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

Chapter 6

Lady Rosalind Vance did not like competition. She had spent three seasons cultivating the Duke of Ashford’s attention, two of them while he was absent from London and unable to deflect her letters. She had arrived at Northwood Abbey with her father, fully expecting to leave as the next Duchess.

But a servant’s son had somehow become the center of the Duke’s world.

“Your son is becoming quite visible in the house,” Rosalind remarked, accepting her tea from Rowan’s steady hands.

“I apologize if he has disturbed you, my lady.”

“Oh, not me.” A delicate sip. “His grace seems rather entertained.”

Lord Vance lowered his paper a fraction. “Children do have a way of attaching themselves to power when taught early.”

The words were mild, practically conversational. Yet they landed exactly where intended. Rowan steadied her hands. “Sam attaches himself to kindness, my lord. He is still young enough to mistake it for safety.”

A brief silence followed. Lord Vance offered a small, polite smile that did not reach his eyes. “Hale,” he murmured as though tasting the name. “You have served in this county before.”

“Here and there, my lord.”

“Your cap is crooked, Mrs. Hale,” Rosalind said.

The cap was not crooked. Rowan knew because she had pinned it carefully that morning to hide every strand of her hair beneath it. But she straightened it anyway, because arguing with a guest was a luxury she could not afford.

When she left the room, Lord Vance watched the door close behind her. From the library came the bright sound of Sam’s laughter — Julian had apparently lost a rook.

Rosalind’s mouth tightened. “That child is becoming entirely too familiar.”

“So he is,” Lord Vance said softly. “You will speak to Julian. In time.”

In the days that followed, Northwood Abbey changed in ways no one expected. The portraits still frowned. The corridors still carried drafts. Julian still wore black and spoke more often in commands than requests. But Sam’s presence moved through the house like a small, persistent bell.

He made the scullery maid laugh so hard she sat down on a flour sack. He asked Mrs. Vale whether dukes were born knowing where all their rooms were, “or if they required maps as babies.” And Julian began answering.

“No, dukes are not born with maps.”

“Then how do they avoid getting lost?”

“They do not always.”

Sam absorbed this with sympathy. “I can draw you one.”

The map Sam later presented was a masterpiece of six-year-old logic. The kitchen. The library. The stables. Three suspected secret tunnels. And a large warning near the drawing room that read: “Lady Rosalind may be here.”

Julian stared at it for a moment. Then, to Rowan’s astonishment, he let out a low, genuine laugh — rough at the edges, as if the sound had grown rusty from disuse.

Sam’s entire face lit up with pure delight. Then Julian folded the map and tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat, close to his heart.

That small gesture lodged in Rowan’s chest like a splinter she could not pull free.