Page 20 of Duke of Iron
May huffed and crumpled the sheet. Then she lobbed it toward the fireplace, but it landed on the hearth with an undignified flop.
Shaking her head, she picked up a book and opened the pages, determined to read and forget what had occupied her thoughts ever since she returned from Logan’s townhouse. Looping endlessly was the sound of his voice, the brush of his thumb against her palm, the flush he seemed determined to coax to her cheeks.
“Focus, May,” she muttered and squinted at the page.
“Come quickly, May! He is here. The Duke is here!”
May blinked up from the book on her lap. “What?”
The door opened, and her mother stood breathless, one hand fluttering near her throat, the other pointing emphatically behind her. “Now, May. Come now!”
She adjusted the spectacles on her nose and followed her mother down the hallway, only to stop short as they reached the stairs.
The drawing room was full of flowers. Baskets of them, placed on every surface. Pale pink roses, white hyacinths, clusters of violets and peonies—a sea of blooms that spilled over tables and windowsills, their fragrance rising like a dream.
“Oh my,” she whispered.
“Oh, indeed,” June said, appearing at her side. “And to think, we used to wonder whether your charms would ever be recognized.”
“Where is he?” May asked, ignoring the jab.
“Upstairs,” said Dorothy. “With your father and August.”
Their mother had begun to drift about the room, her hands clasped to her chest as she surveyed the baskets with tears in her eyes. “So romantic,” she murmured. “So very grand. Imagine what it shall be when he begins to truly court you.”
May stared at the flowers, at the abundance of them, each one more elegant than the last.He remembered. He listened.She could hardly take it in.
Then came the sound of voices above. August’s firm cadence, then Logan’s lower, smoother reply.
May’s hand flew to her face.Oh no. My spectacles!
She yanked them off at once, looking frantically for somewhere to place them. They would not fit in her sleeve, and her book was upstairs?—
Cummerbund. It would have to do. She shoved them against her waist, hoping the folds of her muslin dress would hold them well enough. They did not. The wire poked at her fingers, threatening to fall.
The door opened, and Logan entered, looking like a dark, Grecian deity in a deep blue coat. Her family took that precise moment to vanish. Truly, it was a marvel how swiftly a room could empty when parents and siblings wished to give theillusionof privacy.
He was holding a massive bouquet of white lilies. May’s eyes widened. “More flowers?”
Irondale walked toward her and offered the bouquet. “I could hardly bring a basket. It did not feel very ducal.”
She eyed the grand display surrounding them. “Yes, well, I believe you have sufficiently depleted London’s florists.”
“Do you not like them?” he asked, almost casually, though the glint in his eyes suggested he was enjoying himself.
“There are so many,” she said slowly. “I could supply Gunter’s with centerpieces for a fortnight.”
He shrugged, the corners of his mouth lifting. “I am besotted.”
She stared. “You are…”
“Besotted,” he repeated, sounding thoroughly unapologetic.
Her fingers fumbled against her waist. “I—well, that seems rather sudden.”
“Not at all. I am merely following orders. You instructed me to act properly besotted, and so I am.”
She gave him a look. “Sending an entire garden to my drawing room is hardly an act. It borders on theater.”
