Page 1 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

Prologue

The chandelier lit the grand ballroom of Greystone Manor, casting a warm glow over two dozen unmarried ladies, an assortment of hopeful mothers, and a select handful of gentlemen who looked as though they would rather be anywhere else.

At the head of the raised dais stood Cassandra Archdall, Dowager Duchess of Greystone. She tapped her silver spoon against the rim of her crystal glass—three crisp, decisive strikes that cut through the low hum of conversation.

“For seven Seasons, I have opened this house to the Duke Hunt,” the dowager said, resting both hands on the carved gold head of her walking stick. “I have organized archery tournaments, lost ladies in mazes, and engineered more ‘accidental’ strolls through the rose gardens than the Society papers could possibly track. Some of you have taken my hints and found yourselves happily wed. Others…” she paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she locked gaze with a stubborn baronet in the third row, “Have wasted entire Seasons waiting for a bolt of lightning to strike them sensible.”

Louder laughter rippled through the crowd. She lifted her champagne glass high.

“I am seven-and-sixty,” she announced, raising a hand to quiet the sudden murmurs of protest. “My knees inform me that this will be my final hosting. By month’s end, I am retiring to Bath to drink terrible water, complain about the damp, and leave the rest of you to your own devices.”

She smiled, a mischievous spark glittering in her eyes.

“Which means, my dear friends, that this last Duke Hunt will be memorable. I expect fierce competition, zero hesitation, and at least three announcements in the Gazette before the fortnight is out. The gentlemen will fight harder, the ladies will give them the chance to do so, and no one—I repeat, no one—will leave this house without a match if I have any say in the matter.”

She tipped her glass toward the crowd. “To victory, my dears. And to love, whether you came here looking for it or not.”

The room erupted in applause and clinking glasses. On the main floor, fans began to flutter with renewed energy, and the game was officially underway.

One

The heavy oak doors of the Greystone ballroom swung open, and the swell of conversation died where it stood.

Lysander did not pause at the threshold. He stepped into the light of the three thousand candles, his boots echoing sharply on the parquet floor, his jaw set. He kept his chin level and his eyes fixed on the opposite wall.

It took less than three seconds for the murmurs to catch fire.

“…the Duke of Hilgrove…”

“…first time since the incident…”

“…who actually let him out…”

“…his poor wife…”

A matron near the orchestra pit pulled her daughter half an inch behind her skirts. A baronet in the second row suddenly found his glass of champagne extraordinarily fascinating and turned his back. Lysander did not adjust his collar or glance in their direction. He had expected the stares, the sudden, tight movements of fans, the quick lean of heads toward nearby ears. He had not come to Mayfair to be liked. He had come to conduct business.

The sharp tap-tap-tap of a wooden walking stick cut through the hush.

Cassandra Archdall pushed through the cluster of gaping guests, her velvet skirts rustling softly. She stopped three feet in front of him, resting both hands on her golden cane, her sharp gray eyes assessing him from his boots to his dark hair.

“Arriving four days late?” The Dowager Duchess of Greystone tilted her chin up, her voice crisp enough to carry to the nearest three rows of onlookers. “Indecent. Absolutely indecent. Though I suppose I must celebrate the miracle that you actually crossed my threshold after four years of rejecting my cards.”

Lysander’s face remained entirely unreadable. He bowed, a short, precise dip of his shoulders that lacked even a trace of warmth. “Your games are far too insensible for my taste, Your Grace.”

A small gasp went up from a nearby lady, but the Dowager’s mouth merely twitched. Her eyes sparkled behind her wire-rimmed spectacles.

“Sensible men are terribly dull, as you well know,” she replied, tapping her stick once on the floor. “And I have far too much momentum to waste on dullness. Do you have any idea what a coup this is? Two eligible dukes under one roof! Percy arrived on Tuesday, a rare prize, though he broods almost as much as you do.”

She waved a gloved hand dismissively. “It is becoming quite impossible to find an unattached duke in London these days, you know. I have matched so many of you off that the market is practically bare.”

Lysander shifted his weight, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. “The way you deploy dukes as bait for your parlor games is precisely why I have stayed away.”

The Dowager’s grin widened, a flash of pure satisfaction crossing her lined face. “And yet, here you stand.” She took a step closer, leaning slightly on her cane, her voice dropping just enough to exclude the eager ears hovering around them. “Which tells me that despite your grand posturing, you wish to be a prize after all.”

“If you mean I am here to find a bride, then yes,” Lysander said, his tone flat and unyielding. “You are correct. If any lady in this room chooses to view me as a prize, however, that is entirely her delusion.”

The Dowager tutted softly, waving a hand. “Oh, modesty does not suit a man of your stature.”