“May I Eat What You Didn’t Finish?” My Son Asks the Cold Duke—Unaware He’s His Father

Chapter 4

Julian Blackwood rose before dawn the next morning. He had tried to read in the library after Mrs. Hale left him, but the words would not hold still. Every page blurred into the same three sensations — the brush of her fingers, the guarded lift of her chin, and the strange ache he had felt when she looked back at him from the doorway.

Not common.

He had said it without thinking, and it troubled him more than it should have. Because she was not common. She was the woman who had once laughed in the orchard while stealing apples, who had sung old kitchen songs in a voice that made the whole estate feel less lonely, who had looked at him — the heir to a dukedom — as though he were simply a boy she loved.

And then she had vanished.

He went to the stables, where horses made better company than memories. Steam rose from his black gelding’s flanks as a groom led him out. Julian rested one gloved hand on the stall door, listening to the soft stamp of hooves, when a small voice broke the quiet.

“I came to thank you for the plate.”

Julian turned. The boy from the dining room stood in the stable entrance, wearing a coat neatly mended at the elbows. A piece of straw clung to his left eyebrow. His boots told a different story — cracked leather, worn thin at the toes, held together by stubbornness and poverty.

“You’re up early,” Julian said.

“Mama says gratitude should not be lazy.” Sam’s eyes were already drifting with fascination toward the horses. “She has many rules. Some are better than others.”

“Did you eat?”

“Yes, sir. Mama ate the apple because I held it very close to her mouth and looked disappointed until she did.”

“That seems effective.”

“It is.” Sam’s chest puffed out with cheerful confidence. “She is very strong about everything except disappointing me.”

There was no complaint in his voice. Only the quiet certainty of a child who knew exactly how deeply he was loved. Julian had never heard a boy speak of his mother as though she were a country worth defending with his whole heart.

Sam’s gaze wandered over Julian — polished boots, dark coat, the faint scar along his jaw — before returning to the horses. “Do dukes ever get lonely?”

The question struck with such disarming precision that for one absurd second, Julian almost answered honestly. Instead, he said, “Dukes are often too occupied to consider it.”

Sam looked unimpressed. “That sounds like yes, but with longer words.”

Before Julian could recover, a sharp voice cut through the morning air.

“Samuel Hale.”

The boy’s shoulders jumped. Rowan stood at the stable arch, one hand braced against the damp stone, breathing a little too quickly. Her cap was pinned firmly in place, her expression a careful mask of composure — but she crossed the yard with urgent steps, as though every second her son spent near Julian was a risk she couldn’t afford.

“My apologies, your grace.” She dipped a curtsy. “My son has mistaken gratitude for permission to wander.”

“It is a common error among the grateful,” Julian replied.

Her eyes flicked up to his, startled. For a beat, something like shared amusement hovered between them before she looked away. “I will make sure it does not happen again.”

Sam’s face fell, and Julian felt it like a stone in his own chest. “There is no harm done,” he said quickly. “He was merely thanking me for the plate.”

Rowan’s fingers tightened around her son’s shoulder. The fear in her posture was unmistakable now — the way she positioned herself slightly in front of Sam, as though Julian might reach out and take something she could not afford to lose.

It puzzled him. He had not threatened them. He had fed the boy. Yet this woman looked at his kindness as if it were a blade she didn’t know how to dodge.

When she turned to leave, Julian spoke before caution could stop him. “Mrs. Hale.”

She halted.

“His boot is coming apart.”

Color flooded her cheeks, swift and painful. “I know.”

The quiet dignity in those two words struck him hard. Of course, she knew. She knew every worn seam and empty pocket. She had counted every penny and stretched every meal. This was not news to her — it was the weight she carried every day.

“There is a cobbler in the village,” Julian said, softening his tone. “Send the account to the abbey.”

Her chin lifted. “That is generous, your grace. But unnecessary.”

“I know generous things rarely come without strings.” He held her gaze. “But this one does. No cost. Just boots.”

She looked at him directly then, and whatever she meant to say seemed to catch in her throat. Then Sam tugged her hand.

“Mama, if the Duke buys me boots, does that mean my feet are aristocratic now?”

Rowan closed her eyes. A faint, helpless smile tugged at her lips. “No, my love. Only warm.”

Julian turned toward the horse to hide the smile he had no wish to explain.