Page 38 of Duke of Iron
May looked up at him, determined to hold his gaze. “What do you expect from me? As your duchess. As your—” she could not say the wordwife, not yet— “As the mistress of this house?”
His eyes narrowed slightly as he considered. “Very little. I do not have expectations that are difficult to meet.”
“But you do have them.”
“As every duke ought to. First, that you comport yourself as a lady, which you already do. That you do not bring furtherscandal upon my name, which I do not believe you are capable of. And that you help with the child until we find his rightful family.”
Oh, the child…May had forgotten one of the reasons he had married her.
His words stung. Not because they were cruel, but because they were so brutally logical. No affection or warmth. Just requirements to be met.
May swallowed. “What else?”
He cocked his head. “This is a marriage in name only. You are free to do as you wish, provided it does not bring trouble to my door. I expect we may be friends, or cordial acquaintances, if you prefer.”
“Yes, that is quite reasonable,” she said, more to hear it said aloud and convince herself it was what she wanted too.
Logan nodded. “I am not looking for more than that, May. Not from you, nor from anyone.”
She should have felt relief, but instead she felt hollow.
“Thank you for clarifying,” she said, and found she meant it.
He watched her for a moment, as if weighing whether to say something more. Then he dipped his head. “Good day, Duchess.”
“Good day, Duke,” she replied, feeling for the first time the full distance between them.
Logan left her alone again, and May drifted to the bed, sat on the edge, and drew her knees to her chest.
Only emptiness remained within her now.
She thought of her sisters, of August’s sarcasm, of June’s laughter, and April’s fierce loyalty. She recalled her mother’s tear-stained handkerchief and her father’s solemn pride from hours ago. May wondered what they would say if they saw her now, sitting on the edge of a stranger’s bed, a duchess in name and nothing more.
Hugging herself and rocking slightly, she whispered, “What have I gotten myself into?”
The room had no answer, but the silence seemed to settle around her, gentle and implacable, as if to say,This is what you chose. And now, you must live with it.
Twelve
May was contemplating whether to go down for dinner when a knock sounded at her door.
“Enter,” she called.
Mrs. Paxton stepped in. “Your Grace. Good afternoon.” She paused just inside the threshold, hands folded precisely at her waist. The look she gave May was clinical and not altogether unfriendly, though it was difficult to read with the severity of her features. “His Grace has instructed me to introduce you to the infant.”
“Is the Duke home?” May asked.
Mrs. Paxton shook her head. “He is not. He was called away to a matter of business. But he said you would wish to be introduced to the child at once, and to see that all was in good order.”
“I see,” May said. She had not expected him to stay, and that made her decide that she would dine in her chambers if Logan did not return by dinnertime.
Smoothing her hands down her dress, she followed the housekeeper out. The nursery was on the topmost floor, and it was a plain room with a large, deep-cushioned rocking chair that stood near the hearth, and in its seat was a very young woman in a nurse’s cap and apron, dozing with her chin to her chest.
The object of their visit lay in a cot near the window, swaddled to within an inch of its life. May peered in, blinking several times to bring the baby into focus through her new gold-rimmed spectacles.
He was pink, mostly bald, and so impossibly tiny that May wondered how he had made it into the world at all. His fists flailed with infant indignation, mouth working in slow, wet shapes as he dreamed. She had never seen anything so completely defenseless.
She heard herself say, “Oh,” and realized only after a second that she had spoken aloud.
