Page 3 of Duke of Iron
“Tell April I’m sorry,” May said quickly. “And tell August I’ll wait for him outside to take me home. I cannot stay. Just tell them.”
It would be most unfair to cut her mother and sister’s evening short, and June had appeared to be having a splendid time. Pulling her arm from her sister’s grasp, she hurried toward the large doors. She did not breathe until she was in the hallway, and even then, she picked up the pace.
Her heart was still pounding when she stepped through the front doors. The night air slapped her cheeks as she stepped outside, cool and sharp. She welcomed it. Anything to chase the heat from her skin.
Rows of carriages lined the front of the house, black and glistening under the moonlight, each nearly identical in size and trim.
Why must every family in Mayfair choose the exact same blasted model?
She squinted toward the coach lamps. If she could only see the crest—yes, if she got close enough, she could just make out the Wildmoore emblem.
She nearly stumbled over the hem of her dress as she hurried past the first two carriages. Her reticule swung against her wrist, the drawstrings biting into her fingers. Neither bore her family’s crest.
And then?—
August.
He was standing beside the third carriage, holding the door open, looking in her direction as though he had known she would emerge at any moment. Relief spread through her like warm tea down a frozen throat, washing over her limbs and making her knees nearly buckle.
“Thank you,” she breathed as she reached him, not stopping until she climbed quickly into the open carriage. Her knees hit the cushioned bench, and she all but collapsed into it, dragging the door shut behind her. “You know me so well, and I do need help this evening.”
He entered behind her and took the seat opposite. She kept her gaze low.
“Take me home, please.”
He knocked on the carriage roof, and the vehicle began to roll forward with a lurch. The sway of it calmed her. Just slightly.
“You must have known the evening would end in disaster,” she continued, resting her head on the cushion, “and came out to wait here for me like the noble knight you are.”
“A gentleman must always stand ready to save a troubled damsel.”
She opened one eye and squinted into the shadows. The carriage was too dim for her to see well. Not that she could ever see much in the dark.
She reached into her lap, lifted her reticule, and tossed it in his direction. It landed against his chest with a soft thud. “I am not a troubled damsel and you know it!”
He caught it easily. “Of course. You are a perfectly composed and reasonable young lady who only occasionally reduces a ballroom to chaos with one badly timed turn.”
“That lemonade was not my fault,” she said.
He undid the clasp. “What have you got in here besides your spectacles? A brick?”
She sat up straight. “One does not go rifling through a lady’s reticule.”
“I am not rifling. I am investigating what nearly maimed me.”
“Well, do not remark on whatever you find within.”
He pulled out a book and chuckled. “Tales of Miss Emmerson’s Marriage to the Viscount?What manner of book is this? Some Gothic romance?”
May glared at him. “How typical of you to assume every book you find with me is a Gothic romance.” She sniffed. “I’ll have you know that this book is a Tudor romance.”
“What is the difference?”
“The viscount is kind?”
“Should a man not be kind to his wife?” his voice sounded mocking, and she shook her head and glanced at the blurred lights through the carriage window.
“Some heroes are dark and mysterious.”
