Page 19 of Duke of Iron
“I did not ask you to be indecent.”
“That is not indecency.” He traced her jaw lightly, pleased when her breath caught. “That is admiration.”
She swallowed. “You are impossible.”
“You are indecisive.” He stepped just slightly closer. “Would you have me dote or remain cold? Choose, Lady May. I cannot be both.”
Her eyes flicked to his mouth, then away. “I… I choose ‘dote.’”
Dangerous girl.
“You are playing a dangerous game, ordering a duke around,” he said. “Do you really think that is wise, little doe?”
That got her. Her lips parted as if to retort, but her words failed her. She tried again, attempting a businesslike tone, though her gaze remained locked on his. “Then let us be… professional about it.”
“Professional,” he repeated, reaching for her hand. “Of course.”
Her gloves were made of soft kidskin, a pale ivory that suited her complexion far too well. He turned her palm upward and began tracing circles with his thumb.
She stilled.
And then she stumbled over something—words, air, reality, he could not be sure. Whatever it was, it amused him greatly.
He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles, letting them linger for a moment longer than necessary.
She flushed violently.
God, she was expressive. Every passing thought etched itself upon her features, no mask, no artifice. He wondered—purely out of intellectual curiosity, of course—what she might look like when kissed.
But he did not say it. He only murmured, “Very well, little doe. You may have your requests.”
She stared at him, still visibly flustered. “Under one condition,” he added.
“And what is that?”
“When you marry me, you will wear this dress. It brings out your features.”
Her gaze dropped to the pink silk, then flew back to his. One hand lifted instinctively to her cheek.
“You—”
He placed a finger lightly over her lips.
“We have work to do.”
Six
“You look very fine today, my lady,” Miss Abbot said as she gathered the rest of May’s hairpins and put them away.
May offered a smile and a nod before she moved to her bedchamber and sat on the chaise by the window, the same one that the Duke had lounged upon the day he snuck into her chambers.
Waiting until the maid exited, she reached for the folded paper half-hidden beneath a shawl beside her. She slipped on her spectacles and opened the gossip sheet.
It is now firmly established that the Duke of Iron is to wed Lady May Vestiere. Who would have imagined that the Grand Rake of England would be felled by the May Wallflower? Some whisper it is to avoid scandal; others wonder if it might be something more genuine. We remain skeptical.
And what of love? Is it possible that the Duke who has so long been a creature of solitude, brooding glances, and bachelor infamy, has truly fallen? Or is this another artful deception to keep our eyes away from another, deeper scandal?
Still, perhaps the Duchess of Wildmoore is determined to marry her triplets to England’s most eligible dukes. If she succeeds, what shall be left for the rest of the ton—particularly those with mothers of more modest ambition?
