Page 32 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

A heavy, dark shadow fell over Lysander’s face. His back grew rigid, the linen of his cravat straining against the thick column of his throat. He reached for his napkin, his long fingers flexing against the cloth—a movement so full of contained, masculine strength that Fanny had to force her gaze back up to his face.

“Michael walks in his sleep,” Lysander said, his tone dropping an octave, turning sharp as flint. “He wanders the halls at night. It has led to dangerous accidents in the past. Emily has an overactive imagination, nothing more. She calls it a monster because she does not understand it.”

“Is that why you keep them separated?” Fanny asked, the pieces tumbling into place. “Because Michael wanders?”

“It is for their safety,” he replied smoothly.

“It feels like isolation,” Fanny said, her voice quiet yet resolute as she looked up from her chair. She did not shout, but the quiet determination in her gaze held him in place. “They are siblings, Lysander. They are frightened children scattered throughout a massive, silent house. I know you want to protect them, but keeping them apart will not heal Michael, nor will it bring Emily peace.”

Lysander did not flinch, but the air between them shifted. He rose slowly from his seat, his broad chest casting a long shadow across the linen tablecloth. Up close, the sheer physical weight of him was undeniable. The faint scent of sandalwood, leather, and fresh rain clung to him, making Fanny’s breath catch in her throat.

“You have been in this house for less than two days,” Lysander said softly, stepping around the table, his low baritone carrying a quiet, heavy restraint. “You do not know these children yet. You do not know what they have endured, or the depths of what we lost. Do not presume it is simple.”

“I know I am new here, and I have so much left to learn,” Fanny admitted, her tone softening as she held her ground, refusing to retreat as he came to a halt mere inches from her. She tilted her head up, her amber eyes searching his guarded face. Her pulse fluttered at his proximity, tracking the tight flex of his jaw and the rise and fall of his chest. “I see how fiercely you care for their safety, Lysander. Truly, I do. But protection isn’t just about ledgers and thick walls.”

At the sound of his name—spoken not in anger but with genuine, searching warmth—Lysander’s jaw tightened. A dark flame flickered in his gray eyes, and his breath hitched by a fraction as his gaze dropped to her lips before snapping back to her eyes, visibly struck by the sudden intimacy of her voice.

Fanny took a quiet, steadying breath, fighting the sudden flush of heat radiating between them.

“They need to feel you near,” she murmured gently. “If we are to make this a true home, perhaps we can try a gentler approach. Let Emily and Peter have a bit more freedom to play. Let us bring Michael down slowly so he doesn’t feel hidden away. And let them join us for dinner, even if only for half an hour a day. Let them see their father.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy with unspoken friction. Fanny stood her ground, her amber eyes burning into his, holding her breath as she waited for the explosion.

Lysander looked at her for a long, agonizing moment. His gray eyes traced the line of her nose, the curve of her mouth, then down to the quick rise and fall of her velvet bodice. For a fleeting second, the cold mask slipped, revealing something raw, dark, and intensely possessive beneath. Then, he let out a slow, gravelly breath, drawing his coat tight around himself.

“Very well,” Lysander said, his tone terrifyingly soft. “We will trial your adjustments. You may adjust Emily’s and Peter’s routine. I will join the children for tea tomorrow afternoon. And you may meet Veronica to review Michael’s schedule.”

Fanny blinked, caught off guard by his sudden surrender. “You agree?”

“I agree to a trial,” Lysander corrected coldly, stepping back and severing the magnetic pull between them. He gestured toward the parlor doors. “You look pale again, Fanny. You are dismissed for the evening. Go to bed.”

The word dismissed burned her pride, but Fanny merely smoothed her skirts, holding her head high.

“Goodnight, Your Grace,” she said softly.

She turned and walked out of the parlor, her heart still thumping a wild rhythm against her ribs long after the heavy oak doors closed behind her. As she climbed the stairs toward her quiet bedchamber, she pressed a hand to her pounding chest.

She had won the argument for the children. She would meet Veronica, uncover the truth behind Michael’s ‘night monster,’ and bring this fractured family back together. But as she touched her fingertips to her lips, still feeling the phantom touch of his mouth, Fanny knew her greatest trial would not be the children.

It would be surviving Lysander without losing her heart.

Thirteen

The heavy duties of a duchess descended upon Fanny like a suffocating blanket of silk and lead.

Over the next four days, Mrs. Gable paraded her through the echoing corridors of Hilgrove Manor, presenting accounting ledgers, linen inventories, and pantry menus until Fanny’s head throbbed. Yet, between the endless consultations with head housekeepers and tailors, her eyes remained fixed on the children.

Lysander’s idea of structure was suffocating. Every morning at precisely seven, Emily and Peter were marched into the schoolroom like tiny, silent soldiers. Their hours were carved into rigid blocks of Latin, penmanship, and geography, punctuated only by an hour of stiff, supervised walks along the manicured gravel paths.

There was no laughter in the nursery wing, only the crisp ticking of the longcase clock and the scratch of steel nibs on slate.

And beneath the quiet misery of the children’s routine, an insidious current had begun to run through the house, targeted entirely at Fanny.

It started on her third night. She pulled back the heavy, turned-down covers of her bed, only to freeze. Nestled directly upon the crisp white linen was a fat field mouse, its neck snapped, a smear of dark blood staining the sheet beneath it.

Fanny took a sharp breath, forcing her hands not to shake as she wrapped the creature in a handkerchief and disposed of it herself.

Peter, she had thought, a sad, forgiving ache settling in her chest. He was a wild little boy, grieving his mother and harboring a pocketful of frogs; it was only natural that he would test the intrusion of a new woman in his house.