Page 101 of Duke of Iron
She dipped her head, barely more than a nod, and then she was gone.
Logan stood in the threshold for a long time. When at last he moved, it was to shove his fingers through his hair, as if that might sort through the confusion knotted behind his ribs.
He forced himself to recall every word and every glance from the past week. There was nothing; no argument, no harshness, not even the shadow of a slight that might explain her withdrawal.
Unless, of course, she had simply tired of him. He banished the thought, but it lingered.
By half past four, May’s bedchamber had become a prison of her own making. She had crossed the same strip of carpet a hundred times since noon, from the window to the door, and back again.
With each pass of the mirror, she could not help but check herself.Is my face changed? Is my body?Could anyone tell, just by looking?
It was the first week of her missed courses.
May pressed a palm flat to her belly, as if she might coax an answer from the silence beneath her ribs.It cannot be. It cannot.But the numbers would not be reasoned with, nor would the memory of the kisses she had shared with Logan.
What would Logan think if he found out? Would he feel betrayed and cast her out for breaking their agreement?
A soft rap at the door pulled her from the spiral, and she let her hand drop and faced the entrance, attempting to conjure the expression of a woman untroubled by either biology or guilt.
Miss Abbot entered with a tray balanced on one palm. “Your tea, Your Grace. And the biscuits you favored last week.”
May sat, tried to arrange her skirts so the shaking of her knees would be hidden by the folds. “Thank you, Abbot. You are very good.”
Abbot set down the tray and studied her. “You are not yourself, if I may say so.”
May kept her gaze on the teapot. “I am quite myself. I am simply tired. There is nothing amiss.”
The maid’s eyes narrowed with gentle skepticism, but she did not press further. “Shall I bring your correspondence, or perhaps?—”
“No, thank you. I will be going out soon. To see my sister.” The words startled even May. She had not decided this, but the act of saying it aloud fixed the intention.
Abbot brightened. “Very good, Your Grace. Shall I fetch your spencer and bonnet?”
“Please.”
When the maid had left, May set her elbows on the low table and pressed her hands to her face. The world was spinning ahead without her, and she felt at every moment that she was about to lose her balance and fall off entirely.
You cannot tell him. The thought was as clear as it was damning.He does not want this. He said so himself. You will only drive him further away.
And yet, the possibility of telling no one—of enduring it alone—was even more terrible.
Within a quarter hour, she had dressed for the outing and descended the staircase with the rapid, reckless step of a woman attempting to outpace her own anxiety. The entryway was empty save for Bexley, who managed not to startle when May swept through at a pace barely short of a sprint.
When she arrived at April’s house, she nearly turned back.You must go in. You must tell someone. You cannot keep it all inside, or you will drown.
She knocked. Within moments, the butler showed her to the drawing room, where April sat with a volume of a book and June was sprawled on the window seat, embroidering flowers onto what looked suspiciously like a gentleman’s handkerchief.
Both sisters looked up at once.
“May!” April set her book aside and rose. “You are a vision. Are you well?”
June tucked the handkerchief behind her back and grinned. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, or worse.”
May’s composure nearly deserted her. She bit her lip and blinked hard. “I must speak with you. Both of you.”
April’s face sobered; she guided May to the nearest settee and patted the cushion. “Sit. What is wrong?”
May perched, stiff and upright. She stared at the carpet, the pattern of blue and gold knots looping like a noose, and tried to summon the words.
