Page 63 of Duke of Iron
“I enjoyed the biscuits,” May admitted. “The rest was… enlightening.”
He smiled, more fully now, and for the first time she saw it—something genuine, a glimmer of the man she remembered from Hyde Park and the day in the garden, when he had made her laugh until her sides hurt.
She wondered what it would be like if he always looked at her this way.
She said, softly, “You never answered my question.”
He blinked. “Which?”
“Why you are here. Truly.”
He looked down, then up again. “I suppose I did not wish to eat alone tonight.”
May let the answer hang between them, uncertain whether it was the whole truth or just the part he felt comfortable sharing.“I am sorry for before,” she said. “For presuming you were avoiding me.”
He waved this aside. “I have been occupied with matters. The household, the child, the accounts. There is always something.”
May felt the warmth of embarrassment creep up her neck. “If you wish for more solitude, I will not take offense.”
He shook his head. “I do not wish for more solitude. I have had enough of that for one lifetime.”
The words sat heavy in the air.
May tried to lighten the moment. “Well, if it helps, you are very good at pretending you enjoy company. Perhaps you ought to consider a career in diplomacy.”
He gave her a long, assessing look. “You do not strike me as the sort to enjoy flattery, Lady May.”
“That is only because I have heard so little of it,” she replied, matching his gaze.
He grinned, and the effect was devastating. “Then allow me to say, you look lovely tonight. I did not realize blue suited you so well.”
She looked down at her dress, then back up. “It was the only color not already ruined by soup stains.”
He laughed, and she basked in the sound of it.
A lull fell, filled only by the quiet hum of the silverware and the distant clatter of plates in the kitchen. May watched Logan as he ate—his movements precise, controlled, yet never hurried. She wondered if he ever let go, ever allowed himself to be truly unguarded.
She wanted to see it. She wanted to know what he was like when he was not performing for the world.
The meal wound down, and dessert was served—tiny syllabubs in glass cups, trembling with sugar and cream. Logan reached for one, and their hands collided. Not hard, but enough to jolt her. His fingers brushed hers, cool and steady, and the touch sent a spike of sensation all the way up her arm.
She drew back, but he did not. He left his hand resting beside hers on the table, as if it belonged there.
“Are you well?” he asked, his voice so low she almost missed it.
May swallowed. “Yes. Only…” She tried to find the right words. “You are… surprising.”
He regarded her, then nodded, as though he understood perfectly.
They ate in silence for a while, sharing the syllabub and occasionally glancing at each other, neither quite willing to look away.
Finally, May cleared her throat. “We have not found a new wet nurse. The baby is drinking milk, but I do not think it will sustain him for long.”
Logan’s face grew serious. “I will see to it. Discreetly. We cannot risk an advertisement; the situation is precarious enough as it is.”
May nodded. “Mrs. Paxton suggested sending word through the parish. Quietly.”
“That will do.” He finished the last of his dessert, then leaned back in his chair. “We are also looking at houses.”
