Page 85 of Duke of Iron
Logan considered. “A gathering of the misfits?”
She laughed. “Precisely.”
He grinned. “You are the Champion of the Unfortunate Wallflowers.”
She beamed, pleased beyond measure.
The carriage rattled over the stones. Logan, still holding her hand, said, “You are not like them. You are not like anyone.”
May looked at him. “What am I like, then?”
He was quiet for a long moment, then said, “You are like yourself. And that is more than enough for me.”
The city glowed outside, but May saw only the look in his eyes, and it was dazzling.
She took a breath. “Logan, if I had never climbed into your carriage that night—would we be here, now?”
He looked at her long and thoughtfully. “Yes. I would have found you, one way or another.”
Her heart squeezed, sudden and sharp.
She wanted to ask if he loved her, but the words would not form.
Twenty-Six
“Where is the Duchess?” Logan asked three days later, surveying the empty drawing room as if it had personally betrayed him.
Bexley was waiting with a silver tray—no doubt prepared for a far more civilized inquiry about the morning’s post. “Her Grace is out,” Bexley replied. “A tea invitation arrived from Miss Evangeline Richfield, and Her Grace left an hour ago, after breakfast.”
Logan kept his face impassive, though he felt a sharp spike of—what? Annoyance? Agitation? It was not jealousy, he decided, but a more dignified emotion. Discomfort, perhaps, at the way his wife had taken to vanishing during daylight hours. Not that he blamed her. He had, in fact, encouraged this sort of thing. He simply had not realized he would dislike it so thoroughly when it occurred.
“Thank you, Bexley.” Logan paused, then added, “If the Duchess returns before luncheon, send for me. I will be in the blue study.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
He turned on his heel and strode from the room, passing Mrs. Paxton in the hall. The housekeeper bobbed a curtsy and attempted to meet his eye, but Logan swept past, feeling a sense of restlessness that would not be mollified by administrative duties or the satisfaction of managing his household with ruthless efficiency. Something in him was unsettled, and he did not care for the sensation one bit.
He did not go to the study. Instead, he found himself climbing the grand staircase two at a time, intent on some undefined purpose that would, with any luck, distract him from the absence currently occupying most of his conscious thought. At the landing, he heard the soft coo of the baby and the murmured encouragements of Miss Hall.
He followed the sound and pushed open the nursery door.
Miss Hall was perched on the edge of the chaise, one hand cradling Rydal as he gnawed on the ear of a battered stuffed rabbit. She looked up, startled. “Your Grace?”
Logan ignored the question and crossed the room in three steps. The child saw him, smiled broadly, and dropped the toy in favor of reaching for Logan’s cravat. “You have no sense of self-preservation,” Logan told the baby, plucking him up underthe arms and holding him at arm’s length. “You will catch your death, sitting up here in a draft.”
Rydal squealed, delighted.
Hall bit her lip, visibly restraining herself from correcting the Duke on the matter of the nursery’s temperature. Instead, she offered, “He is in high spirits today, Your Grace. I believe the tooth has finally arrived.”
“Excellent. He will need every tooth for what lies ahead,” Logan replied. He set the baby on his hip and regarded the nurse. “I am taking him out this afternoon.”
“Will you require the pram, Your Grace?”
“I will require only a blanket and a set of clean clothes. And a bottle, if you must.”
Hall nodded, darted about the room to assemble the requested items, and managed to have the child bundled and ready with military precision. She held the rabbit out as well, and Logan considered it before accepting. “You have grown attached,” he said to the toy, “though I cannot imagine why. It has neither wit nor teeth.”
Rydal burbled, unconcerned.
