Page 35 of Duke of Iron
From the cushioned seat, she glanced back at her family; her father with his proud stance, her mother dabbing at her eyes again, April and June waving with unabashed enthusiasm. May lifted her hand in return—though her stomach was in knots—and Logan did the same.
The carriage door closed, and with a lurch, the wheels began to turn, the house slowly retreating from view.
They settled opposite each other, and for a moment, the movement of the carriage seemed to rock them into a strange quiet, and not a comfortable one.May’s gaze found his.
Logan was already looking at her.
The faint smile he had worn on the steps had vanished, and his eyes seemed to be colder than steel.
And just like that, the distance between them felt far greater than the space of the carriage.
Eleven
May turned to look out the carriage window when it stopped. The house no longer looked welcoming, and she took a fortifying breath as Logan hopped down. He had not said a word since they left Wildmoore House a quarter of an hour ago. No, he was the cold Duke of Iron that Society knew, and no longer the Logan she’d grown to—to admire.
Taking the hand he offered, May alighted, and her feet landed with a jolt on the cobbles. She did not feel as steady on her feet as she’d hoped.
Before them, a straight line of servants waited, their backs rigid and eyes forward. Their livery was immaculate, but their faces were utterly blank. It was as if someone had hired a team of marble statues and told them to keep perfectly still until the end of time.
Logan offered his arm. “Shall we?”
Words at last.
She took it, uncertain, and together they approached the house. The servants dipped their heads in a movement so precise it might have been choreographed.
“Welcome home, Your Grace,” the butler intoned. “May we extend our congratulations.”
Logan’s eyes moved over the line in a quick, sharp survey. “I trust everything is prepared?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” said the butler. “Mrs. Paxton awaits the new Duchess inside.”
May felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. She cast a glance at the servants, but their faces gave her nothing. If anything, they seemed to be looking through her. Or perhaps they were afraid to look at her at all.
Logan seemed to sense her discomfort. He leaned in, his voice pitched so only she could hear, “They are not accustomed to change. Pay them no mind.”
His words—and gentleness—surprised her. She gave a tiny nod, grateful for the illusion of privacy.
In the foyer, a woman whom May assumed was Mrs. Paxton stood by the stairs. She was a formidable figure in a severe black dress and hair swept back like a helmet. Her eyes, sharp andpale, did a swift appraisal of May from shoes to chignon. Then she curtsied to Logan.
“Welcome home, Your Grace.”
“Mrs. Paxton, this is the Duchess of Irondale,” he introduced. The housekeeper looked May over once more, the corners of her mouth still turned downward as if she found May wanting.
“Welcome, Your Grace,” she intoned as she curtsied again.
May could only give a nod. Logan turned to her. “I shall leave you in Mrs. Paxton’s care now. She will see to your every need.”
With that, he turned on his heel and disappeared into a doorway to her left. May swallowed and regarded the housekeeper, shifting her weight slightly from one foot to another.
“If you will follow me, Your Grace,” Mrs. Paxton said, not smiling. Her tone suggested she doubted very much that May would last the week.
May followed her up the marble staircase. At the end of a long hallway, Mrs. Paxton stopped at a heavy wooden door. “These are your chambers, Your Grace. I trust they will be to your liking.”
May entered. There was a sitting room adjoining a bedchamber, which was large and perfectly symmetrical, as if it had been measured with a compass and set square. Two tall windowsadmitted a weak shaft of light. The bed was vast, dressed in heavy brocade. A dressing table stood in the corner with a single, stern-backed chair. It smelled faintly of lavender and much more strongly of new paint.
Mrs. Paxton gestured, not unkindly, to the bell pull. “Should you require anything, Your Grace, you may ring for a maid at any hour.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Paxton,” May said, managing a smile.
