Page 90 of Duke of Iron
She left the room, feeling his gaze all the way out.
May did not go to her chambers. She went instead to the nursery, where she found Miss Hall asleep on a little chair, head tilted and mouth open, the picture of exhausted virtue. The lamps had been dimmed, but enough moonlight spilled through the window to show the outline of the cot.
May tiptoed across the rug, peering down at the baby. Rydal slept, hands curled into fists above his head, expression impossibly peaceful. In sleep, he looked less like a duke’s problem and more like a promise.
She reached down and smoothed the edge of the blanket. Rydal stirred, but did not wake.
For a moment, May just watched him breathe. Then, on impulse, she picked him up—very gently, as if he might shatter in her arms. He weighed nothing at all, but he was warm and solid, and his cheek pressed against her collarbone with perfect trust.
May sat in the rocker, cradling him. She wondered what it would feel like to hold her own child. She wondered if it would be different, or if all babies felt the same in the crook of one’s arm—hopeful, terrifying, altogether real.
She startled herself with the thought, and nearly laughed. “Not yet,” she whispered to the sleeping boy. “I can barely manage myself.”
Still, she held him for a long time, until her arms went numb and the room began to blur. When at last she stood and put him back in the cot, she bent and kissed his cheek.
“Sleep well,” she whispered, “little duke.”
She tiptoed out, pausing at the door to look back. Rydal was still, the moonlight painting him in silver.
May closed the door softly and pressed her palm to her heart.
She wondered if she had just made a promise, without even knowing it.
“I do not care if Lady Featherstone never speaks to me again,” May said, addressing the pile of ivory cards as if it contained the whole of the ton’s collective judgement. “Let her send all the pointed refusals she wishes. I am through with making myself pitiable for the sake of tradition.”
April snorted from across the table, where she had taken over the arrangement of small blue envelopes and wax seals. “It is very well to say so now, darling, but what will you do when she arrives at your party anyway, in her hideous peacock feathers, and pretends you are her dearest friend?”
“Trip her down the garden path,” May replied. She licked the tip of her pencil, considered her wording, and wrote, “It is my dearest wish that you join us for an afternoon of gentle company and absolutely no theatrics.” She underlined ‘no theatrics’ twice.
June, perched on the windowsill with her legs tucked under her, giggled. “They say you are hosting the most mysterious event of the Season. Every lady in London is desperate to be invited. I think your power has gone to your head.”
May pursed her lips, ignoring the laughter. “They are desperate for the free ices, not for my company. And the power is not nearly as satisfying as it is rumored to be.”
April looked up, hands stilling over the neat row of invitations. “Why are you doing this, then? You never wanted to compete for the ton’s affections. You have always said it was a waste of spirit.”
May set her pencil down, smoothing the stack of cards. “Because if I do not, I will have nothing left. I have tried hiding. It only makes them hungrier. Let them talk. I shall give them something worth their gossip, as Logan always says.”
June yawned and stretched, casting a shadow over the invitation table. “He does say that. Usually, after doing something scandalous.”
May did not rise to the bait. “If I am to be infamous, I will do it on my terms.”
April grinned. “That is more like it. The May I know.” She signed her name with a flourish on an envelope and said, “Have you decided on the menu for the party?”
May reached into the side drawer and drew out a folded note. “I have, in fact. There is a new pastry chef I wish to hire. She works at the little tea shop on Bond Street—Penelope, the girl with the absurdly long braid. She makes the best orange scones I have ever tasted.”
June’s eyebrows soared. “You are recruiting from tea shops, now? What would Mother say?”
“She would say it is beneath my dignity, and then she would taste the scones and change her mind,” May replied.
April clapped her hands. “I adore her already. Is she coming to the party?”
May nodded, a small thrill running through her. “I asked her to prepare the sweets. If the event goes well, I shall offer her a position as full-time baker for the estate. Rydal may grow up to have a dreadful sweet tooth.”
June looked at her over the rim of the teacup. “You are speaking as if you will be there. For the growing up.”
May froze for a half-beat, then forced a shrug. “He is my brother-in-law. Someone ought to look after him.”
The sisters exchanged a look that May chose not to interpret.
