Page 102 of Duke of Iron
It was June, surprisingly, who said, “Is it the Duke? Did he do something?”
May shook her head, unable to speak for a moment. Then, in a rush, “My courses have not come. It has been a week.”
April let out a soft, “Oh—” and covered her mouth.
June’s eyes widened, but she kept her tone gentle. “And you think…”
“I think I am expecting,” May whispered.
The room went very quiet. Then April reached for her hand. “Is it certain?”
“I do not know,” May said. “I am… I have never been late before. And I feel… ill. All the time. I cannot eat. I cannot think.” Her voice shook. “What if it is true?”
June, always the practical one, said, “It is not so terrible, May. You are married. You have a husband?—”
“He does not want children,” May interrupted, the confession tumbling out. “He said so. Before we wed, he made me promisenot to hope for it.” She took a breath. “He had a vow. He said he would be the end of his line, and there would be no more after him.”
April’s grip on her hand tightened. “I did not know.”
“I cannot tell him,” May said, and the words felt like admitting a crime. “He will be angry. Or worse—he will leave. And I cannot bear that.” Her eyes burned, but she willed herself not to cry.
June took her other hand. “You cannot go through this alone. If it is true, you will need help.”
“I know,” May said. “But I am so afraid.”
April stroked her hand. “You must speak with Mother. She will know what to do.”
May almost laughed at the idea of her mother as a wellspring of wisdom, but in that moment, she felt a desperate gratitude. “Yes. Perhaps I will.”
Still, the worry gnawed at her. They’d agreed on a marriage of convenience, with no intimate congress… but she’d kissed him. He’d kissed her. Was that enough?
Thirty-Two
“Your Grace. If you will place your initial here… and here… and again at the bottom,” said the solicitor, Mr. Larson.
Logan took the quill, rolled it in his fingers, and set it against the first line. Beneath his hand were documents pertaining to the purchase of the townhouse he had viewed with May weeks ago. He signed the first two lines, and when he reached the last, he paused.
He looked around the study—not his but belonging to the house he was about to purchase. It did not feel right.
“Just the final,” said the solicitor, shifting the stack so that the signature box was directly under Logan’s gaze. “This will transfer the property outright. The owner is in Vienna for the Season, so I’ve included a clause for immediate occupancy.”
The quill hovered. “Tell me again what you think of the house,” Logan said, not looking up.
Larson blinked as if he’d been asked to recite the twelve apostles. “It is—ah—magnificent, Your Grace. One of the best on Grosvenor. The marble in the foyer is Italian, which is to say, not the usual Welsh imitation. The garden faces west, so you get the last of the sun. The neighbors are—well, there are no neighbors, technically. It is entirely detached.”
“I cannot tell whether it is an entirely good decision to purchase it.”
Larson coughed lightly. “The prior owners had three sons. All gone to university, or abroad. The household staff is loyal—Cook has been there for more than a decade.”
Logan waited for something in the words to settle, but nothing did.
“I recall that May liked the view from the upper gallery,” he said, half to himself.
“Very much so,” Larson agreed, too quickly.
Logan’s eyes moved up, fixing on the solicitor with a predatory intent. Larson flinched.
“What else did she like?” Logan pressed.
