Page 56 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

Lysander stepped forward from the hearth, his body instantly tensing with the hyper-vigilance he had carried for years. He watched the boy’s chest. Michael coughed a second time into his sleeve, a quiet, innocuous sound, then immediately leaned forward to peer into Anastasia’s box.

“Look, Michael,” Anastasia chirped, pulling a small, dark-shelled creature from the moss. “It is a freshwater turtle. Her name is Clementine. Mother said she might keep Pickles company in the garden.”

Michael’s face lit up, his quiet gray eyes widening as he reached out a timid hand to touch the smooth shell. “Pickles likes dandelions,” Michael murmured, his voice clear and untroubled. “We can gather fresh ones near the terrace.”

Lysander paused three paces away, studying his son’s pale face. The boy’s skin was clear, his breathing had returned to an even, easy depth, and there was no sign of the dark terror that usually accompanied his ailments. It was merely a minor tickle of the throat, nothing more. Lysander let out a slow, silent breath through his nose, forcing his rigid shoulders to drop by a fraction of an inch.

“Lysander?”

Fanny had appeared at his side so quietly he hadn’t heard her slippers against the rug. She held a small crystal glass of dark sherry toward him, her warm amber gaze scanning his tight jaw with perceptive, gentle concern.

“He is quite all right,” Fanny murmured, her voice pitched for his ears alone as she looked toward Michael. “He only swallowed a bit of his tea too quickly earlier. I am watching him.”

Lysander took the glass from her, his large, calloused fingers deliberately brushing against hers. The brief, electric contact sent a sharp jolt of heat racing up his arm, settling thick and heavy in his lower belly.

He looked down into her warm, glowing face, catching the playful, affectionate curve of her lips.

“I am aware you are watching him,” Lysander said, his low baritone dropping into a gravelly, intimate register that made her eyelashes flutter. “You watch everyone in this room with terrifying efficiency.”

Fanny let out a soft, melodic laugh, tilting her head up toward his. “Someone must ensure the pugs do not eat the Persian rug, Your Grace.”

“A duty I am profoundly grateful to leave in your hands,” he replied, a faint, rare trace of amusement touching the corner of his mouth.

He kept his gaze locked on hers, letting his eyes burn with an unspoken, lingering heat that explicitly communicated what he could not say aloud before her family: he wanted the night to fall, he wanted the doors closed, and he wanted this warm, impossible woman entirely to himself.

The tall, arched windows of the south drawing room rattled as the three fawn pugs bounded across the parquet floor in a snorting, frantic pack. Their flat, black-masked faces snuffled along the baseboards, heels clicking sharply, before they zeroed in on the velvet sofa where Emily sat.

Beside her, eight-year-old Anastasia was practically vibrating with energy, her yellow silk hair ribbons flying as she gesticulated wildly.

“They’re called Barnaby, Duchess, and Pip, Emily!” Anastasia declared, her voice ringing clear over the clatter of teacups. “Pip likes to sleep under blankets, but Duchess will eat the hem of your frock if you don’t watch her. Do you want to hold Pip? He’s very warm!”

Before Emily could answer, Pip launched his stocky little body onto the sofa, landing squarely on the skirt of her crisp white pinafore. Barnaby immediately followed, resting his wet nose against her knee with a raspy snort.

Emily went completely rigid. Her posture, usually so carefully composed, locked tight as her small hands clutched the edge of the velvet cushion. Her dark eyes darted from the squirming dogs to her cousin, a sharp, helpless panic flitting across her pale features.

“I… I am not certain, Anastasia,” Emily stammered, her voice dropping into a thin, breathless squeak as she pulled her chin back. “Are they… should they be on the furniture?”

“Oh, they live on the furniture at home!” Anastasia chirped, leaning in close and grabbing Emily’s arm to pull her toward the pugs. “Feel his ears! They feel like wet velvet!”

Lysander set his teacup on the side table. His broad chest tightened, his instincts surging toward immediate intervention. Order had collapsed in the corner, and his daughter was visibly drowning beneath the sheer, noisy momentum of her cousin and three hyperactive hounds. He took a single, purposeful step forward, his jaw set to issue a firm command to disperse the dogs and clear the room.

He didn’t need to.

Fanny appeared between the sofa and the low table like a warm, silent breeze, her plum wool skirts brushing smoothly past his boots.

“Anastasia, darling,” Fanny said, her voice dropping into a soothing, melodic cadence that instantly cut through the chaos without a single note of sharp authority. “Pip has had a very long carriage ride, and I believe his paws need a bit of fresh air near the terrace doors. Would you help me guide him to the rug?”

She knelt gracefully at the edge of the sofa, her hands moving with swift, gentle precision. With a light touch, she lifted Pip from Emily’s lap and handed the wriggling creature to Anastasia, while her other hand deftly caught Duchess’s collar before the hound could climb any further.

In the same seamless motion, Fanny shifted her weight, placing her own body as a protective barrier between the energetic cousin and his overwhelmed daughter. She didn’t scold Anastasia, nor did she make a grand show of rescuing Emily. She reorganized the space, her small, warm palm coming to rest lightly over Emily’s trembling knuckles.

“There now,” Fanny murmured, glancing over her shoulder at Emily with a subtle, reassuring wink that only the girl could see. “Pickles and Clementine are waiting in the garden box, Emily. Perhaps Anastasia would like to see how the tortoise handles a fresh dandelion leaf?”

Anastasia’s eyes lit up instantly. “A dandelion leaf? Can Pip come and see?”

“Pip must stay on his leash near the terrace.” Fanny smiled, turning the entire whirlwind toward the open glass doors. “Off you go, Anastasia.”

Within seconds, the room recalibrated. The dogs snorted toward the terrace; Anastasia darted into the sunlight, and Emily let out a long, quiet breath, her rigid shoulders sagging with profound relief. She looked up at Fanny, offering her stepmother a small, shy, and infinitely grateful smile before slipping quietly toward the garden path.