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

Chapter 7

Three nights later, a storm rolled over Northwood after supper, shaking rain against the windows. Rowan had just finished folding linens when Mrs. Vale pressed a stack into her arms.

“Library. His grace asked for cloths. The west window is leaking again.”

Rowan’s stomach twisted. “Could someone else—”

“No.” Mrs. Vale’s voice was gentle but firm. “Everyone else is carrying hot water, fetching candles, or calming Lady Rosalind’s maid, who believes thunder is a personal insult. Quickly now.”

The library was half dark when Rowan entered, lit only by the fire and two low lamps. Rain lashed the tall windows in silver ropes. Julian stood near the leaking sill in shirtsleeves, forearms bare, pressing a cloth against the wood.

The sight of him — less duke, more man — stopped her cold in the doorway.

He turned. “Mrs. Hale.”

“I brought the linens.” She crossed the room on legs that felt unsteady, setting the stack on the table, painfully aware of every rustle of fabric, every beat of her traitorous heart.

He had no right to look this good in firelight. Dark hair slightly loosened. The scar along his jaw catching the glow. She remembered that jaw beneath her hand. Remembered his breath against her mouth. Remembered the shock of him saying, “Lilia, I am tired of pretending I do not love you.”

She reached for the wet cloths too quickly.

Julian’s hand covered hers. “Careful. There may be glass.”

She froze. The contact was warm and sure. He released her almost immediately, but the air between them had already shifted.

“I am careful,” she said. “I’ve had to be.”

Thunder rolled. The window rattled in its frame. Julian picked up a dry cloth and pressed it along the sill.

“You fear me.”

“You answer too quickly, and you ask too bluntly.”

That faint, reluctant smile touched his mouth again.

Rowan should have stepped back. Instead, she remained by the window, close enough to feel the warmth of him, close enough that the years between them seemed thinner than the rain on the glass.

“I do not fear you,” she whispered. “I fear what happens around men like you.”

His expression shifted. Not anger. Not offense. But a flicker of hurt. “Men like me?”

“Powerful men. Men who can be kind one moment and ruin a woman the next, without ever learning what it cost her.”

Julian looked at her for a long time, rain whispering down the panes. His gaze moved over her face, searching in a way that felt far too intimate for a duke and a servant.

“Who ruined you?” he asked softly.

The question pierced straight through her. Rowan turned away, gathering the wet cloths with hands that refused to steady. “No one of consequence.”

“I doubt that.”

She looked back despite her better judgment. He stood close now, firelight carving shadows across his face, his blue eyes darker and more troubled than she had ever seen them. No polished charm. No calculated seduction. Only something honest and unguarded that made her heart stutter.

“I look at you,” he continued slowly, “and I feel I ought to remember why you’re angry with me.”

Rowan could not breathe. Her fingers tightened around the damp linen until cold water seeped into her skin.

“Perhaps,” she managed, “you are accustomed to women being angry with you.”

“No. Not like this.” He stepped closer — not enough to trap her, only enough that she had to tilt her face up to keep his gaze. He had always been careful that way, even when young, even when desire had made them both reckless.

His eyes dropped briefly to her mouth.

Rowan forgot the storm altogether. For one heartbeat, the library was gone, and she was Lilia again, trembling in the orchard, hearing him confess the impossible.

Then the library door burst open.

Sam swept in, wearing a blanket around his shoulders like a royal cape, one corner dragging through a small puddle. “Mama,” he announced dramatically, “thunder is very rude.”

Rowan jerked back so quickly she nearly knocked over the linens. Julian closed his eyes for a brief second. When he opened them, genuine amusement softened his features as he took in the boy’s makeshift coronation attire.

Sam looked between them with bright suspicion. “Were you arguing?”

“No,” Rowan said quickly.

“Yes,” Julian answered at the same time.

Sam nodded wisely. “That means yes. Mama does that too, when she is pretending she is not cross.”

Rowan pressed her hand to her forehead, torn between exasperation and affection. “Why are you not in bed, Sam?”

“Because the sky shouted at me. It should learn some manners.”

Julian crouched to wipe the puddle Sam’s blanket had left, still chuckling softly. “The sky rarely listens, I am afraid.”

Sam watched him with open admiration.

“Come.” Rowan took Sam’s hand. “Back to bed.”

Sam allowed himself to be led away, but not before calling over his shoulder, “If thunder bothers you, your grace, you may borrow part of my blanket. It is very brave.”

Julian’s quiet laugh followed them down the corridor — warm and unexpected, lingering in the air like a promise Rowan was not ready to hear.