Page 63 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

“It is strange,” she murmured, her tone turning reflective. “Thinking back to the day we met, your name on my dance card and the labyrinth.”

Lysander turned his head slightly, his dark gaze dropping to the swollen curve of her lips before rising back to her eyes. “You were standing in the center of a dead-end hedge, attempting to navigate a path with a torn dress.”

“I was crouching behind a boxwood hedge to avoid my mother, and you knew it,” Fanny countered with a light, playful tilt of her head, her fingers tapping against her knee. “And rather than helping me escape, you used my moment of weakness to demand my hand in marriage.”

Lysander growled softly, though the corner of his jaw softened. “You were being stubborn, and you still followed me out.”

Fanny smiled, the memories bringing a rush of fondness to her chest. “You were the way out of the labyrinth.”

She had meant it as a lighthearted joke—a playful jab at his towering size and his stubborn position in the narrow hedge. But as the words left her mouth, the casual phrasing caught in the damp air, echoing with a sudden, unintentional bitterness that made her blood run cold.

The way out.

Fanny’s breath hitched in her throat. She instantly wished she could bite her tongue, her heart sinking as she saw the subtle, devastating shift take place right before her eyes.

The warm, relaxed line of Lysander’s shoulders instantly locked tight. His face hardened, the soft, teasing glint in his gray eyes vanishing behind a thick, impenetrable wall of ice. The cozy, intimate warmth that had filled the carriage moments ago withered instantly, replaced by a sudden, heavy chill.

He turned his head to look out the dark, rain-streaked window, his jaw flexing hard against his collar.

“A way out,” Lysander repeated quietly. His voice was no longer gravelly and warm; it was smooth, flat, and completely devoid of emotion—the voice of the Duke of Hilgrove addressing a stranger. “Of course. I tend to forget that our marriage was merely a necessary door for you to step through. A sacrifice of your youth and freedom.”

“Lysander, no,” Fanny blurted out, reaching out a gloved hand to touch his sleeve, but stopping short when he didn’t turn back. “That is not what I meant. It was a joke, a foolish choice of words.”

“You do not need to soften the reality, Fanny,” Lysander interrupted, his baritone cold and measured. He did not raise his voice; he spoke with that terrifying, quiet distance that had guarded him for years. “We both entered this arrangement with open eyes. You required a secure future, and my children required a woman capable of restoring order to a fractured home. You have performed your duties far beyond what was required. You need not pretend there is anything more to it.”

Fanny felt a sharp, painful sting behind her eyes. The distance between them felt suddenly vast, even as they sat mere inches apart in the enclosed coach. She didn’t want to bicker, nor did she want to hurl angry words at his cold exterior. She felt the profound ache of a misunderstanding cutting through the fragile trust they had spent weeks building.

“Is that truly how you see us, Lysander?” Fanny asked softly, her voice steady despite the tremor in her chest. She looked at his sharp profile, refusing to lower her head. “A ledger of duties and fulfilled transactions?”

Lysander remained silent for a long moment, staring out at the storm. “It is the safest way to view a marriage, Fanny,” he said quietly. “Expectations lead to disappointment. Structure does not.”

Fanny let out a slow, quiet breath, pulling her hands back into her lap. She didn’t press him further. She knew better than to try to tear down years of defense mechanisms in a single evening. Instead, she settled back into the velvet cushions, letting her gaze rest on his hand where it rested against his knee—his large, strong fingers slightly clenched into a fist.

The rain continued to beat against the carriage roof, loud and steady. The conflict remained unresolved, hanging between them like a fragile, invisible thread.

Twenty-Four

The grand ballroom of the Ashbourne estate was a blinding sea of gilded mirrors, towering crystal chandeliers, and suffocating heat.

Lysander stood just inside the arched doorway, adjusting the high collar of his dark evening coat as the overwhelming roar of the crowd washed over him. The sharp clinking of champagne flutes, the loud, artificial laughter of the Mayfair elite, and the sweeping strains of an orchestra were everything he had deliberately avoided for years. He despised these gatherings. He despised the shallow posturing, the venomous gossip whispered behind lace fans, and the sharp, judging eyes that had followed him ever since Cecily left.

Yet, as he felt the soft, rhythmic rustle of silk beside him, the heavy knot in his chest loosened by a fraction of an inch.

Fanny stood at his elbow, her dark green skirts cascading over her petticoats in rich, luminous folds. The emeralds at her throat caught the brilliant chandelier light, throwing deep green sparks against her warm skin. She looked magnificent—composed, radiant, and entirely unbothered by the quiet, curious murmurs rippling through the room as society realized the “reclusive Duke” had finally stepped out of the dark.

A strange, unfamiliar anticipation began to hum beneath Lysander’s ribs, overriding the lingering chill from their quiet argument in the carriage.

He didn’t care for the crowd, nor did he care for the wine or the endless, tedious pleasantries he would be forced to endure. But as the orchestra transitioned into the opening bars of a slow, sweeping waltz, his gray eyes fixed on his wife.

He wanted to take her hand. He wanted to lead her onto the polished oak floor, wrap his fingers around her narrow waist, and feel the warm, supple line of her body yielding against his dark coat in full view of every soul in the room. He wanted to remind her—and himself—that whatever walls they were navigating, she belonged at his side.

Lysander shifted his weight, turning his broad frame toward her. He opened his mouth to ask for her hand, his fingers already twitching to reach for hers.

“Your Grace! What an unexpected triumph to see you in society once more.”

The loud, smooth voice cut between them.

Lord Davenport—a young, remarkably handsome viscount with impeccably styled blond hair and a coat of immaculate midnight blue—stepped smoothly into Lysander’s line of sight. Davenport bowed with crisp, fluid elegance, his bright, charming eyes darting past Lysander to lock onto Fanny with immediate, bold admiration.