Page 69 of Duke of Iron
He regarded her as if he wished to say more. Then, without another word, he turned and left the room, his footsteps ringing down the empty hall.
May remained, staring out at the bare garden and the damp morning, and wondered if she had just been given her freedom—or her gaol sentence.
She did not know which was worse.
Twenty
“You 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?—”
