Page 76 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

Veronica’s throat worked as she tried to swallow, her posture stiffening as she tried to hold his gaze. “You cannot prove I did…”

“I don’t need to prove a single thing to the ton,” Lysander cut in. “You will not die, Veronica. Death is far too quick, far too gentle a mercy for what you attempted in that room.”

He reached out, his hand gripping her upper arm with a pressure that made her gasp and walked her toward the door.

“You are mad. You will spend the rest of your life behind the damp stone walls of the asylum at St. Jude’s,” Lysander said, his voice ringing with unyielding authority as he opened the door and summoned two broad-shouldered footmen waiting down the hall. “You will sit in the dark. You will listen to the rain. And you will never, as long as you draw breath, see the light of day or hear the name of this family ever again.”

The heavy velvet curtains were drawn back just enough to let the soft afternoon light spill across the polished floorboards of the nursery wing.

Fanny stood by the window, watching Dr. Thorne pack his dark leather bag. The harsh, frantic tension that had choked Michael’s bedchamber since dawn had finally lifted, replaced by the calm, steady rhythm of the boy’s breathing.

Dr. Thorne closed the brass clasps of his bag, turning to face Fanny and Lysander.

“The arsenic is out of his system, Your Grace,” the physician said, his voice quiet but absolute as he looked between them. “Now that the exposure has ceased, his body can begin to heal. The gastric spasms have already receded. Give him plenty of barley water, keep him warm, and I assure you, within three days, young Master Michael will be back on his feet, chasing his turtle in the garden.”

Fanny let out a slow, tremulous breath, her hands resting against her skirts as the weight she hadn’t realized she was carrying finally slid off her shoulders.

Lysander offered the physician a crisp, low nod. “Thank you, Doctor.”

When the door clicked shut behind Dr. Thorne, leaving the nursery corridor in quiet solitude, Lysander turned to her.

He looked exhausted—the sharp lines around his mouth deepened, his dark hair disheveled, his jaw shadowed with stubble—yet the cold, distant wall he usually kept between himself and the world had vanished entirely.

He didn’t speak. He reached out, his broad, calloused fingers wrapping around her wrist, and gently pulled her into his private study down the hall.

The room was quiet, the fire in the hearth now crackling merrily, casting long, golden shadows across the mahogany furniture and dark leather armchairs. Lysander closed the door behind them, locking out the house’s quiet bustle, but he did not move toward his desk.

He stood directly before her, his height towering over her small frame, yet his posture was utterly devoid of the dominant, imposing power he carried through the halls of Hilgrove.

“Fanny,” he rasped, his voice rough and low.

Fanny looked up into his face, her heart thumping against her ribs. She didn’t pull her hand back. Instead, she leaned into his touch, her thumb tracing a small circle against his wrist.

Lysander reached up with his free hand, his knuckles gently skimming her cheekbone, pushing a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear. His fingers trembled against her skin—a fine, delicate vibration that told her everything his stoic exterior usually hid.

“I doubted you,” he said softly, every word dragged from a deep, aching place in his chest. “In the dark of that pantry, when the shadow of my past came crawling back, I looked at you and let fear speak for me. I am… I am so deeply sorry, Fanny.”

“Lysander.”

“No,” he interrupted gently, his thumb smoothing over her lower lip to quiet her. “Let me say it. All my life, I believed I was a protector. I built walls around this house, my children, and my heart, believing I could isolate us from ruin. When I offered you a marriage of convenience, I told myself I was rescuing an earl’s ruined daughter from the ton’s cruel gossip.”

He took a slow breath, his dark eyes wide, raw, and completely unguarded as he searched her face.

“I was a fool,” Lysander whispered. “It was never you who needed saving, Fanny. It was me. It was my children. We were trapped in a dark, cold labyrinth of my own making, rotting in silence and grief… and you walked into this house with your warmth, your laughter, and your fierce, beautiful heart, and showed us the way out.”

Fanny felt tears brim over her lashes, hot and fast, tracing a path down her cheeks. She reached up, placing her palm against the side of his jaw, feeling the heavy, steady pulse beneath his skin.

“Lysander…”

“I love you,” he broke in, the words falling from his lips with a desperate, breathtaking clarity that shattered the last remnant of his cold pride. “God help me, Fanny, I love you. More than my life. More than this estate. More than my own breath.”

Fanny’s chest heaved. The quiet, buried longing she had carried through every tense conversation, every shared glance over the children’s heads, exploded into a sudden, radiant warmth.

She stood up on her tiptoes, her fingers sliding up to tangle in the dark, thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him down to her level.

“And I love you,” Fanny whispered against his lips, her voice steady and true. “I have loved you since you stood up to the world for me, Lysander. You are not alone anymore. You never have to be alone again.”

Lysander let out a ragged, shuddering gasp before his mouth closed over hers.