Page 33 of Duke of Iron
June was silent for a long moment. Then she said quietly, “I do not think you know what you truly want. And that is what frightens me the most.”
May could not answer… because there was no answer.
Ten
What a Season it has been, dear readers. As if the whirlwind engagement between the Duke of Irondale and Lady May Vestiere were not enough to stir the hearts (and tongues) of the beau monde, we are now assured that the ceremony shall take place this very day at St. James’ Church. Yes, indeed! Perhaps by the time this reaches your hands, the Duke shall have taken a bride.
Invitations have gone out to nearly every notable name in England, and one imagines there shall not be a free seat left in the entire nave. It is to be a wedding worthy of a fairy tale.And yet, we must ask ourselves what lies hidden. Their courtship, though swift, has been painted in the brightest colors of romance. They did appear to be entirely in love.
Still… one cannot help but wonder. Is it love, or is it merely our earlier speculations garbed in the finest of silk?Surely, there is no reason to doubt. Surely, not.
May sighed and folded the paper, setting it aside on the dressing table. April cast a glance toward the paper and scoffed. “Pay it no mind, May,” she said.
May offered a small nod.The wedding day arrived far too soon, and reading the gossip sheet had somewhat sapped May of what little confidence she had.
“Now, turn this way,” June said as she adjusted the fall of May’s curls, her fingers deft. “If you fidget any more, I shall have to tie you to the dressing table.”
“You would not dare,” May muttered, though she sat still, her hands clutched before her to hide their trembling.
“I would, and I should like to see the scandal when someone finds the bride trussed like a Christmas goose.”
April, seated near the vanity, held up two small glass bottles. “Lavender or rose?”
May glanced between them, then sighed. “Rose.”
“Very well, but only because it matches the expression on your face,” April said. She dabbed a bit of the scent on May’s wrists before adding, “You look lovely, you know. Terrified, but lovely.”
“I should like to be both less lovely and less terrified.”
June stepped back, admiring the pale pink satin and lace dress. “You could still come with me to the Americas. We shall board a ship, pretend to be widows, and live by the sea.”
“Or perhaps the Caribbean,” April offered. “I have heard one is never expected to wear a bonnet there.”
May laughed, the sound coming out more brittle than she intended. She was grateful for them. Grateful for the absurdity, for the distraction, for their presence.
The door opened then, and their mother swept in like a breeze. “April, June, be dears and wait for us downstairs. I wish to speak with your sister alone.”
April nodded and gave May’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and June, with a last, curious glance, followed her out. The door shut, and May regarded her mother, wondering what she was going to speak to her about.
Perhaps ask me one final time if I am certain of my decision?Her stomach gave a nervous little flutter.
“Come, sit with me, my dear,” her mother said, her voice unusually soft. She settled herself primly on the blue chaise by the window and patted the space beside her.
May obeyed and folded her hands in her lap, waiting. Dorothy cleared her throat, then cleared it again. Then she focused her attention on a particularly determined sparrow outside thewindow. “May… as you are to be a married woman… a duchess, no less… there are certain…expectations.”
“What manner of expectations?” May prompted when her mother trailed off.
Dorothy’s gaze snapped back to her, and May had never seen her mother so flustered. “It will be… incumbent upon you… to provide the Duke with an heir.”
“Oh,” May said. She had known this, of course, in the abstract way one knows the capital of Portugal is Lisbon. But hearing it stated so bluntly, minutes from her wedding, made it feel terribly immediate. A spark of genuine curiosity overcame her nerves. “And how, precisely, does one… begin?”
Her mother’s face flushed a deep, mortified crimson. “May Viola Vestiere! You will not ask such indelicate questions!”
“But how am I to know if I don’t ask?” May reasoned, her practical nature overriding her embarrassment.
“You are notmeantto know! Not beforehand!” Dorothy fanned her face with her hand as if the room had grown stifling. “It is a wife’s duty to submit to her husband’s… attentions. He will show you.”
May frowned. “But what are these attentions?” she pressed, now truly perplexed. “Is it like dancing? Does one need to know the steps?”
