Page 2 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

“I am not being modest.” Lysander’s gray eyes narrowed slightly, cold and absolute. “I know what is whispered in these corners. I know what name they give me when my back is turned. I am not here for romance. I am not here to be wooed, nor do I intend to woo. The marriage I am searching for is one of pure, absolute convenience.”

The Dowager’s smile faded into something more perceptive, her gaze searching his features. She leaned in slightly. “And how are the triplets?” she asked, her voice softening by a fraction. “How is little Michael? I heard⁠—”

Lysander cut her off before she could finish the sentence. “They are at Hilgrove Manor, where they belong.”

“What I meant was⁠—”

“They are well, and they are provided for,” he said, his voice dropping into a register so hard it left no room for further inquiry. He looked past her shoulder, scanning the ballroom floor with cool, calculating efficiency.

Society could whisper about his wife’s death until they were blue in the face. They could call him a monster, a murderer, or a villain. He cared nothing for their opinions. But his children were not a topic for ballroom gossip. They were his responsibility, and he would not have their names dragged through the mud to satisfy the idle curiosity of Mayfair matrons.

“I am here for a duchess,” Lysander repeated, bringing his gaze back to the Dowager. “Nothing more.”

Before the Dowager could answer, a shadow fell across the parquet floor beside him.

He turned his head slowly. A young woman stood three paces away, holding a small card bound in ivory silk. She was tall, with light brown hair pinned in soft coils and eyes the color of warm amber that blinked at him in slight bewilderment.

“Your Grace?” Her voice was clear, though a tiny line appeared between her brows. She glanced down at her card, then up at his shoulder. “I believe this is our dance.”

Lysander did not move. He looked down at her, his dark gray eyes unblinking, his hands resting heavily behind his back. “Our dance?”

“Yes.” She offered a small, hesitant tilt of her head, indicating the card. “The waltz.”

Beside them, the Dowager let out a soft, delighted hum. Her eyes sparkled behind her spectacles as she took a step back, tapping her walking stick twice against the floorboards. “Well, I shall leave you two to settle your schedule.” With a wink neither of them had asked for, she glided away into the crowd, her velvet skirts swishing.

Lysander watched the old woman go, then shifted his attention back to the lady standing before him. Confusion pulled at his jaw. “I have not touched a dancing card tonight, Miss⁠—”

“Lady Fanny Waldron,” she supplied, a sudden flush of pink rising along the curve of her throat. She held the card higher, her fingers tightening slightly against the silk tassel. “And your name is written right here. ‘Duke of Hilgrove.’ In dark ink.”

Lysander didn’t reach for the card. He kept his arms crossed, his broad frame blocking the light of the nearest chandelier. “I signed no cards. I arrived ten minutes ago.”

Fanny paused. She looked at the handwriting on the card, then back up at his unyielding face. Her amber eyes widened slightly. “Then how…”

Lysander’s gaze flicked over her shoulder, tracking the Dowager’s bright purple turban as she disappeared toward the punch bowl. The piece fit into place instantly. He let out a low, dry breath through his nose.

“It is fascinating,” Lysander said, his voice smooth and entirely devoid of warmth, “the lengths to which women will go to achieve their goals.”

The pink on Lady Fanny’s cheeks deepened to a dark, angry crimson. Her chin snapped up, her spine straightening until her shoulders locked. She stepped forward, her amber eyes flashing in the candlelight.

“I beg your pardon?” Her voice dropped an octave, steady and sharp as drawn steel. “If you are suggesting that I forged your signature onto my card, Your Grace, you are wildly mistaken. I do not need trickery, nor do I scheme to corner gentlemen who clearly prefer to scowl in dark corners. I came to claim what I believed was an obligation.”

Lysander tilted his head, watching her. Most ladies in Mayfair shrank two inches when he spoke to them in that tone. Most flinched, looked at the floor, or searched for their mothers. Fanny Waldron stood her ground, her fingers curled tightly around her card, meeting his gaze without a tremor.

She was unaware of the dowager’s schemes. A sudden, faint prickle of amusement stirred in his chest. It had been months, perhaps years, since anyone had spoken to him with such outright indignation.

“Is that so?” Lysander stepped closer, his shadow completely covering her. He let his voice drop, low and deliberate. “And here I assumed you had planned the entire affair. That you hoped I might do the gentlemanly thing, spare you the utter humiliation of a blank dance card, lead you out onto the floor, fall madly in love with your sparkling charm, and offer you a duchess’s coronet before the clock strikes midnight.”

Fanny’s mouth parted in sheer disbelief. Her eyebrows shot up, and for a second, she merely stared at him as if he had spoken in a foreign tongue.

Then, a bitter little smile touched her lips. “A coronet? From a man who looks as though he eats nails for breakfast and considers a smile a breach of naval discipline? You flatter yourself, Your Grace. I would rather dance with the orchestra’s bass violin.”

Lysander’s lips twitched. He straightened, exhaling a quiet, dry laugh. “You should have realized the Dowager was behind it from the moment you saw the ink. It is her house party, after all. Manipulation is her primary form of entertainment.”

Fanny blinked. The anger in her eyes flickered, replaced by a sudden, sharp realization. Her gaze darted toward the crowd where Lady Greystone was currently holding court.

“The Dowager,” Fanny whispered, the breath leaving her in a small sigh. She pressed a hand to her chest, her thumb catching the fabric of her bodice. “Of course. She is famous for arranging these ‘accidental’ encounters.”

She snapped her head back up to Lysander, her eyes narrowing again. “Why did you allow me to stand here believing you were accusing me? That was exceptionally cruel.”