Page 32 of Duke of Iron
They returned to the ballroom shortly after, and May did her best to don her mask again. She smiled. She greeted old acquaintances. She pretended not to notice the stiffness between her brother and her intended as they rejoined the crowd.
Logan approached with a bow. “May I have this dance?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
He led her onto the floor, his hand warm against hers. The music began, a familiar waltz that normally brought her some joy. But tonight, her feet felt strangely heavy.
“You are quiet,” Logan said as they began to move.
“I am merely tired. And perhaps nervous. It is all happening rather quickly.”
He studied her a moment before a slow smile curved his lips. “Look into my eyes, May. We are meant to be besotted, remember?”
She raised her eyes, and her heart kicked against her ribs. “How could I forget?” The words slipped out too easily. He always knew how to make her talk.
He tilted his head, his eyes glinting impishly. “Was that sarcasm, Lady May?”
“Do you not think I am capable of it, Your Grace?”
“Oh, I think you are capable of many things. But I suspect your sharp tongue is reserved for only the luckiest few.”
She snorted softly. “Consider yourself honored, then.”
“I do.”
They turned, the waltz drawing them in like a tide. Her steps matched his with unsettling ease. He leaned in slightly.
“You dance as though you enjoy being close to me.”
“And you speak as though you are astonished.”
“Perhaps I am. You have that effect.”
Drat him.
He smiled at her again, that infuriatingly charming smile, and coaxed a laugh out of her with an utterly ridiculous remark about the cellist’s hair. Then he had the gall to compliment her performance.
Except it was not a performance. Not entirely. Not anymore.
And he had not even needed to ask. He merely looked at her, and her heart betrayed her, her eyes softened, her lips curved.
What a terrible, arrogant man.
The worst part was—he was good at this. At pretending. At making her feel seen, admired.
And he would not mean a single moment of it.
He leaned in just enough to whisper, “Very convincing, Lady May. You almost look as if you enjoy being in my arms.”
“And you look as though you enjoy hearing yourself speak,” she murmured, her lips barely moving.
He chuckled. “Careful. Someone might think you are flirting.”
I might be.
She held herself together until they returned home. Until she and June had climbed the stairs and entered their shared chamber. Until she undid the pearl pin at her nape and set it down with trembling fingers.
Only then, without turning around, she asked softly, “How am I supposed to do this?”
