Page 7 of Duke of Iron
She straightened, trying to appear far less flustered than she was. “April sent a carriage for me, and it just drove off.”
He frowned. “Did she? I haven’t seen her since—well, since before?—”
“She said you would take too long.” August looked suspicious, but relented with a sigh. “I was worried. Let’s get you inside.”
They walked together to the steps, but as they reached the front stoop, August paused. He turned and looked around the street once more, his brows furrowed. “I thought I saw someone with you, as I rode up.”
May’s breath caught. “Who did you think you saw, August?”
“A gentleman. A very tall one.”
She let out a laugh. “Do you see anyone, August? Look around. Do you?”
He peered into the street. It was quiet, still, and empty. Shaking his head, he chuckled. “Perhaps my eyesight is going.”
“Shall I lend you my spectacles, Brother?”
He snorted. “Not when they’re bent beyond recognition.”
The door opened. May stepped inside, her heart thudding. And just as the latch clicked behind her, she thought she heard a man’s chuckle from the bushes.
Oh, no. He’s still there.Her heart gave a treacherous kick in her chest.
Fascinating little chit.
Logan grinned as he emerged from the bushes, brushing leaves from his coat and flicking a twig from his sleeve. Of all the ways his evening might have ended, being bodily thrown into a hedge by a lady—Lady May Vestiere, no less—had not been among them. He pulled another stubborn leaf from his shoulder and shook his head with a soft laugh.
He walked back toward his carriage, which had obediently remained where it had been dismissed, the driver no doubt used to far stranger instructions from him. As the horses set into motion and the street rolled away behind them, Logan leaned back into the seat, chuckling softly.
Sweet, panicked, principled little thing. And not nearly so dull as society would have one believe.
He found her ridiculous, yes. But captivating too. No one had dared to try to best him physically, not since his days at Eton, and even then it had taken three boys working together to toss him into the hedge.
When he entered his townhouse a quarter hour later, the front door swung open as always, and there was Mr. Bexley, standing stiffly in the entry hall, posture brittle with unease.
Logan’s grin faded. “Bexley,” he said as he handed off his hat, “you’ve worked under me for three years. Do you truly believe I am about to box your ears?”
“No, Your Grace,” Bexley replied quickly.
Too quickly.
Logan narrowed his eyes. “Then why do you look like a man awaiting judgment?”
The butler flushed and bowed, stepping aside like a man escaping a noose.
Logan started toward his study, rolling his shoulders as he walked, already picturing a fire and a glass of port. But the soft, hurried shuffle of skirts made him pause. Mrs. Paxton stood in the archway leading to the servant’s wing, looking pale and altogether unlike her usual composed self.
“Mrs. Paxton.”
She curtsied. “Your Grace.”
Her eyes darted toward Bexley, then to the stairs, and back again. Her mouth opened and closed, no words forming.
Logan frowned. “Is something amiss?”
“Well, Your Grace, it’s only that—well, there was no warning, and it’s not… entirely usual?—”
“He wouldn’t stop crying!” Bexley burst out, clearly near the end of his composure. “We didn’t know what to do with him.”
