Page 87 of Duke of Iron
Logan frowned. “What is it you want?”
Mr. Beamond stared at his hands for a long time. “We would like to raise the boy. As our own. You and your Duchess may visit as often as you wish, of course, but… but we are old, and we have nothing left but this. We would like a second chance.”
Logan did not answer immediately. He felt the words settle on him, heavy as lead.
“I had not considered,” Logan said, “that you would want him. Most men?—”
“Most men are fools,” Mr. Beamond replied.
Logan thought of the baby, of his wide eyes and grasping hands, of the way he slept only when May sang him lullabies in her dreadful soprano.
He realized, with a cold jolt, that he did not want to let the child go.
But then he thought of May, and the future she might have if not chained to the scandal of another man’s bastard. He thought of how she had agreed to stay only because of the baby, not for Logan’s own sake, and how he was depriving her of the very freedom he had promised.
He swallowed, hard. “I appreciate the offer,” he said. “But I must decline.”
Mr. Beamond’s mouth twisted. “Is it pride, Your Grace? Or revenge?”
Logan considered. “Neither,” he said. “It is only… I cannot give him up. Not yet.”
The older man nodded, accepting the answer with a resignation that bordered on relief.
They returned to the parlor, where Mrs. Beamond had Rydal asleep on her lap, the rabbit tucked under his chin. She looked at Logan, then at her husband, and said, “Did you tell him?”
Mr. Beamond nodded.
She pressed her lips together. “Very well. We will not press the matter.”
Logan took the baby gently from her arms and settled him against his chest. The small weight felt like an anchor. “Thank you,” he said, meaning it more than he expected.
Mrs. Beamond rose, smoothing her skirt. “You are welcome to visit any time. Both of you.”
Logan nodded, and after the customary farewells, let himself out.
The carriage ride home was silent except for the baby’s breathing. Logan stared out the window, letting the city blur past. He felt as though he had lost something, though he could not have said what.
He wondered what May would think when he told her. Would she be relieved? Disappointed? Would she mourn the life she might have had, if not for the accident of one infant and the mistakes of so many adults?
Logan thought of her, the sharp wit and the ridiculous spectacles, the way she never gave up on anything—least of all him. He remembered the night she had confronted Lady Kitty and Lady Christie, the fierce look in her eye, and realized he had never wanted anyone as badly as he wanted her.
He did not know what to do with the wanting. He did not trust it. He had seen what love could do to men—how it hollowed them out, made them weak and desperate. He had sworn, as a boy, never to let himself need anyone so badly.
He looked down at the baby, sleeping now, one hand curled around Logan’s finger.
This is how it starts, he thought.You promise yourself it is only for a little while. You tell yourself you are in control. And then, one day, you realize you are not in control at all.
He wondered if he should let the Beamonds take Rydal. If it would be better for everyone in the end. If it was the only way to keep the world from falling in on itself, as it always seemed to do.
But when the carriage pulled up to Irondale House, and the servants came running to take the baby and his things, Logan found he could not let go.
He carried the child inside, up the stairs, and into the nursery, where Miss Hall was waiting with fresh linen and a look of utter surprise. “You brought him back,” she said, as if she had half expected the baby to be gone forever.
Logan grunted. “He belongs here. For now.”
He watched as she settled Rydal in his cradle, then turned to go. As he descended the stairs, he wondered if May was home yet. He wondered what she would say when he told her everything.
Logan wondered, not for the first time, if he was becoming the man he had always despised.
