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

Chapter 5

After that morning, Sam fell in love with Northwood Abbey the way other children fell for dragons and secret maps. Rowan fought it with every ounce of her strength, assigning him endless pantry tasks and threatening turnip duty with all the conviction she could muster. Sam listened with solemn nods and vanished at the first opportunity, drawn like a moth to every corner of the great house.

He thanked the scullery maids for hot water. He thanked the boot boy for showing him where the mice held their secret races. He declared soup far superior when it contained “things that needed rescuing from the bottom” — earning himself an extra carrot and the cook’s reluctant affection. But what won the servants’ hearts was how fiercely he loved his mother. He pushed bread into her hands when she forgot to eat. He warmed her cramped fingers between his small palms. And when another maid sneered about “the widow with no ring,” Sam appeared at Rowan’s side, asking with grave politeness whether the woman had lost something kind from her mouth.

Rowan did not scold him until they were alone in the pantry.

“You must not fight my battles, sweetheart.”

Sam frowned. “But you fight mine.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?” His small face was earnest, unyielding. “I am your son. You are my mother.”

The simple words undid her. She pulled her son close, pressing her face into his dark curls, breathing through the ache. She feared more than anything what Northwood might teach him next.

Julian also began appearing in places where he had no need to be. The first time, Sam nearly collided with the Duke’s legs while racing around a corner. Julian caught him by the back of his coat, saving both boy and a precarious tower of clean linens.

“Why are you running?” Julian asked.

“I was being pursued.” Sam panted. “By a goose. In my imagination.”

Julian’s mouth twitched. “A formidable enemy.”

“The worst kind,” Sam agreed. “It knows all my plans.”

The second time, Julian found Sam in the library, perched halfway up a ladder, reaching with fearless ambition for a high shelf of old romances and knightly tales. Rowan arrived moments later, breathless, only to find Julian standing directly beneath the boy, one arm raised protectively in case he slipped.

Exasperation and amusement warred across the Duke’s usually impassive face.

“Sam,” Rowan said, voice tight. “Why are you on the library ladder?”

Sam looked down as if the answer were obvious. “Mama needs a knight. Not a real one —” he glanced at Julian, “— because they are expensive and probably muddy. A book one. For stories.”

Julian reached up without hesitation. “Give me your hand, Sam.”

Sam hesitated only a second — dignity versus rescue — before trusting Julian’s grip. Julian guided him down gently, and the boy studied him with open curiosity, as though the Duke had already become part of his small world.

“You should not climb without help,” Julian told him, voice gruff but warm.

“Then you may help next time,” Sam replied cheerfully.

Julian reached up and took down the red-bound volume Sam had been angling for — a collection of Arthurian legends. Sam accepted it with wonder.

“Thank you, sir. I will guard it with my life and only let her read it when she looks tired.”

Rowan covered her face with one hand.

From that moment on, the library became their quiet sanctuary. Julian declared that if Sam insisted on invading, he might as well learn something useful. He taught the boy chess at a small table near the rain-streaked window, his patience surprising even himself. Sam threw himself into the game with gleeful abandon. He gave every piece a personality, muttered darkly that the bishops “sneaked like gossiping footmen,” and fell head over heels for the knights because they were “allowed to jump dramatically and rescue everyone.”

One afternoon, Julian gently corrected a move. “The queen cannot rescue everyone at once.”

Sam looked deeply betrayed. “Why not? She’s the strongest piece.”

“Because even queens must choose.”

“That seems unfair.”

“It often is,” Julian said, and something in his voice made Rowan, who had paused at the edge of the room with a tea tray, feel her heart crack wide open.

She had only meant to pass through. Instead, she stood frozen, watching her son kneel on a chair opposite the Duke, dark curls catching the sunlight, his entire face alive with concentration and trust. Julian spoke to him with a low, patient rumble she had never heard him use with anyone else. It was unbearable — not because it was wrong, but because it looked so achingly right.

Sam had never had a man look at him with quiet pride. Never had anyone lower their voice to explain something difficult instead of brushing him aside. And Julian — the man who had once shattered her world — was looking at her son as if he mattered.

When Julian lifted his eyes and saw her standing there, the air between them tightened until it hurt to breathe. For one suspended heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Then Lady Rosalind’s voice sliced through from the sitting room, cool and precise. “Mrs. Hale, the tea grows no warmer while you admire the carpet.”

Rowan’s cheeks burned. She dipped her head and carried the tray inside.