Page 25 of Duke of Iron (Unyielding Dukes #2)
Twenty-One
T he city slept, but May did not. She sat upright in bed, listening.
A half-moon hung behind the lace curtains, slicing the nursery in two: one side was shadows, the other silver and cold.
Rydal did not cry—he was too dignified for that at this hour—but he fussed, a ceaseless shuffling and whimper that warned of an impending siege.
She wrapped herself in a shawl, crept down the hallway, and eased open the nursery door. He lay in the cot, eyes open and alert, little fists churning the air as if rowing himself to freedom.
“You are awake,” she whispered. “We have a pact, you and I—no drama after midnight.”
He regarded her with mournful accusation. She picked him up, blanket and all, and rocked gently, but he would not settle. He squirmed, head butting at her shoulder, lips groping for a meal that was not there.
“Hungry, are you?” she said. “I am the worst nurse, and you have made a dreadful miscalculation.”
He grumbled, refusing to be convinced otherwise.
May considered her options. She could call for Miss Abbot or the night maid, but the thought of waking the entire household for one child’s late-night appetite filled her with shame. Better to handle it herself, as she had handled everything lately.
She placed him in the basket, tucked the blanket around him, and lifted the whole contraption with both hands. “This is not a proper perambulator,” she told him, “but it shall do.”
Rydal looked unimpressed.
She crept down the back stairs, past the shuttered drawing room and into the kitchen, a drafty stone vault redolent of yeast and soap.
She set the basket on the long wooden table, then lit a lamp.
The baby regarded her in the sudden glow, round eyes magnified, mouth pursed with the solemnity of a bishop.
May moved to the pantry and surveyed the shelves. Flour, oats, candied ginger, two kinds of jam, and—yes—a small crock of soft cheese. She held it up to Rydal, who kicked his feet in what she chose to interpret as approval.
“I hope you have a refined palate,” she said. “This is from Devonshire.”
She fetched a teaspoon, scooped up a minuscule curl of cheese, and offered it to his lips. He sniffed, then batted her hand away with a tiny but decisive blow.
“Uncultured,” she muttered. “We shall try again.”
She braced his head, tried a smaller amount. He clamped his mouth shut, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Rydal, please,” May begged, “I cannot eat this for you.”
He waited until her hand wavered, then turned his head sharply. The cheese streaked his cheek, but none entered his mouth.
May, undaunted, tried to open the icebox. It was stuck. She pulled, yanked, and then leaned her entire weight into it. The door gave suddenly, and she nearly toppled forward, catching herself on the edge.
“Sabotage,” she announced, “by dairy.”
She returned to the table, found Rydal had rolled to one side of the basket and was staring at her with deep skepticism.
“We are not defeated yet,” she whispered. She rummaged through the crockery, found a small pan, and set about making a potato mash, as recommended by Dr. Langley. Undercooks and even housemaids managed it all the time; how hard could it be?
She eyed the stove, trying to recall the method by which fire was coaxed from the beast.
She twisted the knob. Nothing. She prodded with a stick. Nothing.
“Surely it is not this complicated,” she said to Rydal. “All of London manages it.”
He made a raspberry sound.
She poked at the iron grate, fumbled with the tinder box, then resorted to reading the instructions posted above the stove. She struck the flint, nearly set fire to the sleeve of her wrapper, and managed to light a single, wavering blue flame.
“Victory!” she hissed.
She put the pan on, sliced a potato, and added water with a flair she hoped looked professional.
Rydal began to fret, hands waving, face crumpling into a mask of woe.
She hurried over, picked him up, and bounced him gently. “Patience, my tyrant. I am not a sorceress.”
He wailed.
She sang a nonsense lullaby, pacing the stone floor.
She tried to dance, shifting him from hip to hip.
“Do you want a story?” she asked. “Very well. Once upon a time, there was a duchess with no sense at all, who believed she could raise a child without guidance or help. She was ridiculous, and everyone knew it, but the baby was very forgiving?—”
The laugh cut through her monologue—deep, amused, and unmistakably masculine.
She whirled, nearly dropping the baby.
Logan stood in the doorway, arms crossed, shirt open at the throat, hair in just enough disarray to look rakish even at three in the morning.
“Do continue,” he said. “I am eager to learn how the story ends.”
May scowled. “It ends with the duchess committing murder.” She raised her voice to a fussy soprano to mimic the scandal sheets. “We fear the Duke of Irondale has been found smothered in a cheese shop…”
Logan’s lips quirked. “With a wedge of Devonshire, I hope. Wouldn’t want to skimp on the quality.”
He entered, looked around, and found a chair. He sat, leaning back with the easy grace of a man who owned the ground beneath him. “Are you aware it is the middle of the night?”
“I am. Are you aware you have the stealth of a burglar?” May shot back.
Logan shrugged. “I heard a noise. Thought it was an intruder. Was hoping it was only you.”
“Disappointment, then,” May said, too tired to keep the sarcasm from her voice.
He glanced at Rydal, who had quieted at the sound of Logan’s voice and now stared at the Duke with open fascination. “What is the villain plotting?” Logan asked.
“He refuses to eat,” May said, “and resists all forms of culinary persuasion.”
Logan stood, approached, and looked down at the baby. “Perhaps you are not persuasive enough.”
“By all means, you try,” May replied.
He extended one finger, and Rydal latched on with surprising strength. “He is clearly a mastermind,” Logan observed.
May could not help but smile at the tableau—the Iron Duke and the six-month-old, locked in a contest of wills.
She checked the pan. The potatoes were soft. She mashed them with a spoon, added a dollop of cheese, and let it cool. She scooped up a little and offered it to the baby. Rydal sniffed, then, with great reluctance, opened his mouth and accepted the offering.
May’s heart leapt. “Success!”
Logan grinned. “I suppose we must call you a genius.”
She blushed, then pretended not to care. “If you like.”
They took turns feeding the baby, Logan holding him steady while May spooned the mixture. With every bite, Rydal’s mood improved. By the end, he was dozing, mouth smeared with the evidence of his defeat.
They stood in silence, watching him drift off.
Logan cleared his throat. “You are very good with him.”
May shrugged. “It is not difficult. He has simple needs.”
“Most people do,” Logan said.
She studied his face, half in shadow, and wondered what needs he would confess to, if given the chance.
“Why are you awake?” she asked, changing the subject.
He looked at her, a long and measuring gaze. “I checked the nursery. You were not there. I checked your rooms. Also empty. I thought you might have run away.”
May blinked. “And you would have cared?”
He smirked. “I would have cared about the scandal. Two runaways in one household is very bad for business.”
She tried to be annoyed, but the edge was gone.
He bent and placed the baby in the basket, tucking the blanket around him. The care in his gesture surprised her.
She watched as Logan cleaned his hands, then leaned back against the counter. “I found the mother.”
May’s heart skipped. “You—what?”
He nodded. “I found the baby’s mother. Or, rather, my man did. It was a matter of time. She is Lady Rebecca Beamond, the daughter of a viscount. She was in Italy during her confinement, returned with a baby, and the family arranged for the child’s disappearance.”
May processed this. “So… what will you do?”
Logan was silent for a long moment. “I will return the child. It is the right thing.”
She stared at him, then at the baby, who slept with his face pressed into the side of the basket, thumb in his mouth.
“It is the right thing,” she repeated, voice hollow.
He watched her, unblinking. “If you disagree, say so.”
May shook her head. “No. You are right.”
She stared at the lamp, watched the flame gutter and dance. Her hands felt cold, though the kitchen was warm.
“Will you tell him?” she asked.
Logan frowned. “The baby?”
She nodded. “Will you tell him why he is not wanted?”
“He is wanted,” Logan said. “Just not by me.”
She winced. He crossed the room and stopped, just short of reaching for her hand. “I did not mean?—”
She looked up at him, eyes shining. “You never mean to, Logan. But you always do.”
He stood, arms awkwardly at his sides, and for the first time looked truly lost.
She forced a smile, though it hurt. “It is for the best. I will prepare him for the change.”
He nodded, but did not move.
They stood, caught between action and inaction, words and silence.
May reached for the basket, cradled the baby, and started for the door.
“May,” Logan said, softly.
She paused.
“Thank you,” he said.
She did not trust herself to answer.
She climbed the stairs with Rydal heavy in her arms, the knowledge of what was coming heavier still.
She would enjoy every moment she had left.
She would make it count.
She tucked the baby into his cot, smoothed the blanket, and sat beside him, watching him breathe.
The night was very still. The city slept. But May did not.