Page 24 of Duke of Iron (Unyielding Dukes #2)

Twenty

“ Y ou will behave as you ought to, child!”

Miss Abbot, who had never once in her employ raised her voice, was at that moment locked in a contest of will with the smallest resident of Irondale House.

Rydal, arrayed in a fort of blankets and blue satin bows, regarded her with the unimpressed skepticism of a six-month-old who had already seen it all.

He gripped the ribbons tighter, and May watched from her spot on the carpet, her elbows propped on a velvet pillow, and said, “I believe he means to break you, Abbot.”

The maid stuck out her lower lip in defiance. “He has not yet broken Mrs. Paxton, Your Grace, and she is far more brittle than I.”

Rydal issued a hiccup, then a triumphant squawk.

May awarded him a point with a little tilt of her head. “He is not incorrect, you know. Even Bexley ran off after his first attempt at feeding. The baby has a gift.”

“A gift for chaos,” Abbot muttered, tucking the child’s feet more snugly into the basket.

May held out her hand, and Rydal’s entire being brightened. It was absurd, but she felt a glow of pride at this. The child gummed her knuckle with serious, damp industry, then gave a contented sigh.

“Is there any word from the new nurse?” May asked, looking up.

Miss Abbot’s lips pursed. “Mrs. Paxton has not yet returned from her search, Your Grace. We spoke with two candidates, but neither was… suitable.”

“Did the first one attempt to smother him, or merely herself?” May queried.

“The latter, I believe.” Abbot’s glance was apologetic. “The other candidate was an opera singer, fallen on hard times.”

May managed to keep a straight face. “We could start a fashion, you know. The singing nurse. It might do wonders for the nerves.”

“I do not think the servants could bear another night of aria,” said Miss Abbot, then softened. “I am sorry, Your Grace. If it were possible, I would feed him myself.”

May looked at the baby, whose eyes were the same clouded blue as a storm about to turn. He was not hers, not by blood or anything else, but she could not help finding him adorable. “You are doing marvelously,” she told the maid, and meant it.

A companionable silence fell, filled only by the squirming of the child in his basket and the low crackle of the fire.

Three days had passed since her conversation with Logan in the blue-walled house on Grosvenor.

She had replayed it in her head, the bluntness of his words, the way he had said, “You can begin your own life,” and then closed himself away as if the subject could not bear sunlight.

She still felt the sting and a creeping shame that she had ever hoped for anything different.

But what truly bothered her was the faint, unmistakable sense that he was right.

May kissed the top of Rydal’s fuzzy head, letting her mind wander to what she ought to do next.

She did not belong here, not in Logan’s house, not in the world of ducal schemes and secrets.

But she could not bring herself to leave—not while the child needed her, and not while the matter of his future hung over everything.

It was a relief, then, when the door to the drawing room opened and a footman entered, bowed, and announced, “His Grace requests your presence in the study, Your Grace.”

May exchanged a glance with Abbot. “You will watch him?”

“With my life,” Abbot replied, and saluted.

May tried not to run, but her legs moved with a purpose that defied all attempts at decorum. She gathered her skirts, dodged the flustered footman, and found herself outside the study door with her heart pounding.

She paused, smoothed her hair, then entered.

Logan was not seated at the desk. Instead, he paced in front of the window, hands behind his back, and jaw set in a line of concentration so fierce it seemed to vibrate the air.

He did not acknowledge her at once. May stood, uncertain, until she realized there was another person present—a dark-haired woman in a plain gray dress, standing with her cap in her hands and eyes fixed on the carpet.

“—told you, Your Grace,” the woman was saying, “I am very experienced, but the references will take another day. I can return tomorrow with all the letters in hand?—”

Logan cut her off. “That will not be necessary, Miss Masters. Thank you.” His tone was cool, but not unkind. He turned to May, the woman following his gaze.

“Duchess,” Logan said. “Miss Masters is one of the candidates for the position. She has—regrettably—never nursed a child of noble birth, but I am told she is resourceful.”

May nodded at the woman, who bobbed a curtsy and murmured something about “Your Grace,” before being dismissed by Logan with a flick of his hand. She left, the door closing behind her.

Logan faced May fully now, eyes searching hers for a clue to her mood. “How hard can it be to find a wet nurse in London?” he said, almost to himself.

May shrugged. “Perhaps the problem is not with London. Perhaps it is with the circumstance.”

He grunted. “I have had three letters from Lady Worth in the last day alone, asking if I am ill, since there are so many calls to the house from ‘childish women in aprons.’ The ton will know by dawn tomorrow that I have a baby stashed somewhere in the wainscoting.”

May found herself smiling. “It is not so bad. At least this is a more ordinary scandal.”

“Ordinary,” he repeated as if testing the word. “Yes. At least it is ordinary.”

She waited for him to say more, but he only paced the window.

“I can manage it,” May said. “Rydal—er, William—has been drinking goat’s milk without fuss. Perhaps, with a little luck, we can supplement until the right nurse can be found.”

He stopped, then looked at her. “You are sure?”

May nodded, though she was not sure at all. She suspected that neither of them had the faintest idea what they were doing.

Logan seemed distracted, as if something gnawed at him beyond the problem of the nurse. May watched him and wondered if she ought to speak her mind. You do not have permission, remember? The little voice in her head reminded her. Still, she could not let it rest.

“You seem… troubled,” she said softly.

He did not answer at once. “I am troubled by a great many things, Duchess. At the moment, the primary concern is that the baby is not mine, but the world will decide otherwise soon enough. I do not have the patience to keep a lie alive for very long.”

She wanted to reassure him, but instead she offered, “You do not have to be patient. Only persistent.”

He gave a thin smile at that, and the air in the room softened by a degree.

May took a breath. “If you wish, I can handle the arrangements from here. You need not bother with the nurse, or the child, or any of it.”

He arched a brow. “Is this your way of resigning?”

“Not at all. I am only suggesting that I might be more efficient. Besides, I quite like the baby.”

The admission surprised her more than it did him. Logan only regarded her, the sharpness gone from his gaze. “I am beginning to think you like all lost causes,” he said.

She thought of her sisters, her family, her entire life of patching things together, and said, “Yes. I suppose I do.”

They stood in an almost companionable silence.

May looked down, then back up. “I was also thinking,” she said, “that a physician might know more. About what to feed him, what to do until a proper nurse is found.”

Logan considered this. “You are very pragmatic, May.”

She shrugged, wishing she did not feel so exposed under the weight of his attention. “I am told it is a flaw.”

“Whoever told you that was wrong,” he said it so firmly that she blushed and turned away.

She cleared her throat. “If there is nothing more, I will see to the baby.”

He nodded, the stiffness returning to his shoulders. “Very well. Thank you, May.”

She left the study, feeling a strange tangle of relief and regret.

She had not told him what she had intended—that she thought the gossip had moved on, and perhaps it would be safe for her to move to a different house, giving him the solitude he so clearly craved.

Instead, she had volunteered for more work, and she did not know what that said about her, except that she was terrible at goodbyes.

She found Mrs. Paxton in the drawing room, where Rydal slept in his basket like a miniature prince, one hand clutching a blue ribbon.

“Your Grace,” said the housekeeper, bobbing a curtsy. “You wished to see me?”

May gestured to the armchair. “Please, sit. I need your counsel.”

The housekeeper’s brow rose, but she obeyed, perching at the edge of the chair. Miss Abbot, sensing she was not needed, withdrew with a smile and a quick bow.

May leaned forward. “Suppose we do not find a suitable wet nurse. What then?”

Mrs. Paxton pursed her lips. “We could try other means. Gruel, soft bread. I have heard of a baby raised on watered wine, though I doubt that is advisable.”

May suppressed a smile at the thought of Rydal as a miniature Bacchus. “And if we consult a physician?”

“Dr. Langley, perhaps,” Paxton said. “He is discreet. He attended Lady Brandton’s confinements and never breathed a word of anything to anyone.”

“Then have him sent for,” May decided. “We will be prudent. And careful.”

Paxton gave a satisfied nod. “It is a pleasure to have a mistress who is not afraid to take charge, Your Grace.”

May felt a wave of gratitude. She had been so afraid to misstep, to overreach, but perhaps the world was not so fragile as she had imagined.

She passed the rest of the morning in the drawing room, reading aloud to Rydal from the battered copy of Wordsworth Logan had once left on the nursery table. She did not know if babies cared about poetry, but it pleased her to try.

The physician arrived just after luncheon, a short, serious man with spectacles so thick they magnified his eyes to the size of marbles.

He examined Rydal with thoroughness bordering on suspicion, asking May about every aspect of the child’s history —feeding, sleeping, duration of crying, and whether his limbs seemed “in any way less than symmetrical.”

May answered as best she could, inventing only the details she was certain no one could dispute.

At last, Dr. Langley straightened and pronounced, “He is a robust specimen. A little undernourished, but nothing alarming. You may begin with gruel, soft potatoes, carrots, and perhaps a cream cheese. If he rejects it, try again with some convincing. But do not worry.”

May could have hugged him, but settled for a grateful smile. “And the matter of the nurse?”

Langley pursed his lips. “If you wish to keep this private, the best course is to find a widow. Many are willing, and they know how to keep their confidence. There are several in St. John’s parish I can recommend, if discretion is your aim.”

“Discretion is always my aim,” May replied.

He gave her a list and left. May watched Rydal as he snuffled and drooled on her sleeve, and felt something like peace for the first time in weeks. They had a plan and a way forward.

She wondered what Logan would say if she told him how easy it had been. She wondered if he would ever ask.

But for now, the world seemed almost manageable.

May gathered the baby and returned to the window, where the afternoon sun made all the blue in the room glow.

It would not last, of course. Nothing ever did.

But she would take the moment for what it was—one good day in a world that rarely offered them.