Page 72 of Duke of Iron
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.
