Page 20 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

An unexpected pang of grief rose in her throat, so sharp and hollow it took all her strength to keep her chin from trembling.

Lysander’s gray eyes flicked down, catching the subtle shift in her posture, the sudden fraction of a second where her composure faltered. He did not offer a word of comfort. Instead, his brow furrowed slightly as he reached into his coat and checked the face of his gold pocket watch.

“It is getting late,” Lysander said, his tone shifting into a sharp, practical register. “And the wind is picking up. You are standing in damp grass without a cloak, Lady Fanny; you will catch a cold if you remain outside much longer.” He snapped the watch shut. “You should come inside and meet the children. That was the primary purpose of this visit, was it not?”

Fanny swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing her shoulders back, wrapping her pride tightly around her like armor. “I can’t wait, Your Grace.”

Lysander froze, his hand pausing near his lapel as his gray eyes searched her face. “I see you are eager.”

“I am,” Fanny said smoothly, keeping her voice completely composed. She glanced past him toward the sweeping lawns, keeping her face an unreadable mask. She had promised the little boy by the garden wall that she would not tell on him, and she had no intention of breaking her word—not even to the intimidating Duke of Hilgrove. “And their presence does not alter my willingness to manage your household.”

Lysander’s jaw set hard, his gaze lingering on her for a long, silent moment.

“They are somewhat energetic,” he muttered, his voice dropping into a low, displeased growl. “Especially Peter, who has an intolerable tendency to wander off when the tutors are not looking. If you expect this position to be quiet, you will be sorely disappointed.”

He turned slightly toward the stone path, ready to stride back toward the house to issue a reprimand, but Fanny’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

“He was terrified of you,” Fanny said.

The words were spoken softly, almost gently, but they hit the quiet garden with the weight of a dropped stone.

Lysander stopped dead. He did not turn around immediately. His broad back remained rigid, his dark coat stiff against the morning breeze. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating, punctuated only by the distant caw of a crow in the treetops.

“I did not need to tell him who was coming,” she whispered into the cold air. “The moment he heard your boots on the gravel; the color vanished from his face. He begged me not to tell you he was in the dirt, and he ran into the woods like a frightened rabbit.”

Lysander’s mouth tightened into a hard, white line, but he said nothing. He stood there, a towering, solitary figure framed against the cold stone of Hilgrove Manor, watching the woman who was about to enter his broken home.

Nine

The air between them grew instantly thin, the quiet rustle of the oak leaves overhead suddenly sharp and clear.

The cold stone mask the Duke wore so effortlessly began to fracture. A dark flush of color crept up his sharp neck, staining his jawline, and the muscles along his cheeks flexed with sudden, violent tension.

Watching the crack in his impenetrable armor, her mind stumbled.

Lysander.

It was the first time she had thought of him by his proper name rather than his formidable title. Saying his name internally felt dangerously intimate, like stepping across a line she could never uncross.

A sudden, sharp heat flared in her chest, making her heart hammer wildly against her ribs. She took a swift, shallow breath, trying to steady her hands as his dark gray eyes locked onto hers with a fierce, unblinking intensity that threatened to swallow her whole.

“You have formed rather strong opinions, Lady Fanny,” Lysander said, his voice dropping an octave into a harsh, dangerous growl, “after spending precisely five minutes with one of my children.”

Fanny held her ground, though the sheer heat of his annoyance rolled off him in waves. She refused to let him see her falter. She smoothed her dark green skirts and met his icy gray eyes with an unblinking, steady gaze.

“I have seen you often enough in the last two days to know the weight you carry, Your Grace,” Fanny replied, keeping her voice smooth and deliberate despite the fast, frantic thumping of her heart. “You are a broad-shouldered man with a voice like iron and a face carved of granite. You can come across as deeply intimidating, especially to a boy whose fingers are covered in dirt.”

Lysander let out a sharp, humorless sound through his nose, his gray eyes narrowing into razor-thin slits.

“And you believe you will be any different?” he demanded, stepping so close she had to tilt her head back to look at his mouth. “You think a strange woman walking into their nursery with soft words will magically undo four years of chaos? The children have been frightened of everyone since they lost their mother. They flinch at shadows. They hide behind the curtains when the staff enters. It has nothing to do with me and my boots on the gravel.”

A subtle edge of raw, bleeding self-defense vibrated through his low baritone. It was faint, but Fanny caught it instantly.

“You sound defensive, Your Grace,” she pointed out softly.

“I am not defensive,” he snapped, his jaw setting so hard the click of his teeth was audible. He pointed a long, gloved finger down at her, his frame towering over hers like a storm cloud. “Do not push this matter, Lady Fanny. It is not your place to analyze my parenting, nor to analyze my household before you have even crossed its threshold.”

“Yet it will be my place,” Fanny insisted, her voice rising to match the sudden, electric charge vibrating in the morning air. She took a half-step forward, closing the remaining space between them until the front of her gown brushed against the dark wool of his coat. “Is that not precisely what you are buying today? You demanded a duchess to bring order to your home and to protect your children.”