Page 48 of Duke of Iron
For decades, he had guarded himself against the thoughts of a wife and a child, but May was unraveling him every time she interacted with Rydal.
“You sing well,” he said, instantly regretting the words.
She looked up, the faintest blush on her cheeks. “That is very kind, Duke, but I am afraid you are mistaken. I sing only to drown out the silence.”
He considered this. “Sometimes the silence is preferable.”
“Not always,” May replied, her voice quiet and more honest than he liked.
Logan nodded, feeling unbalanced, then stepped back from the doorway. “If you see any books about, I am missing a few from my study. Philosophy, mostly. If you come across them, let Bexley know.”
She turned her attention back to the baby and said nothing more.
Logan retreated down the hall, only to be intercepted by Mrs. Paxton, who stood sentinel near the stairs.
“Mrs. Paxton,” he said, fixing her with a stare. “Do you know who has been moving things in my study?”
The housekeeper folded her arms, eyes level and clear. “Yes, Your Grace.”
He waited. “Well?”
“It was the Duchess.”
Logan’s jaw set. “She has been in my study?”
“She has, Your Grace. She asked if she might borrow a book. I told her the library was at her disposal. I did not know she had entered your private study as well.”
He thought about this, wondering what in God’s name May was doing rummaging through his books and organizing his desk. It was not the sort of mischief he expected. Or perhaps, it was exactly the sort of mischief he should have expected.
“Thank you, Mrs. Paxton. That will be all.”
She nodded, satisfied, and went about her duties.
Logan made his way back to the study, closed the door behind him, and regarded his desk anew. The pen tray was aligned, the quill box upright, and the entire place looked more orderly than it had in months.
He found his missing book—Hidden Treasures of the Earth—on a table by a chair in front of the hearth, opened to a page with a piece of rose-colored ribbon marking a passage. He stared at the ribbon, then at the words she had chosen to mark,
From the Far East come tales of extraordinary jewels, like the great robe of a maharaja that was made of emeralds and rubies and said to weigh more than a suit of armor…
Underneath the passage, May had scrawled,I wonder what a man such as Irondale gains from books such as these.
Logan read the words once, then twice, then shut the book with a snap and sat heavily in the chair. He was at war in his own house, and his adversary was a five-foot-nothing creature with spectacles and a penchant for order.
Logan smiled, despite himself.
He had not realized the study was a battlefield, but if it was, he was not sure he minded losing a skirmish now and then.
Logan woke early the next morning and, for once, did not ride out. He poured himself into the work of the day, determined not to think of May.
He moved to the drawing room for a break mid-morning, only to find the entire configuration of furniture altered. Where once his favorite chair had been stationed near the window, it now faced the hearth.
The ottoman, previously at a perfect right angle, had been nudged askew, giving the room a new and suspiciously inviting air. The only clue to the architect of this transformation was a solitary peony in a blue-glazed vase, perched on the mantel like a flag planted on conquered land.
Logan crossed his arms and called, “Bexley!”
The butler materialized. “Your Grace?”
Logan pointed to the chair. “Who did this?”
