Page 23 of Duke of Iron
She laughed. “Are you planning to choose all my future adornments?”
“Only the ones that touch your face.”
The shopkeeper appeared again. Logan turned. “Gold wire. A softer metal, but it suits her complexion better than the silver. And do ensure it is a proper thickness. The old ones bend too easily.”
May blinked. “How do you know that?”
“You hid them as if they had offended your sensibilities. One lens tilted—meaning the frame had been bent.”
She looked away. “They do that. Often.”
“Then they must not do so again.”
The shopkeeper bobbed his head and bustled to the back.
May stood slowly, smoothing her gloves. “You did not have to do this.”
“I know.”
They stepped outside into the bustle of Piccadilly. The air was crisp and the light pleasant, the usual thrum of London shifting around them as they began a slow walk past shops and stalls.
“If we linger much longer,” Logan said, “we shall be the toast of every gossip sheet by morning.”
“You sound as though you mind.”
“Not at all. Provided we look sufficiently besotted.”
“Then you must gaze at me more longingly,” she teased. “You have looked only moderately attentive, thus far.”
“And you must sigh more. Perhaps clasp your hands to your chest and speak dreamily of our future.”
She laughed. “I might. But only if you promise to compose poetry in my honor.”
“Ah. A satire, of course. Thoughtful, witty, and devoted to clearly expressed reason.” His thoughtful glance made May want to hide, even as something within her wanted to step forward and cheer. Even for something as frivolous as poetry, helookedat her.
“I’d prefer a sonnet,” she said, grinning. “Method and feeling, together.”
He chuckled. “I am no poet, May.”
“No,” she murmured. “But you did buy me gold-rimmed spectacles. That counts for something.”
He glanced down at her. “Do you know why you disliked the old ones so thoroughly? Because they were not designed for you. Worse, they hid your eyes.”
She looked up at him. Her mouth opened, then closed.
That sounded like?—
“That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“That is because it was. Is it so surprising that I think my betrothed is beautiful?”
In truth? Yes.
“Your Grace, Lord Calenham is here. He awaits you in the salon.”
Logan glanced up from his gloves as Mr. Bexley spoke, his voice echoing faintly in the marble foyer. “Calenham?”
“Yes, Your Grace. He arrived not five minutes ago.”
