Page 78 of Duke of Iron
She did not trust herself to answer.
He held the look for a moment longer, then said, “I suppose I should see to the baby.”
May nodded, unable to speak past the heat rising in her throat. She turned to leave, and at the door, paused. She looked back and saw Logan watching her, all his defenses down, and her chest ached with the beauty and the terror of it.
She walked the hallway in a daze, barely aware of her feet. She found Rydal asleep, thumb in mouth, a faint green stain of peas on his chin. She touched the baby’s cheek, careful not to wake him, and then sat by the cradle for a long, long time.
In the dimness, with only the sound of the fire in the grate and the city’s sleep beyond the glass, May at last let herself know the truth.
She loved Logan. Foolishly, impossibly, and hopelessly.
It was not the love she’d read about in books, all thunder and swoon and grand confessions. It was smaller than that, and so much more dangerous. It was the kind of love that makes a person want to stay, no matter what.
She pressed her palm to her heart, and felt the thrum of it there, fierce and living and altogether her own.
Twenty-Three
It has come to the attention of your devoted correspondent that the Iron Duke’s Household, never previously known for its sentimental displays, has been enlarged by a most unexpected addition! Word is that the Duchess, formerly Lady May Vestiere of Wildmoore, has undertaken the supervision of a new heir—none other than the Duke’s own infant brother, heretofore concealed from even the closest of confidantes. This child, described as “robust and uncommonly loud,” is already the talk of drawing rooms from Bond Street to Brighton.
Some say the Duke wed his wallflower bride to mask this domestic upheaval; others maintain it is simply the latest proof that a bachelor is never truly reformed until he is both wedded and saddled with a child. Either way, all eyes remain on the newly minted Duchess, whose quiet grace may yet set the standard for scandal management in the year to come.
“It’s not even a proper scandal,” May said, tossing the paper aside so that it slid under the sofa and, by the sound of it, startled a footman in the hallway.
April laughed and stretched a hand across the needlework she’d brought as an excuse to linger. “That is the problem, darling. The Mercury is so desperate for news, it will print anything that can be remotely made into a disaster. ‘Household increase’—as if you’d ordered a pair of kittens from the shops!”
June peered over the rim of her teacup, gaze sharp. “It is a disaster, for those who care about the purity of bloodlines and the sacred order of the peerage.”
“If those people had any real convictions, they’d have stopped inviting me to their balls three seasons ago,” said May, who was attempting to keep Rydal asleep in a basket at her feet by means of a complex system of foot taps and whispered threats.
April leaned in, lips curved. “You don’t mind, do you? The talk? Some girls would be horrified.”
“Some girls are not required to attend every musicale or tea,” May said. “Nor are they obliged to bring an infant to every one. If I am to be infamous, I’d prefer it for something I actually did.”
June set down her cup with a thunk. “You did something, all right. You married the coldest man in London and made a family out of a disaster. There are grown women with fortunes who could not do half so much.”
May rolled her eyes, but the words felt warm as a scarf. She peeked at the basket—Rydal still asleep, arms thrown overhead, mouth half-open in an expression of utter innocence.
“I wish they would grow bored with us,” May sighed.
“They will,” June promised. “As soon as Lady Shropshire’s eldest is caught running from Gunter’s with nothing but a shawl and a tea biscuit.”
April sighed. “Is that really all it takes?”
“No,” said May. “There’s always something worse. Today it’s a baby; tomorrow it will be my spectacles; after that, Logan will be found gambling with a bishop.”
The baby made a small sound, and May instinctively bent over the basket, covering him with her hands as though sheltering him from a downpour of unwanted attention. She did not want to be in the news. She did not want to be the Duchess of Irondale, not if it meant every day would be like this—picked apart, dissected, observed from every conceivable angle.
She wanted to be a person again. She wanted to have tea with her sisters and not worry about what would be said about it.
“Maybe I will take Rydal out,” she said, startling even herself. “There’s a matinee at the theater. Or we could visit Hatchard’s. The baby needs more books.”
June snorted. “He needs more sleep, but by all means, take him to a play.”
April gathered her things, stood, and kissed May’s cheek. “You are doing marvelously. Ignore the papers.”
May hugged her, whispered, “Thank you for coming,” and meant it.
June stayed behind, watching her, and after a while, said, “You really do not mind it?”
