Page 18 of Duke of Iron
“I should like to attend the races.”
Logan laughed. “The races?”
“Yes.”
“You wish for me to take you to an event filled with shouting men, galloping horses, and drunk earls waving betting ledgers?”
“Yes.”
He rose, brushing an invisible speck from his sleeve. “Stand up.”
She looked puzzled. “I beg your pardon?”
“Come,” he said, offering his hand. “You have made requests. It is only fair that I begin fulfilling them immediately.”
She eyed him as though he had grown a second head, but placed her hand in his nonetheless. He drew her gently to her feet, letting her stand close enough to feel the heat between them.
They began a slow, meandering circuit of the drawing room, her hand resting on his arm, his pace deliberately unhurried.
“Is this what you envisioned?” he asked. “A grand promenade in the park?”
“Not quite,” she said, glancing about. “Parks tend not to have fireplaces or drawing room rugs.”
“An oversight on their part,” he murmured.
They neared her lady’s maid, who had taken a discreet interest in the pattern of the wallpaper. Logan turned his head slightly. “You may leave us, Miss Abbot.”
The young woman startled, then curtsied and hurried from the room.
May’s head snapped toward him. “You cannot simply dismiss my chaperone.”
“I can and did,” he said. “I am not fond of people listening to what I say to my fiancée.”
She exhaled in what might have been frustration—he found he rather liked the sound.
They stopped near the tall windows. Light filtered in, casting a pale gleam across her cheek.
“You’re awfully confident for someone accused of being tricked into matrimony,” she muttered.
He turned toward her and, with great deliberation, brushed her curls from her brows.
She stiffened. “What are you?—?”
“Hold still.”
He tilted his head and regarded her. Her eyes were large and green and entirely unguarded. Logan stilled.
Good God.
How had he not noticed her eyes before? Or the tiny freckles dusting her nose? Or her rosy lips that, when she was not talking, appeared to be in a lovely pout?
“You asked me to act besotted,” he said, lowering his voice. “Tell me, is this what you envisioned?”
He brushed the back of one knuckle against her cheek, watching as the pink deepened. She looked down, then up again, unsure whether to retreat or stand her ground.
“You are being far too forward,” she said.
He smiled. “You asked me to act like a man deeply in love. I am simply following orders.”
