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

Chapter 8

The next day, Julian did not seek Rowan out directly. Instead, his attention moved through the house like a quiet tide.

Sturdy new boots arrived for Sam by noon — black leather, sensible soles, the kind a boy could run in without fear of cold mud. A basket of wool, broth, and medicine appeared near Mrs. Fletcher’s room. When the cook grumbled about suddenly ordering enough apples for a regiment, Mrs. Vale only shrugged.

“His grace has discovered fruit.”

Rowan told herself not to soften. Sam, of course, had no such defenses. He strutted through the kitchen in his boots with such pride that even the scullery maid applauded.

“They make me taller,” he announced, standing on tiptoe for evidence.

“They make you louder,” Mrs. Vale observed.

“It is useful for emergencies.”

“What emergencies?”

“If Mama forgets to eat, I can march until she remembers.”

Rowan looked up from the dough she was kneading, her heart twisting. “Sam—”

He gave her his most innocent smile. “I am only planning ahead.”

Across the kitchen, warm laughter broke out. Sam beamed at everyone, then immediately tried to carry a basket nearly as large as himself, convinced new boots demanded new responsibilities.

Rowan watched him and felt tenderness tangle with dread. Every kindness from Julian made Sam brighter. Every smile from her son made the truth more perilous. He did not yet understand that a duke’s attention could warm a room one moment and burn a life down the next.

That evening, the house party grew restless. Rain had trapped the guests indoors for two days, and society, when confined, tended to sharpen its teeth. There were cards in the drawing room, music in the morning room, and laughter that turned thin whenever a servant came too near.

Rowan kept to the lower corridors, her cap pinned low, her hands full, her head down. She had nearly succeeded in becoming invisible when she passed the half-open breakfast room and heard Lady Rosalind’s voice drift out, polished and sweet.

“It is admirable how generous his grace has become. I had not realized the kitchens were now a charitable institution.”

A woman laughed. Rowan kept walking.

Then Rosalind added, “Though one must wonder whether certain widows arrive with hungry children by accident — or by strategy.”

Rowan’s feet stopped before pride could force them onward. Inside the room, china clicked softly. That was the cruelty of it. They did not think the remark shocking. They thought it clever.

Rowan moved again, slower this time, because running would only prove she had been wounded.

At the turn of the corridor, she found Sam standing very still, a folded napkin clutched in his small hands, his face pale.

“Mama, what is strategy?”

For one moment, Rowan wished with a ferocity that frightened her that the abbey would split apart and swallow every elegant room whole.

“It means planning,” she said carefully. “Did we plan to be hungry?”

“No.”

“Did we plan for Mrs. Fletcher to cough?”

“No, my love.”

Sam frowned, thinking hard. “Then Lady Rosalind used the word wrong.”

Rowan managed a small, aching smile. “Some people do that on purpose.”

Sam considered this gravely. “That is worse than spelling wrong.” He leaned in and whispered as if sharing state secrets. “I do not like her.”

“You do not have to like everyone.”

“Good. I was worried.”

Rowan pressed her lips together, then kissed his forehead. “Go help Mrs. Vale count spoons.”

Sam accepted this mission and went, though he glanced back twice to be sure she was still standing. Rowan waited until he disappeared before letting her smile fall.

Behind her, somewhere beyond the open room, a man’s voice spoke softly. “You carry insult better than most people carry praise, Mrs. Hale.”

She turned. Lord Vance stood in the corridor, one hand resting on his walking stick, his face composed into an expression of mild concern.

Rowan curtsied because habit was sometimes stronger than disgust. “My lord.”

“I meant no offense,” he clarified.

“Then you were careless.”

His eyes flickered with warning. “Careful, Mrs. Hale. One does not rise in a house like this by speaking sharply to guests.”

“I have never risen anywhere by being silent either.”

His smile returned — small and controlled. “No, I imagine not.” He looked at her so intently that she felt twelve years old again, standing beside her father while Lord Vance spoke to the old duke about accounts.

“Your father was steward here once, was he not?”

The corridor narrowed around her. Rowan kept her face blank. “Many men have held many posts here, my lord.”

“Indeed.” His gaze moved over her cap. “Memory can be such an unreliable servant.”

“So can curiosity.”

This time, his smile reached neither cheek nor eye. “Then we must both hope neither becomes troublesome.”

He bowed and continued past her toward the drawing room.