Page 49 of Duke of Iron
Bexley surveyed the room. “The Duchess, Your Grace. She had the footmen reconfigure the furnishings to her liking.”
He raised a brow. “And what, precisely, is her liking?”
Bexley seemed to consider. “It appears she prefers warmth and sunlight, Your Grace. And flowers.”
Logan looked again at the peony, then at the way the chairs clustered now, as if expecting company. The room did feel less like a mausoleum and more like a place where someone might actually live. He could not decide if that was a victory or a defeat.
“Very well,” Logan said. “Let her have her—” he waved a hand vaguely “—arrangements.”
Bexley nodded, but before he could leave, Logan added, “If she requests any changes to the library or the wine cellar, notify me at once.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Bexley gave a small bow and retreated.
Left alone, Logan inspected the new layout and, despite himself, sat in the relocated chair. It was not entirely disagreeable.
This is how it begins,he thought.Today, the chairs. Tomorrow, the Empire.
He found, to his disgust, that he was almost eager to see what she would change next.
By the third day, the subtle war for Irondale House had escalated. Each morning, Logan discovered new incursions. The library was adorned with a cluster of lemon geraniums on the reading table. The upstairs hallway, previously lit by a single, funereal sconce, now boasted a bright runner and two more lamps, making the passage nearly cheerful. The portraits in the hall had been rehung at more democratic heights, so even the shorter members of society could admire the ancestors.
After the geraniums, he had half a mind to storm the breakfast room and demand an audience, but the sight that greeted him there robbed him of speech.
May was already at the table, reading and absently breaking a croissant into neat halves. She wore a simple morning dress, and her hair was bound up with a blue ribbon that matched the one now hanging in the window. She did not look up as he entered. Instead, she buttered the bread, sipped her tea, and continued reading.
He tried not to watch her, but found himself doing so anyway. There was an odd serenity to her, a kind of industry that reminded him of honeybees—quiet, constant, and capable of repopulating a continent if left unchecked.
He was halfway through his own meal when he realized she was reading the treatise he had been missing two nights prior.
She caught his eye and, without preamble, said, “This is rather dense, Your Grace. Is it customary for the author to take three pages to clarify a single point?”
He considered. “That is the entire purpose of philosophy, Duchess. To say nothing, but at exhaustive length.”
She smirked. “I suppose that explains Parliament.”
“It does,” Logan replied, not quite managing to hide his smile.
She went back to her book, but a moment later, she said, “I have moved your chair to face the fire. It is less drafty that way.”
Logan nodded. “I noticed. Thank you.”
Silence returned, but it was a different sort than before. Not tense, not brittle—simply companionable.
After breakfast, he returned to the study and set to work on the ledgers, determined to drown himself in numbers. The tactic nearly worked until a noise began to filter in from the next room.
It was the sound of a violin.
Logan looked up, uncertain at first whether it was real or imagined. The noise came again, a scraping, limping progression through a scale, followed by what could only be described as an attempted waltz. It was, in a word, dreadful.
He stood, went to the door, and confirmed that the noise emanated from the music room adjacent to the study. The servants were nowhere in sight, but Logan could make out the shape of May through the open archway—perched on a chair, violin under her chin, fingers laboring up and down the neck like a pair of spiders at war.
He watched for a full minute, unable to look away from the spectacle. May played with an intensity that made up for any lack of skill, drawing the bow with determination and grimacing only occasionally at the more catastrophic notes.
He could endure many things, but an assault on Mozart was not one of them. Logan entered the music room and, unable to stop himself, said, “You are aware that humanity has rules about torture, do you not?”
May stopped, eyes widening behind her spectacles. “Oh. I didn’t realize you were home.”
Logan arched a brow. “I live here.”
