Page 61 of Duke of Iron
But now, Logan was here—hair damp from a recent wash, crisp shirt immaculate, cravat starched so high it seemed to command absolute authority over the rest of his person.
He looked at her, then at the empty seat nearest her—too near, given the scandalously small diameter of the round dining table. “Good evening, Duchess.”
May blinked, the spoonful of broth still poised before her lips. She lowered it with the slow care one reserved for balancing a glass pyramid, and replied, “You are eating here tonight?”
Logan arched a brow and slid into the chair beside her. He did not offer an explanation, only inclined his head to the hovering footman, who instantly began ladling soup into the bowl before him. “Is that so remarkable?”
“You have not dined with me once,” May said. She meant it as a jest, but it came out a little too direct, and she winced at her own bluntness. “Not that I require company.”
Logan’s eyes met hers, gray and cutting as a March wind. “I thought I ought to join my wife for dinner, at least one night this week. It seemed… appropriate.”
May considered this. “Appropriate,” she repeated. “That is not the word I would have chosen.” She tried to sip her soup, but her hands trembled enough to send a ripple across the surface.
Logan gave a very slight smile. “Would you rather I go?”
She caught his gaze, saw the mischief lurking beneath the iron. “If you leave now, I’ll have no one left to ridicule my eating habits.”
His smile widened, barely. “They are in no need of ridicule. Your table manners are impeccable.”
May set her spoon down. “You have not observed them long enough to judge. For all you know, I chew with my mouth open after the soup course.”
“Is that a threat?” he asked.
“It is a warning.”
He laughed, low and unhurried, and May felt her heart scramble upward in her chest.
For a while, they ate in silence. The soup was hot and faintly perfumed with bay; the fish that followed was so perfectly flaked it nearly fell apart beneath the tines of her fork. May spent the next course—an herbed chicken with new potatoes—studiously watching her own plate, unsure how to conduct herself with Logan seated so near. He seemed larger in person than she remembered; the shape of his shoulders under the evening coat, the severe lines of his profile, all combined to make the room seem smaller than it was.
She risked a look at him and was startled to find his attention on her.
He was not smiling now, but neither was he severe. Instead, he regarded her as if she were a particularly interesting chess problem.
She said, “You are staring.”
Logan did not look away. “You changed your hair.”
May reached up, self-consciously patting the coiled plait at her nape. “I was told it was more fashionable this way.”
“I preferred it loose,” he said, and turned his attention back to his dinner.
May swallowed. She had not known he had an opinion on her hair, let alone that he would voice it without being asked. “You do not seem the sort to follow fashion,” she said, aiming for neutral ground.
“I am not,” Logan replied. “But I know what I like.”
A thrill ran through her, chased by a jolt of embarrassment. “I suppose that is the advantage of being a duke. You never have to pretend to like anything at all.”
He snorted. “On the contrary, I am required to pretend quite often. The skill is in pretending so well that no one can tell the difference.”
“Is that why you avoided dinner all week?” May asked, surprised by her own boldness.
He set down his fork. “You think I was avoiding you?”
She chewed her bite of chicken, then nodded. “It is not an insult. If I had the option, I would avoid myself, too.”
Logan regarded her for a long moment. “You are not what I expected.”
“Is that a compliment?”
