Page 52 of Duke of Iron
“So,” said Christie, eyes wide and innocent, “tell us everything.”
May blinked. “Everything?”
“Oh, we are positively starved for the details,” Christie pressed, leaning closer so that her butterflies almost landed on May’s shoulder. “You and the Duke—how did it happen?”
May tried to recall the version her mother preferred. “It was… very sudden. Rather like falling into a river, I suppose. One minute I was at a ball, the next?—”
Kitty cut in, “You must have had an inkling. He is the talk of every salon from here to Bath.”
“I had never spoken to him before our engagement,” May said, which was true, if one discounted the incident of mistaken identity and the wild carriage ride.
“A love match, then,” Kitty said, with a sly smile. “How delicious.”
Christie grinned. “The best sort. At least, so the poets tell us.”
May tried to keep her face composed, but the barrage of questions was relentless. They wanted to know about her courtship, about her impression of the house, about what it felt like to be “elevated” so quickly.
Kitty managed to make the word “elevated” sound like “catapulted.”
“And the baby?” asked Christie, her voice soft and loaded. “Is it true there is an infant at Irondale House?”
May nearly choked on her lemonade. “Yes, but—he is not ours. Not mine.”
“Oh, Your Grace,” Christie patted her arm. “We quite understand. These things happen. I hear the Duke is terribly fond of children.”
Kitty covered her mouth, failing to stifle a giggle. “I do hope you are not overwhelmed, Your Grace. Being a duchess is a great responsibility.”
May opened her mouth to object, but found herself unable to construct a defense that did not sound like a plea for sympathy. “I find it quite interesting.”
Kitty nodded with feigned gravity. “That is a blessing. I suppose your spectacles help with keeping everything in order.”
There was a ripple of laughter from those assembled. May smiled, but she could not escape the impression that the joke had been about her, not the baby.
She adjusted her glasses and tried to ignore the heat rising in her cheeks.
The conversation shifted to the upcoming social calendar. Christie produced a list, color-coded and annotated, and walked May through every event worth attending for the next two weeks.
Kitty explained the unwritten rules—which hostess demanded punctuality, who served the best champagne, whose dinners ended in impromptu musicales, and whose in tears.
“And above all,” Kitty said, “never accept a private invitation from Lady Elverson. Her bridge games are absolutely cutthroat. I lost three years’ allowance in a single night.”
May scribbled mental notes, marveling at the complexity of it all. She had thought, foolishly, that being a duchess would make everything easier—that doors would open, people would smile, and the world would rearrange itself around her new title.
Instead, it felt like the beginning of a very long obstacle course.
“And you must allow me to recommend a new modiste,” Kitty said, lowering her voice. “Not that your dress is at all unfashionable, but it is so hard to keep up with the latest styles. Perhaps you could set the new trend for duchesses?”
The assembled ladies nodded, some with thinly veiled skepticism, others with something like envy. May looked down at her blue dress, wondering if it was already outdated. She tried to recall if Kitty’s yellow dress had been featured in any of the periodicals, but all she could remember was the way the sun had illuminated the room, making everyone look more vibrant and, by contrast, herself slightly faded.
The luncheon was declared a triumph by all in attendance, and May’s entry into society was pronounced ‘official.’ As the guests departed in a flurry of giggles and exaggerated curtsies, Kitty drew her aside.
“Your spectacles,” she said, smiling widely. “They really are quite becoming. I should have them myself, but I fear I have not the nose for it.”
May returned the smile. “You might find them useful for spotting lilies at a distance.”
Kitty laughed, and for a moment, May believed it was genuine.
She left the assembly rooms feeling oddly buoyed and battered at the same time, like a ship that had survived its first storm but lost a few sails in the process.
