Page 9 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

Fanny’s chest rose and fell in short, sharp breaths, the cold air burning her throat.

She looked at the harsh, shadowed contours of his face, at the steady, unblinking gray eyes watching her without a flicker of remorse. A dark realization settled over her. He was trying to frighten her. He was deliberately parading his dark reputation before her, stripping away any illusions of romantic chivalry, and testing whether she would shrink into the boxwood hedges or stand her ground.

And it was working. Her pulse hammered frantically against her ribs, blood rushing so loudly in her ears that it drowned out the distant hum of the ballroom orchestra. Yet, as she clutched the torn, ruined silk of her gown against her chest, Fanny could not be entirely certain whether her heart was racing from pure, unadulterated fear or from the sheer, staggering weight of the choice he had just laid at her feet.

She swallowed hard, forcing her trembling lower lip to steady.

“Are they…” Fanny whispered, her voice barely carrying across the damp gravel path. She met his gaze directly, refusing to look away. “Are the rumors true, Your Grace?”

The Duke of Hilgrove did not flinch. His broad shoulders remained squared, his arms clasped securely behind the small of his back.

“No matter what answer I give you, Lady Fanny, you could never know whether I am telling you the truth,” he said softly, his tone dry, flat, and absolute. “Words are cheap. A guilty man would swear his innocence just as fervently as an honest one.”

“Then why now?” she asked, her amber eyes searching his impassive features. “If you have lived comfortably in your isolation for four years, why step into this ballroom tonight? Why do you suddenly need a wife?”

The duke’s expression softened by the smallest fraction, a dark line appearing between his heavy brows. He looked past her shoulder, staring into the dense wall of rose thorns as if looking straight through the dark and across miles of country road.

“My two sons and my daughter are seven years old,” he said, his low voice carrying a sudden, tight gravity that was not there before. “They no longer see the world through the soft, hazy lens of infancy. They are growing sharp. They understand what they lack, Lady Fanny. They look around my silent house, and they feel the absence of a mother in every quiet hallway.”

His gray eyes snapped back to hers, intense and piercing. “And you appear to want to be a mother.”

A faint, bitter prickle of defiance stirred in Fanny’s chest. She lifted her chin, taking a step forward despite the cold wind biting at her exposed skin.

“And how can you be sure of that?” Fanny mimicked his own flat, clinical tone, her fingers tightening on her ruined bodice. “Perhaps this is all an elaborate act. Perhaps I am merely a desperate spinster spinning tears in the dark to trick an unattached duke. By your own reasoning, Your Grace, you cannot possibly know whether I am being sincere.”

The duke’s jaw set into a firm line. He gave a single, slow nod.

“I agree,” he said without a second’s hesitation. “I cannot know. But I am willing to take the risk to discover the truth about you.” He stepped closer, his broad frame blocking out the pale moonlight, casting her completely in his shadow. “However, let us be entirely clear, Lady Fanny. If you accept my offer and later prove yourself incapable of being a proper, loving mother to my children, I will not hesitate to replace you.”

Fanny gasped softly, the sheer coldness of the declaration cutting through her like a blade. “You are cruel,” she breathed, her voice trembling with indignation.

“I am practical,” the duke corrected immediately, his voice as unyielding as iron. “My children’s well-being is not a negotiable matter.” He tilted his head, his gaze locked onto her wide eyes. “The question, Lady Fanny, is whether you are willing to discover the truth about me as well.”

“The stakes are hardly equal!” Fanny argued, her voice rising in frustration as she gestured wildly with one gloved hand before snatching her torn gown back to her chest. “If I fail your test, you simply banish me to a dower house! But what of my stakes? What if the whispers are true? What if the monster they speak of in drawing rooms is standing right in front of me? What if the same fate that befell your late wife awaits me?”

The duke did not raise his voice. He offered no defense, and his expression betrayed not a trace of anger at her accusation. He stood there, large, dark, and unshakable.

“You have a choice,” he said, his tone measured and even. “You can accept my name, become the Duchess of Hilgrove, step into my home as the mother of my three children, and accept whatever uncertainty comes with it. Or…” He gestured back toward the lit glass doors of the distant manor, where the faint sound of music still echoed. “…you can walk back into that ballroom torn and disgraced. You can remain ruined, allow society to cast you away, and face the slow, miserable death of a social outcast.”

He took one step back, giving her space to breathe, though his heavy presence still dominated the narrow gravel path.

“The decision,” the duke said softly, “is entirely yours.”

Fanny stood frozen, her slippers sinking slightly into the damp mud. Her mind spun in terrifying circles. On one hand lay the absolute certainty of destruction—a life spent in deep, humiliating shadow, under pitying stares, and the total death of her dreams. On the other lay a grand, terrifying leap into the unknown with a man accused of a terrible crime, yet one that offered her everything she had ever prayed for: a home, a purpose, and children to love.

She pressed her hand hard against her chest, feeling the wild, erratic thud of her heart.

“I…” Fanny swallowed hard, her throat tight. “I need time. I cannot give you an answer in the dark, dressed in rags, while my blood is still running cold. I need time to consider your offer, Your Grace.”

The duke looked down at her for a long, silent moment. The moonlight caught the sharp angle of his jaw and the dark, unreadable depths of his eyes.

“You have time,” he said.

He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a heavy, dark wool cloak, and stepped forward, draping it gently over her shivering shoulders before she could protest. The broad fabric was warm, smelling faintly of cedar and rain, completely concealing her torn gown and exposed skin.

“One day, Lady Fanny,” he added, his voice low beside her ear. “I shall call upon you at noon tomorrow.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel. His heavy boots crunched steadily against the gravel as he navigated the dark bends of the maze with practiced ease, his tall, broad frame disappearing into the shadows of the boxwood hedges, leaving Fanny alone in the quiet night.