Page 64 of Duke of Iron
May frowned. “We are?”
He nodded. “This one is temporary. There are better properties in Grosvenor, or farther out if you prefer the country.”
“Why move?” she asked, genuinely curious.
He regarded her over his clasped hands. “Because it is easier to keep the world at a distance when you control the walls around you.”
She digested this. “Do you mean to exile me to the country?”
He smirked. “Not unless you wish to go.”
She shook her head. “I have had enough exile for now.”
He smiled. “Then we will remain, for as long as you like.”
There was something about the way he said it—almost gentle, but with a steely undercurrent—that made her want to believe he meant it.
She said, “You are full of surprises tonight.”
He met her gaze, and for a moment the air between them seemed charged, brittle with possibility.
“Is that a compliment?” he asked.
“It is… an observation,” she replied, and he laughed again, deep and sincere.
The footman appeared, and Logan gestured for the bill, which was absurd because it was their own house, but May supposed old habits died hard for dukes who were used to being everywhere but home.
As the last plate was cleared, Logan stood and walked around to her side of the table. He offered his hand.
“May I?” he asked.
She looked up, startled. “May you what?”
“May I see you out?” he clarified, though his expression made it seem as though he were asking something more.
May took his hand, and he drew her up, steadying her with a light touch at her elbow. They left the dining room side by side, her arm lightly brushing his.
In the hallway, the air was cooler, sharper. They paused beneath the painted arch, the light from the sconces casting long shadows over the floor.
May turned to him, suddenly unsure what to do with her hands. She wished to say something clever, or at least memorable, but her mind had gone blank.
Logan looked at her, silent, the set of his mouth suggesting he was waging a similar battle.
For a moment, she thought he might lean in. That he might kiss her. Her heart pounded, and the space between them seemed to vanish, collapsing into a single, breathless point.
Instead, he stepped back, released her arm, and said, “Good night, May.”
“Good night, Logan,” she managed.
He watched her for one more beat, then turned and strode away, his footsteps echoing on the marble.
May remained there, in the archway, listening to the retreating sound until it faded. She was trembling, though whether from cold or something else, she could not say.
She pressed her hands together to keep them steady, and thought,You are not alone anymore. You are not the only one pretending to know what comes next.
For once, she was glad of it.
Nineteen
