Page 59 of Duke of Iron
He almost told her about the years spent raising his own brother, the endless hours sitting in dark rooms with a baby who refused to sleep, the way even then he’d been expected to manage the household while still a child himself. But he said nothing.
Mrs. Paxton inclined her head. “If you would like me to stay with him, Your Grace, I can send in the maids.”
Logan shook his head. “I will manage.”
“Very good,” she said, and vanished again.
Alone, Logan studied the sleeping child. He did not feel pity, or affection, or any of the softening nonsense that so often infected the world. He felt only the old, familiar dread—the knowledge that fate had outwitted him yet again.
He was trapped. He was furious. And worst of all, he did not know which of those feelings hurt more.
The baby’s tiny fist loosened on his cravat, and Logan stared down at him, at the impossibility of it, and the weight of his name.
He looked around the nursery—at the blanket May had embroidered with blue thread, at the battered old toy rabbit she’d set by the pillow, at the books she’d lined up along the windowsill.
He wondered if he should tell her what he had discovered today. And he wondered, not for the first time, how it was that one small, wretched creature could unravel a lifetime of certainty.
May woke to the sound of footsteps, and she turned in bed to see her lady’s maid. “Your Grace?” Abbot called softly, coming closer. “I am sorry to disturb you, but…”
May was already rolling upright, nearly losing her spectacles in the process. “The baby,” she said.
Abbot nodded. “He’s been quite beside himself. Mrs. Paxton thought it best not to wake you, as you’ve not slept well in days?—”
“I am awake now.” May brushed her hair with her fingers and cinched the wrapper at her waist, feeling something between dread and resolve. “Thank you, Abbot. I shall see to him.”
She climbed the stairs at a near run, the wood cold and smooth beneath her feet. The noise grew louder as she reached thenursery. But this time, instead of the usual chorus of female voices, she heard only a single one. Male, low, oddly gentle despite the subject matter.
“You’re very proud of yourself, aren’t you?” Logan’s voice, tired but steady. “Had the entire household in hysterics before breakfast.”
May paused, hand on the door frame. It felt intrusive to listen, but there was a draw to his words, a gravity that pinned her in place.
“Is this what you wanted?” Logan continued, and she could picture the arch of his brow. “To see if you could get Irondale himself to capitulate? Well, congratulations. You’ve bested me. Are you satisfied?”
A soft shuffling, then the scrape of chair legs. May angled her head and peered into the room. Logan sat with the child on his lap, one large hand supporting the tiny back, the other ruffling a thatch of downy hair.
He looked, for all the world, like a man born to the task.
A warmth spread through her chest, odd and unwelcome. She had always assumed Logan would reject this sort of thing—infants, softness, any suggestion of domesticity. He had always projected a chill, an iron wall between himself and the rest of humanity. And yet, here he was, rocking and murmuring, a picture so intimate it made her ribs ache.
He looked down at the baby, brow furrowed. “You’re here to take over my life, eh?”
May blinked.Take over?She leaned closer, careful not to let her wrapper snag on the door’s edge.
Logan kept talking, though his voice was quieter, as if he were confessing to the sleeping child alone. “I suppose that’s fair. I have made a mess of things, one way or another. But you—I think you’ll make a fine scandal. Give the gossips years of material. Maybe even outlast me.”
He let out a breath. “You know, your nurse quit. Said you were beyond hope. But you’re just a baby. The world is cruel, and we are only what it makes us. I’m not angry. Not really.”
He reached for the battered toy rabbit and set it next to the child. “She picked this out for you, you know. The Duchess. She has a ridiculous belief that everything can be mended with the right amount of embroidery and song. She is…” He trailed off, rocking a bit faster. “Well, you’ll see for yourself, soon enough. She never listens, never backs down. I tell her to leave it, and she makes it her personal crusade.”
May’s heart fluttered, traitorous and bright. She had not known he even noticed. Or perhaps he was only venting to the baby, sure no one else would care.
“You’ll be like her, I think,” Logan said. “Too clever for your own good. Too stubborn to let things rest. God help us all if you ever learn to speak.”
He fell quiet, then—so much so that May almost backed away, embarrassed to have overheard something that was not hers. But just as she began to step back, Logan spoke again, his words a whisper,
“Maybe that’s what this house needs. Someone to shake the dust loose. Someone who doesn’t quit at the first cry.”
He chuckled softly. “She would say that’s the point. That we are all just waiting for someone to change things.”
