Page 21 of Duke of Iron
“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.”
Seven
“Here 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.”
