Page 44 of Duke of Iron
“You may ready my blue day-dress,” May said. “And I wish to speak with the wet nurse as soon as she’s available.”
Abbot curtsied. “Very good, Your Grace.”
A half hour later, May was dressed and presentable, if not altogether prepared for the day ahead. She made her way down the stairs, her slippers whispering over the marble, and tried not to think about the hundreds of eyes the gossip sheets had conjured into her home.
She found the nursery with its door slightly ajar, a patch of sunlight spreading over the wood. Inside, the wet nurse stood beside the cradle, rocking gently as she crooned a wordless tune to the sleeping infant.
May lingered in the doorway. “Good morning.”
The nurse jumped a little, then smiled, recovering quickly. “Good morning, Your Grace.” She had warm eyes and plump, rosy cheeks—just the sort of woman May’s mother would have trusted with an infant’s immortal soul.
May peered into the crib, more to delay speaking than out of interest. The baby lay sprawled, mouth open, arms flung wide in a pose of heroic abandon. He looked smaller than he had in the night, when he’d seemed a creature capable of waking the entire city. “You moved him,” May said, not quite accusing.
The nurse’s smile became uncertain. “Yes, Your Grace. I thought… I thought you might sleep better knowing he was near.”
May’s mind went blank. “Why would you think that?”
The woman flushed, and for the first time, May noticed the way the hands twisted in the folds of her apron. “I thought it might help you feel more at home, Your Grace.”
May could not have spoken if she tried. “Is he sleeping well?” she managed, after an awkward pause.
“Oh, yes,” the nurse replied. “He is a darling, truly. Barely fusses at all, except for last night.”
May nodded, unsure what else to say. “Very well then.”
May left, feeling as though she had blundered a diplomatic interview. She wished Logan had left a note, or at least given her a warning. Instead, she was by herself, and now the entire servants presumed she was overcome with maternal longing.
The thought was so ridiculous it almost made her laugh.
She arrived at breakfast to find the table set for one.
Mr. Bexley awaited her, standing so stiffly at the sideboard that his posture threatened to snap his spine. “Good morning, Your Grace.”
“Good morning, Bexley. Is the Duke at home?”
The butler’s face arranged itself into an impassive mask. “His Grace rode out early this morning, Your Grace. He said he would return before luncheon.”
Of course he did.
May sat and poured herself tea, eyeing the selection of rolls, jam, and fruit with the disinterest of someone who had not truly tasted food in days.
“Will the Duke have guests this afternoon?” she asked.
“I am not certain, Your Grace. I shall inquire if you wish it.”
May shook her head. “No, thank you. That will be all.”
Bexley vanished with the speed of someone who had long ago mastered the art of melting into the background.
May spread butter on a roll, then set it down without taking a bite.
So, the great experiment of marriage had begun. And already, the rules were shifting beneath her feet.
She pictured Logan out riding, his hair wind-blown, his entire person vibrating with freedom. Not a care for the baby, or the household, or the expectations that pressed in from all sides. She envied him, even as she resented it.
She resolved, there and then, that she would not give thetonthe satisfaction of a secondhand misery. She would bear it, and she would do it beautifully, and if anyone asked, she would say she adored every minute of her new life.
At least one of them should be happy.
