Page 92 of Duke of Iron
At last, June said, “Content is a good place to start. The rest will follow.”
April smiled and reached for her hand. “You always did set your own rules, May.”
May squeezed her hand back fiercely, but she did not feel confident in her marriage. If anything, it seemed to be falling apart.
Twenty-Eight
“The eclairs are positively transcendent, Your Grace!” Miss Evangeline Richfield pressed both hands to her heart as if fearing the pastries might escape. “I told Martha we ought to attempt them at home, but she insists our cook would rather die than risk a collapsed choux.”
May Vestiere, Duchess of Irondale and, for the next two hours, unchallenged sovereign of the Irondale House gardens, allowed herself a brief moment of gloating. She let it show only in the upward quirk of her mouth and the gleam behind her spectacles. “I would not recommend it, Miss Richfield. We had three ruined batches before Penelope found the proper flour. The kitchen still smells of despair.”
Martha Richfield, blushing even in the shade of the striped awning, whispered, “I can still taste the lemon cream. Truly, we are not worthy.”
May accepted their adulation with a modest dip of her head.If this is what it feels like to be celebrated, I could grow used to it. Or else I shall develop gout and a profound dislike for sweets, but only time will tell.
She glanced around at the garden, the hedges clipped within an inch of their lives, the blue hyacinths jostling for dominance with the scarlet tulips, the little flags staked along the gravel walks to mark where one was allowed to cut across the grass. It was a vision of order with just enough color to feel rebellious.
At her elbow, April surveyed the assembled guests with the clinical eye of a woman who had hosted three charity balls and a political salon in the past six months. “You have achieved the impossible,” she said, balancing a plate mounded with Penelope’s cakes. “You have made genteel society enjoyable. How will you ever top this?”
“By never hosting again,” May replied. “I intend to retire at the height of my power.”
June, who had never retired from anything in her life, flitted past, snatching a raspberry tart from April’s plate and pirouetting away before her sister could swat her. “You must do this every week, May! I have not seen so many happy faces since Lady Weatherby’s cat produced that litter of orange kittens. And that ended in catastrophe.”
Miss Evangeline laughed, glancing over at the low table where the youngest of the party were gathered around a basket. “You see, even the babe is perfectly content.”
May felt her cheeks warm at the sight of Rydal, enthroned in the center of a patchwork of cushions, as a rotating court of young ladies vied for the privilege of tickling his toes. He accepted their tributes with open delight and a ferocious grip that had already claimed the lace trim from three gloves.He is very much the center of attention,and for once, it is not mortifying.
“I heard he prefers the title ‘Your Babeship,’” said Miss Richfield, sotto voce, then laughed at her own wit.
May grinned. “He answers to anything if bribed with enough orange marmalade.”
The first hour of the gathering had been May’s private ordeal. She had worried the guests would find the event dull, the refreshments inferior, or—worst of all—the presence of an infant at a garden party so dreadfully out of order that it would become the talk of thetonfor all the wrong reasons.
But as the afternoon drifted onward, she saw only smiles and flushed cheeks, not one look of disdain or censure.Perhaps I can be more than a stopgap Duchess after all. Perhaps I can even enjoy this.She dared a glance toward the western slope of the lawn, where the only three gentlemen of note—her husband, the Duke of Stone, and August—stood clustered around a table as if on the verge of hatching some great and terrible scheme.
Logan caught her gaze, raised an eyebrow in challenge, and—without warning—left his compatriots to stride across the grass toward her.
May turned quickly, shielding herself with the assembled ladies. She pretended to attend to Miss Richfield’s story about a tragically collapsed pudding, but all her awareness was concentrated behind her, where she could feel the approach of the man who continued to puzzle, irritate, and occupy her thoughts.
He appeared at her side, one hand coming to rest at her waist with an easy familiarity she had never quite managed to get used to. He wore a blue coat that matched the sky, and his hair was wind-tousled and too rakish by half.
“The Duchess is needed on the main walk,” he said, leaning down to brush his lips against her temple before addressing the company. “You will forgive me, ladies, for stealing your hostess. She is wanted for an official ruling.”
May blinked. “On what subject am I expected to arbitrate?”
“The rules of quoits,” Logan replied, face all innocence. “There is a dispute whether a ring that bounces off the stake may count for points if it then lands upon one’s foot.”
June, having sidled up to the edge of the conversation, said, “Absolutely not. That is a travesty.”
April shook her head. “I have never seen a man so determined to win at a children’s game.”
May allowed herself to be led away, Logan’s hand at her waist a promise and a warning.
When they were out of earshot, he whispered, “You are dangerously adept at this, Duchess.”
“At what?” May risked a glance at his profile, and was immediately angry at herself for the leap her pulse gave at the sight of his smile.
“Hosting. Commanding. Existing at the center of the world.” He squeezed her waist and then let go, as if remembering where they were. “I could never do it. I would rather face the entire House of Lords than a garden party.”
