Page 10 of Duke of Iron
Chaos exploded.
“Of all men!” Dorothy wailed. “Why must it behim? The one with a title and no scruples! The devil of devils!”
“I will kill him,” August growled.
“Do not be ridiculous,” April said. “You cannot fight a duke.”
“He could have told her,” August shouted. “He could have spoken a single word and prevented this entire catastrophe!”
“He was a gentleman,” May whispered. “He did not behave in any untoward manner. He was polite and kind.”
“Hespoke,didn’t he?” August snapped. “Then why not reveal who he was?”
“Oh, my heart,” Dorothy cried. “The papers will crucify us. We must leave London. We’ll go to the country. We’ll never receive another invitation.”
“That’s absurd,” June said. “We could write the papers and tell them it’s all a fabrication.”
“Theo might be able to help,” April added. “He’s a duke. He knows the owner ofThe Morning Register.”
“I will defend her honor,” August said.
“No one is dueling anyone,” June insisted.
May stood there, trembling and unable to bear her family’s conflicting suggestions. She needed to get away from here.
“Where are you going?” April asked when she turned.
“I need to think.”
She left the breakfast room, her head pounding. Her family’s voices followed her up the stairs in a cacophony of outrage, advice, and plans.
She needed quiet. Stillness.
May opened the door to her bedchamber and stepped in, shutting it as quickly as she could and resting her back against the wood. Closing her eyes, she tried to breathe.
But then she heard the sound of a page turning, and her eyes flew open.
The Duke of Irondale was lounging upon her sofa, one boot crossed over the other, a scone in one hand and the other flipping through one of her romance novels that lay open on his lap.
He looked up, and a slow grin spread across his face.
“Your heroine,” he said, gesturing with the book, “is dreadfully dramatic.”
“What are you doing in my bedchamber?”
May didn’t scream. She thought she might. But her voice came out sharp, incredulous, and entirely too composed.
Irondale, seated as if he owned the chaise—and the entire room—lifted a brow and gestured toward the open window.
“I found the window unlatched. The climb was a trifle. Then I noticed fresh scones and a rather dramatic novel. I could not resist.”
He climbed through my window. Into my room. Sat on my sofa. Ate my scones.
“I left those scones to eat after breakfast,” she muttered.
“Excellent foresight. They pair quite nicely with scandal.” He picked up a crumb from his lap and flicked it away. “Your heroine has just stabbed her betrothed in the thigh. For kissing another woman.”
She gaped at him. He was too at ease. Too smug. Too… She marched forward and snatched the book from his hands.
