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

Chapter 3

Rowan spent the next hour working like a woman trying to outrun her own thoughts. She scrubbed platters until her hands burned, scoured pots until the copper gleamed, and did not allow herself to think about the letter. Or the orchard. Or the way Julian’s voice had once sounded when he said her real name.

The footman appeared at the kitchen door at half past nine. “His grace will see you now.”

Sam looked up from the pantry bench, cheeks full of bread, eyes wide with alarm. “Mama—”

“Stay with Mrs. Vale.” Rowan crossed to him and smoothed his hair with hands she forced steady. “I’ll be back soon.”

“If he’s cross, tell him the potatoes were my idea.”

“I suspect he already knows.” She bent and kissed his forehead, breathing in the familiar warmth of him. “Eat your bread. Be good.”

The library waited at the end of a corridor lined with grim portraits. Even as a girl, Rowan had felt judged by their painted eyes — as though every dead duke knew exactly how foolish she had been for loving above her station. Tonight they seemed particularly smug.

The footman opened the door and withdrew.

Julian stood by the fire, one arm braced against the mantle, his black coat severe against the golden light. On the desk beside him waited a plate — fresh bread, cheese, sliced apple, a wedge of pie.

“Not leftovers,” he said without preamble. “Fresh food. For the boy.”

Rowan’s throat tightened. “That is unnecessary, your grace.”

His gaze moved over her face with unsettling attention. “Children rarely ask strangers for food unless they’ve gone without too many times already.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. “Sam should not have disturbed your guests.”

“No.” Julian’s voice softened. “He should not have needed to.”

Rowan looked away, fixing her eyes on the fire. “It was a mistake. He is young. He does not understand—”

“He asked if I liked potatoes.” A pause. “You called him Sam.”

The words fell like stones into still water. Rowan felt the ripples spread outward, touching everything she had tried to bury.

“His name is Samuel,” she said carefully.

“Samuel.” Julian repeated it as though tasting the syllables. “And you go by Mrs. Hale now.”

“Yes, your grace.”

His eyes held hers. “Not Lilia.”

The pause stretched. The fire crackled. Far below, Sam’s bright laughter drifted up from the kitchens — a sound so pure and careless that it made the silence in the library feel like a held breath.

“Forgive me,” Rowan said at last. “You reminded me of someone.”

“You reminded me of someone, too.”

The admission hung between them, raw and unguarded. Rowan’s heart stuttered. She had not expected him to admit it so openly, had not prepared herself for the crack in his voice when he said it.

“A common enough face, perhaps,” she managed.

“Not common.”

The fire popped. A log settled in the grate. Julian’s gaze dropped to her hands, red from scrubbing, the nails bitten short, the fingers calloused from work she had never done when she was the steward’s daughter.

“Did you eat today, Mrs. Hale?”

The question was so unexpected that Rowan’s composure nearly cracked. “Yes,” she lied.

His eyes narrowed. But he said nothing. Instead, he reached for the plate, wrapped it carefully in a linen cloth, and held it out to her.

Their fingers brushed when she took it. The contact lasted less than a second, but Rowan felt the shock of it through her whole arm — her body recognizing what her heart had spent years trying to deny.

Julian’s hand stilled. His gaze dropped to their joined fingers, then lifted slowly to her face, dark and unguarded.

Rowan pulled away first. Survival had taught her to be the one who let go.

“Good night, your grace.”

She reached the door before his voice followed her. “If your son is hungry again, he is not to ask for scraps.”

Her fingers tightened around the plate.

“No,” Julian continued, “he can ask the kitchen for a proper meal. And if anyone refuses him, he can come to me.”

Rowan closed her eyes for half a breath. It was too much. Too kind. Too exactly the sort of thing the boy she had loved would have said.

“You should be careful, your grace.”

“Of what?”

She looked back then, unable to stop herself. “Sam becomes attached to people who feed him.”

A ghost of a smile touched Julian’s lips. Faint. Reluctant. But real.

“Then I shall consider myself warned.”

Rowan left the library with the plate held tightly in both hands and her heart beating hard enough to hurt.

In the kitchen, Sam accepted the food with wide-eyed wonder. He immediately held up a slice of apple to her lips. “Your turn, Mama.”

Rowan stared at him.

“A boy should not go hungry,” Sam beamed, “but neither should a mama.”