Page 43 of Duke of Iron
May returned to her bed, collapsed atop the covers, and tried to fall asleep.
But all she could hear was the echo of his voice, and the sound of her own name spoken like a secret he did not wish to share.
Thirteen
Logan forcefully shut the study door and leaned against the solid wood, his head falling back and his eyes closing. He tugged at the knot of his already loose cravat, yanking the linen free as if it were choking him.
His heart hammered against his ribs, feeling too large for his chest.May. Why must she do this to me?
The thought of her was like a splinter under his skin, incessant and irritating. He could still see her from that morning, a vision in pale green lace as she walked down the aisle. He’d had no choice but to bury every feeling within him under steel.
Then there was tonight. She’d been humming, for God’s sake! Humming some nonsensical tune to that squalling infant, rocking him until the wretched noise ceased, and the child had stared up at her with a devotion he hadn’t earned.
It was that image that refused to leave him now—the curve of her neck as she looked down, the quiet concentration on her face, the sheer, unassumingcompetenceof her. It was… affecting. Deeply.
He pushed off from the door with a muttered curse. This was absurd. He had married her for a purpose. A transaction. She was to be a shield against gossip and a temporary custodian for the child until its true situation could be resolved.
That was the entirety of the arrangement. Itmeantnothing. Itshouldmean nothing.
So why did the mere sight of her make him feel as though he’d been punched?
He strode to the liquor cabinet and poured a measure of brandy. He didn’t sip it but tossed it back, the liquor burning a welcome path down his throat. He poured another finger, his hand steadying.
You will never deserve my love or kindness.A voice as sharp as an ice shard cut through the haze in his mind.
His father. Always his father.
Logan shut his eyes, his teeth clenching so hard his jaw ached. He could almost smell the old man’s cheroot, see the contempt in his eyes. He banished the memory back into the dark boxwhere it belonged. Logan was not that boy anymore. He was a duke. He controlled this. All of it.
He had maintained his distance throughout the wedding ceremony. It was the right course, and one he needed to maintain. The performances were over.
They were married. And that, for both their sakes, was all they would ever be. He drank the second brandy, his decision settling over him like a cold armor.
Lady May Vestiere, now Duchess of Irondale, is at last a married woman. Yet, dear readers, all is not as it seems in this sparkling union. The happy couple has not—repeat, has not—departed for their country seat, as is the time-honored tradition for newlyweds seeking a private bliss. Are the hallways of Irondale House so chilly as to keep a bride and groom encamped within city limits? Or is there, perhaps, a still more intriguing cause behind their lingering in Hanover Square? The ton wishes them happiness, but we must ask—is the Iron Duke already tired of his conquest?
May tossed the sheet onto the bed, then flung herself after it, landing face-first into the coverlet. “Idiots,” she growled into the linen. “Every last one of them.”
“It’s only gossip, Your Grace,” Miss Abbot said from behind the dressing screen. “Everyone knows the columns write nonsense.”
“It does not sound like it,” May mumbled into her arms.
Abbot’s voice was gentler now. “The Marquess and Marchioness of Worth did not leave for the country until nearly a fortnight after their wedding. Perhaps this is the new fashion.”
May rolled onto her back and regarded the ceiling as if it might offer her a plausible escape. “It’s not the same,” she said.
Abbot emerged, hands neatly folded, her expression set to Professional Sympathy. “Shall I set out your breakfast here, or will you be going down?”
May propped herself up. “Down. If I eat another meal alone, I may expire from lack of stimulation.”
Abbot nodded and turned away, but May called out, “Did you hear the baby last night?”
The maid paused, brow knitting. “I heard some fuss, Your Grace, but the nursery is so far up…”
“It’s not,” May interrupted. “It was moved. The baby was in the room beside my chambers,” she said this with a sort of horror, as though it were a contagious disease. “The nurse left him there, and no one told me.”
Miss Abbot blinked. “Perhaps the servants thought it would be—comforting?”
May didn’t answer. She reached for her spectacles on the nightstand, slipped them on, and the entire world jerked into sharper relief. The glare of the morning sun, the golden spines of books on the shelf, the exquisite blue on her nightdress, suddenly seemed to accuse her of being in bed well past eight o’clock.
