Page 34 of Duke of Iron (Unyielding Dukes #2)
Thirty
“ C ome now, William,” May urged. “You cannot survive on air and compliments. At least try a taste.”
The baby’s answer was to swat the spoon so expertly that a glob arced through the air and struck May’s own spectacles, then dripped onto her nose.
She dabbed at herself with a handkerchief, sighing. “Sabotage, again. I see I am no match for your cunning.”
“He is outwitting you by design,” Logan said, entering the drawing room. “It is a skill that runs in the family.”
“You encourage him,” she replied, straightening her spectacles. “If you want a household of tyrants, you are succeeding.”
Logan came to her side, eyeing the gruel bowl with disapproval. “What is this abomination?”
“Dr. Langley’s recipe. You approved it yesterday,” May said. “You signed off on the carrot, the oats, and the tablespoon of clotted cream.”
He leaned in, his lips quirking as he peered at the baby’s besmirched face. “No one could approve of this. It is a crime in three counties.”
May matched his stare. “If you wish to try, do oblige me.” She handed him the spoon.
Logan accepted it with a show of great reluctance, then offered it to Rydal with a flourish. “Here you are. Take pity on our dear May.”
Rydal, who had spent the entire negotiation watching Logan with an expression of growing calculation, opened his mouth obligingly. He swallowed the spoonful and reached for Logan’s finger, which he immediately gummed in approval.
May watched the tableau, her chest tightening. “He never does that for me.”
“You are too soft. He senses it,” said Logan, but his eyes never left Rydal’s face. “If you do not enforce the rules, you will soon be overrun.”
“I will be overrun by love and small hands,” May muttered, more to herself, “and I do not mind.”
She watched Logan, her heart a sudden tangle of wishes she would not name. You look at him as if you might love him, if you dared.
He relinquished the spoon, then straightened, shaking his head. “It is not my place to correct you, Duchess. You are the expert.”
She snorted. “Expert? I have been at this for precisely a fortnight.”
Logan smiled at that, then, with a more careful tone, said, “I have an errand for you this afternoon, May.”
She eyed him. “Am I to visit the bookseller? Or perhaps spy on your enemies?”
“Neither. You are to receive the Beamonds at two o’clock. They have asked to see the child and to meet you.”
May’s fingers went stiff around the bowl. “Why?”
“To see the baby,” he repeated.
She gave a half-laugh, but the sound was hollow. “Will they… do they mean to take him?”
“No.” Logan set both hands flat on the table, leaning down until his face was level with hers. “They wish only to visit.”
“Of course,” May said, but her mind had already run ten laps of the room, picturing every possible outcome and none of them ending with Rydal still in her arms.
Logan studied her. “You need not be afraid.”
“I am not afraid,” May lied.
He smiled as if he could see straight through her. “He will not be taken from you.”
She dipped her chin, not trusting herself to look up again. “Thank you.”
Logan straightened, smoothing his coat as if the moment had not unsettled him at all. “If you need anything?—”
“I will not,” she said, more forcefully than she meant. “We will be ready.”
He nodded and left. May regarded the baby, who was now industriously gnawing on the wooden spoon, and whispered, “You are not going anywhere, my darling. Not if I can help it.”
Rydal gave no answer, but May imagined he agreed.
At precisely two o’clock, May sat on a sofa in the drawing room, Rydal perched on her lap in a dress of soft white muslin and a pair of hand-knitted socks so violently blue they could blind a modest clergyman.
“Do I look tolerable?” she asked Miss Abbot, who was fussing with a tray of cakes at the far sideboard.
“You look like a duchess,” Abbot replied. “But the real question is, does the baby look presentable?”
May glanced down at Rydal. “He is the most beautiful child in London,” she declared, and meant it.
The sound of the butler announcing the Beamonds sent a jolt through her. May adjusted her spectacles, set her shoulders, and prepared for battle.
The Beamonds entered together, arm in arm. Mr. Beamond was a tall, thin man with spectacles nearly as round as May’s own, and Mrs. Beamond was plump and pink-cheeked. Both wore mourning black.
“Your Grace,” said Mrs. Beamond, bobbing a curtsy and beaming at the child. “What a pleasure!”
“The pleasure is ours,” May replied, then raised Rydal to Mrs. Beamond’s waiting arms.
Mrs. Beamond clasped the baby and immediately began to fuss and coo, her face radiant with affection. “Oh, look at him, Edwin! He has grown since you saw him last, has he not?”
Mr. Beamond approached, blinking rapidly. “He is… he is quite robust.”
“He is perfect,” Mrs. Beamond insisted, then addressed May. “You have cared for him so well, Your Grace. I am beyond grateful.”
May felt a lump rise in her throat. She tried to swallow it. “Rydal is very easy to love.”
“I am sure,” Mrs. Beamond agreed, rocking the baby. “But he is a handful, I imagine. Our daughter was the same. Cried if you left her for even a minute, and would not be comforted by anyone but me.”
May said nothing, afraid of what she might say if she started.
Mrs. Beamond patted the baby’s back, then frowned. “Why does he not answer to William?”
May blinked, then realized the confusion. “Oh, we have been calling him Rydal,” she explained. “It was a sort of… moniker, before we knew his true identity. It seems to suit him. We all use it, even the staff.”
Mrs. Beamond’s brow furrowed, then smoothed. “Rydal. Like the poem?”
May nodded, surprised at the quick catch of pleasure in her chest. “Exactly so.”
Mrs. Beamond smiled, a little sadly. “It is a good name.” She then pressed her cheek to the baby’s hair. “And you, Your Grace? Are you managing? This must all be very strange for you.”
“I am managing quite well,” May replied. “It is a great deal to learn, but he is patient. And I have had help.”
Mrs. Beamond looked down at the infant in her arms. “You are very young to be a mother, even of another woman’s child. I suppose it is fortunate you and the Duke are so… compatible.”
May felt her cheeks burn. She cast a glance at Logan, who had entered at some point and was now standing in the doorway with his arms folded. His face gave nothing away.
“Very compatible,” May agreed, though her voice sounded thin in her own ears.
“You must not feel obligated, Your Grace. If ever you wish to… you know… hand him over for a spell, or even… permanently, we would be more than willing.”
May felt a sharp stab in her side. She tried to hide it behind a smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Beamond, but as the Duke said earlier, we would prefer to keep him close. At least for now.”
Mrs. Beamond nodded, but May could see that the hope in her eyes had not died entirely.
The conversation drifted to less dangerous topics—the state of the city, the rumor that the Prince Regent would soon attend a ball in person, the price of lemons at the new grocer’s.
May contributed as best she could, all the while watching the way Mrs. Beamond’s hands lingered on Rydal’s hair, how her fingers curled possessively around the little arm.
I will not let him go, May thought. Not for all the lemons in England.
When at last the tea was done and the guests rose to leave, Mrs. Beamond handed Rydal back to May. “You are doing so well, Your Grace,” she whispered. “He is lucky to have you.”
May accepted the baby and pressed a kiss to his temple, feeling the truth of it vibrate all the way to her bones.
Mr. Beamond bowed. “If you ever change your mind…”
“I will not,” May said, as gently as she could.
The Beamonds departed, escorted by Logan, and May was left in the sudden hush of the drawing room, the baby heavy in her arms and her heart heavier still.
May settled in the window seat, balancing the baby on her knee and smoothing his hair. “You are not William, you know,” she told him. “You are Rydal. You are mine.”
A small gasp escaped her as realization dawned. She did desire motherhood. But it might be a desire that would never be fulfilled.