Page 30 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

“I shall see you at breakfast, Lady Emily,” Fanny said gently.

Emily looked up, a flicker of surprise passing through her watchful eyes as she realized Fanny was not angry. She bowed her head politely. “Good day, Fanny.”

She turned and walked out of the bedchamber with quiet, measured steps.

Fanny stood alone in the dim room, looking out toward Hilgrove Manor’s sprawling gardens. They had time. She would win Emily’s affection step by step and bring Peter a pet. But as Fanny turned toward the dressing mirror to prepare for breakfast, Emily’s whisper echoed relentlessly in her head.

The night monster.

Whatever darkness was haunting small, silent Michael in the shadows of this cold stone estate, Fanny was going to find it—and she was going to tear it down.

Twelve

The mahogany banister felt cool beneath Fanny’s palm as she descended the grand staircase. She had traded her silk gown for a dark velvet dress, its soft folds draping over her frame without the suffocating pinch of corsetry.

At the base of the stairs, Lysander stood waiting.

He was already dressed in a dark evening coat and crisp linen, a tall, silent silhouette framed by the arched stone entryway of the small dining parlor. As her foot struck the marble floor, he turned his head. His gray eyes swept over her with a sharp, clinical intensity, taking in the color returned to her cheeks and the steady cadence of her stride before settling on her face.

“You look better,” Lysander observed, his low baritone cutting through the quiet hall.

“I am entirely recovered, Your Grace,” Fanny replied, drawing herself up. She glanced past his broad shoulder into the dining room. A single mahogany table was set for two with fine silver, crystal, and pale porcelain. There were no small chairs, no tiny silver spoons, and no rustle of children’s laughter. “The children are not joining us?”

“They dine in the nursery at six,” Lysander said, turning to lead the way into the parlor. “I see no reason to disrupt their routine.”

Fanny held back a quiet sigh as she followed him into the warm glow of candlelight. He pulled out her chair with stiff, formal courtesy. The scent of cedar and cold rain drifted from his coat as he leaned in, sending a faint, involuntary prickle along her skin before he retreated to his own seat across the long expanse of dark wood.

Footmen moved silently about the room, ladling clear soup into delicate bowls before retreating to the perimeter like statues.

For several minutes, the only sound was the faint clink of silver on porcelain. Fanny stared at her bowl, the memory of yesterday hanging heavy and unsaid between them. She smoothed her napkin over her lap, stole a glance at his sharp profile, and finally set her spoon down.

“I ought to thank you,” Fanny said softly, her amber eyes meeting his across the table.

Lysander paused, his glass halfway to his lips. “For what?”

“For catching me,” she said, keeping her voice steady despite the sudden warmth in her cheeks. “And for carrying me to my bedchamber. Cook mentioned you summoned Dr. Thorne without delay.”

Lysander set his glass down with a precise, muted click. “I merely prevented my new wife from cracking her skull open on the marble entrance hall. It would have been an exceedingly messy start to our arrangement.”

Fanny’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Nevertheless, you acted quickly. I am grateful.”

Lysander leaned back slightly, his dark brows drawing together into a stern, formidable line. “If you were feeling faint in the chapel, you should have spoken. Surrendering to exhaustion in the middle of a ceremony is a foolish risk.”

A sudden, sharp spark of defensiveness flared in Fanny’s chest. She squared her shoulders, her chin lifting. “It was a momentary lapse brought on by a tight lace and the heat of the chapel. There is no need to make a grand tragedy out of a brief fainting spell, Your Grace. I assure you, my constitution is quite sound.”

“Dr. Thorne informed me you had not eaten a proper meal in days,” Lysander countered, his gray eyes narrowing into dark slits. “Starving yourself is hardly a sign of a sound constitution.”

“I was busy settling my family’s affairs!” Fanny snapped back, her voice rising just enough to cause a footman near the sideboard to shift his weight. She caught herself, drawing a slow breath to regain her composure. “My eating habits before yesterday are entirely irrelevant now. I am perfectly well. I would much rather discuss the children’s schedule than dwell on a passing weakness.”

Lysander studied her face in the flickering candlelight, his jaw clenching in tight silence. “You deflect when you are cornered.”

“And you lecture when you are uncomfortable,” Fanny replied smoothly, taking a small sip of her wine. “Accepting a simple gesture of gratitude will not undo your reputation for stone-faced stoicism, Your Grace. You may say, ‘You are welcome’.”

A faint, dangerous tension rippled across his broad shoulders.

“I prefer to keep matters clear,” Lysander said flatly.

“Ah, of course,” Fanny said, a subtle, sarcastic curl touching her lips. She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the polished wood. “We must protect the ledgers at all costs. Heaven forbid you accept a thank-you and accidentally confuse me about the nature of our relationship.”