Page 45 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

The bedchamber was dim, the heavy velvet drapes drawn tightly against the morning sun. The air felt stagnant, with a faint scent of stale lavender water and closed quarters. Near the small table by the cold hearth, seven-year-old Michael sat on a low wooden stool, his head bent over a wooden slate, his small legs tucked rigidly beneath him.

Standing behind him, Veronica’s hands were resting heavily on the boy’s shoulders.

At the sudden sound of the door swinging open, the nanny straightened with an audible gasp, her fingers briefly digging into the wool of Michael’s jacket before dropping to her sides. Michael flinched violently, hunching his shoulders toward his ears, his wide, dark eyes darting to the threshold in immediate panic.

“Your Grace!” Veronica smoothed her crisp white apron with hurried, nervous hands, stepping smoothly in front of the child to block him from view. Her thin lips pulled into a tight, strained smile. “We did not hear you approach. I am afraid Master Michael is right in the middle of his quiet reading hour. The physician was very particular about maintaining complete stillness during his mornings.”

Fanny stepped fully into the room, her chin lifted high, the very picture of calm, unshakeable ducal authority. She did not stop until she stood two paces from the table.

“The morning reading hour is concluded for today, Veronica,” Fanny said, her voice smooth, level, and devoid of hesitation.

Veronica’s pale brows drew together, a flicker of sharp resentment passing behind her eyes before she forced her head into a shallow nod. “I assure Your Grace that his routine is delicate. Master Michael does not take well to disruptions. His nerves are terribly frail, and any sudden change brings on the night terrors. It is far safer if I remain to supervise him.”

“I am his stepmother, Veronica,” Fanny replied gently, though the iron underneath her words was impossible to miss. “I intend to spend this morning with Michael myself. You have been attending to him day and night without a single moment of relief. You may take the rest of the morning to yourself. Walk the grounds, take your tea in the kitchen, and rest.”

Veronica did not move. Her hands knotted tightly in the linen of her apron, her jaw set in a rigid line that mirrored the house’s own stubbornness.

“His late mother placed Master Michael under my sole protection,” Veronica insisted, her voice dropping into a tight, sharp pitch. “She knew his nature. She trusted me alone to see to his needs. With the greatest respect, Your Grace is new to this estate. You cannot know the boy’s temper or the particular methods required to keep him calm.”

Fanny did not flinch under the woman’s venomous, polite defiance. She stepped a single step closer, her eyes locking onto the nanny with absolute, unyielding clarity.

“His late mother is no longer here, Veronica,” Fanny said softly, every word distinct and clear in the quiet room. “I am here. And as the Duchess of Hilgrove, I am relieving you of your duties until dinner. You will leave us now.”

For three long seconds, the woman stared at Fanny, her pale eyes dark and unreadable. Then, realizing she could not openly defy a direct ducal command without risking dismissal, Veronica’s features smoothed into an impenetrable mask.

“As Your Grace wishes,” Veronica murmured, sinking into a deep, stiff curtsy.

She cast a fleeting, severe look toward the small boy frozen on the stool, then turned on her heel and strode from the room, pulling the door shut behind her with a quiet, sharp click.

Fanny let out a slow, steady breath as the latch clicked. The maid’s behavior was deeply perplexing. The woman clung to the child with a strange, suffocating possessiveness that went far beyond ordinary devotion. Fanny shook the thought from her mind, telling herself the poor servant was likely half-mad from years of sleepless nights and isolated vigils.

Turning back toward the center of the room, Fanny looked down at the little boy. Michael remained tightly curled on his stool, his slate untouched in his lap, his knuckles white as he watched her with wide, terrified eyes.

Fanny took a slow, gentle step across the floorboards, keeping her movements open and unhurried. She walked to the tall sash windows first and drew back the heavy velvet curtains, letting the rich morning sunlight flood the stagnant, shadowy corners of the bedchamber.

“There,” Fanny said softly, offering a warm, reassuring smile as she turned back to him. “It is much too pleasant a morning to sit in the dark.”

Michael did not answer. He pulled his chin down toward his chest, his small hands clutching the wooden frame of his slate until the skin over his knuckles turned bone-white. He looked so extraordinarily small, perched on the low stool, his narrow shoulders hunched forward as though he were trying to fold himself into nothingness.

Fanny pulled a low wooden armchair beside his stool and sat down, carefully arranging her plum-colored skirts so she remained lower than he was. She made no move to reach out or touch him, giving the child the space he so clearly needed.

“You have very fine penmanship, Michael,” she began in a light, conversational tone, nodding toward the chalk lines on his slate. “Better than mine was at seven, I must confess. My governess used to despair over my ink blots.”

Michael’s dark eyelashes fluttered. He glanced sideways at her, his big, gray eyes wide and searching, mirroring his father’s deep, stormy gaze, but devoid of any adult hardness. He said nothing, yet the tight line of his shoulders dropped by the smallest fraction.

Patiently, Fanny began to talk with him. She asked simple questions about the books on his bedside table, the carved wooden horses lined up near the hearth, and the games he liked best when the rain kept him indoors, and what he liked playing when he was outdoors. Whenever he offered a hesitant, one-word answer, she listened with absolute gravity, never rushing him or dismissing his quiet words.

Gradually, the boy began to uncoil. A soft, timid whisper replaced his stony silence as he showed her a drawing of a sailing ship he had hidden under his primer.

“I want to see the real ocean one day,” Michael murmured, his voice so thin it barely carried across the sunlight. “Peter says the water is bigger than the entire world.”

“It is very big,” Fanny said, smiling, her heart warming as the child looked up at her without flinching. “And it makes a grand, roaring sound against the cliffs.”

Michael leaned slightly toward her to point out the ship’s mast on the slate. As he tilted his head forward, his dark brown curls fell away from the collar of his jacket.

Fanny’s breath caught dead in her throat.

Beneath the hairline at the base of his small neck, stark against the pale, delicate skin, lay a series of dark, purplish-yellow discolorations. They were mottled and angry, shaped like the distinct, brutal imprint of digging fingertips.