Page 25 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

“Blanche, hush!” Fanny hissed, her face burning hot.

“I will not hush! You were kissed by the most dangerous Duke in England!” Blanche insisted, bouncing on her knees. “Was it horrible? Was it cold? Did he kiss you like a contract?”

“No,” Fanny admitted softly, the truth slipping out before she could stop it. Her fingers lifted unconsciously to touch her lower lip, which still felt faintly tender. “It was… demanding. Possessive. He lost his temper because I challenged him about the children, and before I could even draw breath, he… he pushed me against an oak tree.”

Blanche’s jaw dropped. “Fanny!”

“It was not romantic, Blanche,” Fanny added quickly, trying to anchor her own chaotic thoughts. “It was a battle of wills. He wanted to silence me. He wanted to prove that he possessed the power in our relationship. And the moment it was over, he pulled away, masked his face in stone, and walked off without a single word of apology.”

“But he lost control,” Blanche pointed out, her eyes sparkling with romantic intrigue. “A man who claims to be made of ice and iron lost his temper and kissed you senseless in broad daylight. That means something, Fanny. He isn’t as indifferent to you as he pretends to be.”

“It means he is volatile and accustomed to taking what he wants,” Fanny countered firmly, shaking her head. “I will not waste my time dreaming of softening a stone, Blanche. I do not care about becoming the grandest duchess in London, nor do I care to win his cold heart.”

She stood up from her vanity, stepping toward the window and looking out into the quiet night. Her reflection in the glass showed a woman no longer willing to be swept away by foolish expectations.

“I am entering that house for one reason only,” Fanny whispered, her voice filled with quiet, unbreakable determination. “Those three children need someone who actually sees them. The Duke of Hilgrove may command the estate, but I will give those children a home. I will be the best mother I can be to them, and that is the only vow that matters.”

The smell of old wood, beeswax, and damp stone hung heavily in the quiet chapel.

Sunlight filtered weakly through the stained-glass windows, casting long, muted shadows across the empty pews. It was an understated affair—devoid of the grand crowds, flowering archways, or lingering glances typical of a Society wedding. Aside from the vicar, the only witnesses were Lysander’s aunt, Fanny’s mother and sister, and his three children, who sat quietly in the front row under their nanny’s watchful eye.

Lysander stood by the altar, adjusting his dark cuffs. His tailored coat fit immaculately across his shoulders, his boots polished to a mirror shine, yet his posture remained rigid. He kept his shoulders set, his jaw locked in its familiar iron mask.

Then, the soft rustle of silk against stone heralded her arrival.

Fanny walked down the narrow aisle, supported by a distant uncle. She wore an elegant gown of ivory silk, simple in cut, free of unnecessary frills or heavy embellishments. As she drew nearer, Lysander’s gray eyes followed her. The high collar of her dress framed the long curve of her neck, and her dark hair was pinned back in soft, intricate braids. She was, Lysander admitted to himself with grim objectivity, an extraordinarily beautiful woman.

Yet, as she reached the altar and stepped to his side, she did not look at him first. Instead, her eyes drifted to the front pew. A sudden, radiant softness washed over her features as she caught the children’s eyes. She offered Emily, Michael, and Peter a tiny, warm wave of her hand, her lips curving into a genuine smile that illuminated her whole face.

Lysander’s chest tightened, a sharp, internal warning ringing through his mind.

She is off-limits.

He could not afford to let himself be swayed by a soft smile or the delicate line of her jaw. She was here for a transaction, a structured arrangement to secure the nursery and stabilize his household. Nothing more.

As the vicar began the solemn opening words of the liturgy, Lysander noticed a subtle tremor in her posture.

Fanny stood unusually rigid, her fingers clenching her small bouquet of white roses so tightly that her knuckles showed pale through her gloves. Her skin had lost its usual healthy flush, replaced by a slight, waxy pallor. Her breathing seemed shallow, her shoulders dipping slightly as though the weight of the heavy silk dress were suddenly too much to bear. She seemed weak—frail, even—like a reed leaning into a strong wind.

He glanced over his shoulder at her mother and sister in the pews. Lady Woodrey was busy dabbing a tear from her cheek with a lace handkerchief, while Blanche watched the altar with a wide, dramatic grin. Neither appeared the least bit concerned.

Lysander leaned in slightly, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead on the altar while dropping his voice into a low baritone that only she could hear.

“Are you all right?” he asked, the words clipped and flat, though his gray eyes flicked down to observe the faint sway in her hips.

Fanny did not turn her head. Her jaw tightened as she swallowed hard, keeping her gaze locked on the gold cross behind the vicar.

“I just need to get this over with,” she murmured back, her voice barely a thread of sound, laced with a quiet, sharp strain.

The answer did not reassure him. If anything, it tightened the knot of suspicion in his chest. Lysander remained still, but from that moment on, his focus shifted. While the vicar droned through the traditional vows of obedience, honor, and protection, Lysander kept a silent vigilance over her every movement, ready to catch her should her knees give out entirely.

“I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together,” the priest intoned, raising his hands in a final blessing.

Lysander offered the bare minimum of ceremonial compliance, placing a heavy gold band on her cold, trembling finger.

Directly following the ceremony, the small party retired to the vestry to formalize the union. The air in the side room was thick with the scent of dried ink and old parchment. The heavy parish ledger lay open upon a dark mahogany desk.

Lysander stepped forward first, dipping the quill into the inkwell and sweeping his signature across the paper in sharp, decisive strokes: Lysander Eldridge, Duke of Hilgrove.