Page 37 of Duke of Iron
He gave her another moment, then drew back and straightened her chemise.
“Forgive me,” she whispered, not knowing why she was apologizing.
He tilted his head, as if the notion of apology was a foreign thing. “Nothing to be sorry for.”
They stood in silence, and for the first time, May realized that his hands—his bare hands—were still on her arms. She felt the warmth of them, and something within her curled tight.
He must have sensed the change, for he stepped away at once, clearing his throat. “I shall have a maid bring you some tea. Unless you would prefer brandy?”
“Tea,” she said quickly.
He nodded. “And I shall send for Mrs. Paxton, if you wish for her to sit with you.”
“Please,” she said, but only because she wanted an excuse for him to leave.
He moved toward the door, but hesitated before opening it. “You may take as long as you wish, May. No one expects you at supper. Least of all me.”
She said nothing, and he left.
The moment the door shut, May moved to the vanity table in the bedchamber and sat, cradling her head in her hands. Her hair was askew, her cheeks blotchy, her eyes red-rimmed behind the gold wire spectacles she had forgotten she was wearing.
She looked like a ghost of herself. The new Duchess of Irondale.
A soft tap at the door announced the arrival of Mrs. Paxton and her lady’s maid, Miss Abbot, with a tea tray. May let herself be fussed over, the hot cup pressed into her shaking hands, the housekeeper’s words of comfort sounding distant and strange.
“Would you like a change of dress, Your Grace?” Miss Abbot asked.
She nodded. The maid produced a simple white muslin, far plainer than anything May had ever worn for an evening. She let them strip the stays and help her into the dress, grateful for its looseness.
Mrs. Paxton hovered near the vanity table. “Is there anything else you require?”
May managed a weak smile. “No, thank you. You have been… very kind.”
Mrs. Paxton paused, then, with a sudden gentleness, set a hand on May’s shoulder. “It is always the first day that is the hardest,” she said. “After that, one finds a way.”
May nodded, though she did not believe it, for her marriage was unlike most.
When the room was empty again, she went to the window. Hanover Square was bustling, and she spied three women walking and laughing. The sight reminded her of her sisters and how much she missed them. May had to wonder if she would ever come to think of this place as home.
A small knock roused her from her reverie, and she turned. Logan was back, this time leaning in the doorway with his arms folded, every inch a duke. “May I?”
She gestured him in, and he moved toward the fire. May joined him there, perched on the edge of a chair.
“I wanted to ensure you were still among the living.”
She forced a smile. “Just barely.”
He moved to stand near the fire, but did not sit. “May I ask something personal?”
She tensed, then raised her chin slightly to give him permission. “I suppose I have forfeited the right to privacy.”
He seemed to weigh the words before speaking. “Why did you accept me? I do not mean to sound impertinent, but you had every chance to back away. Even up to the last moment, you could have refused.”
She stared at the Persian rug. She could not tell him the truth—not the whole, crumbling truth. She could not tell him that she had begun to hope for something more, or that he had made her laugh at a time when laughter seemed impossible.
Instead, she said, “Because it was the only way forward. For both of us.”
He nodded, looking neither pleased nor disappointed. “I suppose I respect that.”
