Page 73 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

Lysander lifted a hand, his thumb catching a stray tear on her cheek, his skin still dusted faintly with crushed mint and chamomile.

“We will go back to him,” he said, his voice scraped raw, but steady. The hollow helplessness had vanished, replaced by a quiet, fierce resolve.

Fanny gave a single, firm nod. “Together.”

He rose first, his long frame unfolding from the floor, and reached down to take her hands, drawing her up beside him. He did not let go. He smoothed the front of her skirts with a brief, gentle touch, his fingers trailing down to weave tightly into hers.

They stepped out of the cold damp of the herb pantry, leaving the dark behind them, and turned toward the stairs.

Lysander’s boots made no sound against the thick runner of the west corridor. His hand remained wrapped tight around Fanny’s fingers, his grip a heavy, grounding pressure that did not loosen even as they reached the threshold of Michael’s bedchamber.

The air in the room remained foul, heavy with the sharp scent of vinegar, sweat, and iron.

Mrs. Gable stood near the corner basin, wringing out a fresh linen rag, while Veronica sat upright on the high-backed velvet chair by the window. Dr. Thorne was gone, but the heavy, suffocating weight of his departure hung over the four-poster bed where Michael lay, small and terrifyingly still.

Lysander stepped across the threshold, his broad frame instantly cutting off the light from the hallway. He did not look at Veronica. He did not look at the housekeeper.

“Out,” Lysander rumbled. His voice was low, gravelly, and stripped of all cadence. “Everyone. Out.”

Mrs. Gable paused, her hands freezing over the basin. She offered a quick, tearful nod, set her damp cloth on the wooden stand, and scurried out the door, her soft shoes pattering against the floorboards.

Veronica rose slowly from the window seat. Her posture was straight, her head tipped at a modest angle. “Your Grace,” she murmured, her voice carrying a quiet, sorrowful tremor. “I should stay to help Her Grace. The boy needs his brow cooled.”

“Leave us, Veronica,” Lysander repeated. He did not turn to face her, but the sudden, rigid shift in his shoulders left no room for appeal.

Veronica’s sharp eyes flicked to Fanny, then back to the quiet form on the bed. Her lips pressed into a thin, tight line before she offered a shallow curtsy. Her skirts rustled softly as she glided past them, the brass latch clicking shut behind her.

The room fell into a heavy, unbroken silence, save for the faint, wet rattling of Michael’s chest.

Lysander released Fanny’s hand and approached the four-poster bed. The stoic, unyielding armor he wore before the household fell away, leaving his face haggard and lined with deep, terrifying exhaustion.

He dropped to his knees on the rug beside the mattress, bringing himself down to the boy’s level.

“Michael,” Lysander rasped, his voice breaking on the small name.

He reached out with a trembling hand, his large, calloused palm gently cupping his son’s pale, sweat-slick cheek. The boy’s skin was burning, hot enough to scorch, yet Michael shivered beneath the heavy blankets, his small frame trembling in weak, violent waves.

Fanny glided to the opposite side of the bed, dropping to her knees on the floorboards. She reached beneath the linens, finding Michael’s free hand and squeezing his cool, limp fingers.

“Michael, darling,” Fanny whispered, her voice steady and warm. “Your father is here. We are right beside you.”

The seven-year-old boy shifted. His dark eyelashes fluttered, heavy against his gray, translucent skin. A faint, painful groan tore from his throat as his eyelids cracked open. His dark eyes slowly rolled toward his father’s face.

“Father…” the boy whimpered, the sound barely a breath.

Lysander leaned over the mattress, wrapping his arms gently around his son’s upper body. He pulled the boy’s frail frame up against his broad chest, holding him close, burying his face in Michael’s damp, dark hair.

“I am here, small soldier,” Lysander whispered, his shoulders shaking with a single, silent convulsion. “I am right here. I have you.”

Michael rested his forehead weakly against the lapel of Lysander’s coat. His small chest rose and fell in shallow, frantic gasps. For a long, motionless minute, the only sound in the bedchamber was the dull, heavy strike of the mantel clock and the steady patter of rain against the windowpane.

Then, Michael’s small body tensed. A tiny, trembling hand detached itself from the folds of Lysander’s coat.

Michael lifted his arm, his fingers shaking violently with the immense effort it took to fight the gravity in the room. His small index finger pointed straight past his father’s shoulder, aiming toward the nightstand beside the bed.

Lysander lifted his head, his dark brows drawing together as he followed the direction of his son’s tiny hand.

Fanny leaned forward, her eyes tracking the boy’s gesture.