Page 2 of Duke of Iron
“It was exactly a compliment.” June patted her shoulder. “You might even enjoy yourself if you let someone look at you properly.”
“That is exactly what I am trying to prevent. They stare, then they laugh.”
April joined them then, resplendent in ivory and silver, her smile bright enough to make the candlelight jealous. Her hand was tucked into Theo’s arm, and though May could not read her expression well, she thought she saw her brows furrow.
“You’ve taken them off?” April asked.
“She’s taken up arms,” August announced. “Declared war on her spectacles.”
“Oh, May,” April murmured. “Are you certain you’ll be all right without them?”
May lifted her chin. “I shall have a fine and splendid evening without them. Just watch.”
She didn’t feel fine or splendid. She felt as though she was walking blind through a field of polished glass. The ballroom was dazzling, and everything shimmered a touch too brightly. Faces shifted into one another like oil on water, and there was that tight knot in her stomach that was low and twisting.
June nudged her side. “There. Just over your right shoulder. A young lord is headed this way. Perhaps he means to ask you to dance.”
May squinted. The man was tall and light-haired. But the rest? Indistinct. He stopped in front of her, and only then did his features sharpen enough for her to make out a polite expression.
“Viscount Mortcombe,” he said. “I made your acquaintance last week.”
Did I truly meet him? What did I say?May curtsied, careful with her movements, and plastered a smile on her face. “Of course. It is a pleasure to see you again, My Lord.”
“May I have the honor of this dance?” he held out a hand.
She swallowed the knot and gave another smile. “I would be delighted, thank you.”
They moved toward the floor, and she tried not to squint lest he realize she was supposed to have her spectacles on. The orchestra launched into a brisk quadrille dance, and she joined the set with her heart in her throat.
May focused on her feet. One, two, cross, turn. She had never been a good dancer, but she pled with the Heavens tonight to bless her eyes and her feet.
“Are you enjoying the ball?” Mortcombe asked.
“Very much,” she said, eyes fixed on the marble floor and her shod feet.
“Your sister’s taste is impeccable. The arrangements are elegant.”
She dared a glance at his face. He was smiling. Or she thought he was. The light caught in her eyes, and everything sparkled unnaturally.
“The art in the antechamber caught my eye,” he continued. “The Duke and Duchess appreciate Dutch masters. I daresay that is a Rembrandt.”
Rembrandt? Why were they talking about Rembrandt? Was she supposed to know something clever about Rembrandt? May looked up, lost her place, and stepped directly on his foot.
“I beg your pardon,” she gasped.
He chuckled. “Think nothing of it.”
She tried again to concentrate. He said something else—about shadow, maybe. Or light. She missed it entirely. The shimmering candelabras cast slashes of brightness across the dance floor, and the movement became a blur.
Then her foot slid. Her arm knocked into someone’s back. There was a gasp, and a tray clattered to the ground, glasses shattering.
The dance stopped, conversation ceased, and May stood frozen, unable to see the mayhem she was responsible for. She was certain that all eyes were upon her, and what she felt at that instant was far more than mortification.
“F-forgive me…” she curtsied too quickly and turned to flee.
Before her was a sea of faces, and she kept her eyes low as she moved through the crush of guests, heading toward what she hoped was the ballroom exit. Someone caught her arm, and she stopped. Blinking, she saw June.
“May, what?—”
