to brush their hair from their cheek, or kiss the corner of their mouth just to see if they tasted like lemon biscuits.

Logan shifted in his seat. No one wants to kiss their friend. That would be absurd.