Page 30 of Duke of Iron
Their mother swept into the room at last, all brocade and perfume. “Girls, are we ready? We shall be dreadfully late.”
May rose, brushing down her skirts. Her thoughts were already elsewhere.
It will be fine. We have an agreement. That is all.
The ballroom sparkled with light and chatter, the orchestra soaring above it all. May entered on her mother’s arm, aware of the curious glances and whispered greetings. Yet unlike before, she did not feel exposed. Or perhaps… she did not mind being seen.
Logan arrived minutes later.
He came straight to her.
He looked—well. Frustratingly well. Cravat pristine, hair neatly combed, his expression just this side of warm.
“Lady May,” he said, taking her hand and bowing over it. “You are radiant.”
Her breath caught. Right. Besotted.
She smiled. “You are late.”
“Worth the wait, I hope.”
He placed her hand upon his arm. “Shall we take a turn about the ballroom? It should dissuade any eager bachelors from claiming you.”
She let out a light laugh. “No gentleman would dare approach me while you stand guard like a fortress.”
“Good. I make an excellent fortress.”
They walked, slowly, eyes following them as they passed. Logan leaned in to murmur something that made her laugh again, and she could feel the flutter of fans behind them, the scrape of whispers.
Then a gentleman with silver hair and a marquess’s sash approached.
“Forgive me, Irondale, but might I have a word?”
Logan nodded and turned to May. “I shall return. Save me a dance.”
“I suppose,” she teased. “If no one else asks.”
He chuckled and disappeared into the crowd.
May made her way to June, who stood near the potted palms with a glass of lemonade. “He really does play the part well,” her sister said.
“I do not think he is playing,” May muttered before she could stop herself.
June arched a brow. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Before she could say more, their mother appeared. “Let us take the air. The gardens are beautifully lit.”
“Of course, Mama.”
They wandered the gravel path, May and June trailing ahead. The night was still, the lamps casting a soft glow over clipped hedges and marble statuary. Their mother admired the lanternswhile the girls kept just ahead, their slippers crunching lightly on the path.
May had just plucked a petal from a rose when she heard a familiar voice.
“…this marriage is purely to quiet the scandal.”
She froze, for that was Logan’s voice. May held up a hand, stopping June mid-step. They both turned, pressing lightly against the edge of the hedge.
“I do not want her hurt,” August said, his voice low and firm.
