Page 60 of Duke of Iron
A lump rose in May’s throat. She swallowed, hard.
Logan adjusted the baby, tucking the blanket more securely. “You’ll grow, and you’ll make your own trouble. Maybe by then, someone will have figured out who you really are.”
He sounded tired. More than tired—worn, as if he had been fighting the world and found it was an opponent that never slept.
“I’m not your father,” he told the baby. “But I’ll make sure you are safe, at least. That’s all I can promise.”
May knew she should go, but her legs would not obey. She stared, heart pounding, as Logan rocked the baby and let his head drop forward, just for a moment. The line of his back was tense, but there was a gentleness in the way he touched the child, a care that belied all his protestations.
She wondered what it must be like to hold a secret in your arms and know you had to live with it, day after day.
A sound escaped her, unintentional—a tiny scuff of slipper on the waxed floor. Logan looked up, eyes sharp and clear, and for a moment, she thought he would call her out for spying.
Instead, he only said, “Duchess.”
She blinked. “Duke.”
He stood, careful not to wake the baby, and laid him in the cradle. The room seemed smaller than before.
“I thought I heard him crying,” May said, searching for a plausible excuse.
“He was. But he’s stopped now.” Logan brushed a hand over the baby’s head, then straightened and regarded her. “He’s to be called William. Or so I am told.”
May moved closer, peering down at the sleeping face. “William is a very proper name for such a small person.”
Logan looked at her. “It is a very proper name for a child, who I am told, is to inherit everything I have.”
She frowned. “He’s still only a baby. He cannot help what he is called.”
“No. He cannot.”
There was a silence, not quite comfortable, not quite tense.
She nudged the rabbit closer to the infant. “I still like Rydal better. It suits him.”
Logan shrugged. “Call him what you like. He seems to answer only to chaos.”
May smiled, looking from the child to the Duke and back again. “He has your eyes, you know.”
Logan stiffened. “Does he?”
She shrugged, feeling suddenly foolish. “I suppose all babies do. They are born with gray eyes, I’ve heard. They change with time.”
He said nothing, just watched her, his face unreadable.
May felt her cheeks heat. She stepped back, clearing her throat. “I’ll leave you to your… nap,” she said to the baby. “And to your peace and quiet, Duke.”
He inclined his head. “Thank you, Duchess.”
She turned and left the nursery, closing the door gently behind her. It was only as she reached the bottom of the stairs that she realized her hands were shaking.
They looked so alike. But that meant nothing. Babes looked like everyone and no one at all.
Eighteen
May’s hand froze halfway to her mouth, a spoonful of clear soup quivering in midair. She stared as the Duke of Irondale strode into the dining room, not two beats behind the butler’s announcement.
He was not supposed to be here. Not at dinner, and certainly not at seven o’clock sharp. For four nights running, he had left her to the silent parade of courses and the rare company of Mrs. Paxton, who would sometimes perch at the far end of the table and offer gentle observations about the state of the house’s linen or the history of the rare roast.
