Page 31 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

Lysander’s gray eyes locked onto hers, dark and unblinking.

“After all,” Fanny added, a soft, wry smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she looked up from her plate, “it was you who insisted on complete clarity, Your Grace. Two cautious allies sharing an address, bound by a very official contract to raise three lively children. I am merely trying to protect your stern reputation—a gentleman wouldn’t want to risk sending mixed signals over a bowl of soup.”

Lysander’s gray eyes flickered with a sudden, dark ember of amusement, his jaw relaxing by a fraction of an inch as he raised his glass in a silent, lingering salute.

“I appreciate your deep concern for my reputation,” Lysander replied, his low baritone carrying a quiet, teasing warmth that sent a subtle shimmer down her spine. “Though I assure you, my heart is sturdy enough to survive the threat of shared soup.”

He picked up his linen napkin, wiped his fingers, and set it beside his plate.

“In fact,” Lysander continued, resting his forearms on the table as he leaned in slightly, “your collapse yesterday only highlighted the need for structure. I have been considering the matter today, and I believe we should establish a formal set of ground rules.”

Fanny cringed internally, a cold, uncomfortable sensation settling deep in her stomach. He spoke of their marriage as if he were drafting a boundary treaty between hostile territories.

“Ground rules,” Fanny repeated, her voice turning cool and guarded.

“To ensure our coexistence remains as smooth and predictable as possible,” Lysander clarified, his gray eyes tracking her every reaction. “Clear boundaries prevent misunderstandings. We shall outline specific domains over the estate, set firm schedules for the children, and establish expectations regarding public appearances versus private privacy.”

Fanny looked at the formidable man across from her—so dark, so controlled, and so determined to keep every human emotion locked behind iron bars. She felt a sudden urge to challenge him, to tear down the artificial walls he had built around himself. But then the quiet memory of Emily’s frightened whisper from earlier that afternoon echoed in her mind:

You need to protect him from the night monster.

She couldn’t afford a war with the Duke. Not when those children needed an ally in this cold, sprawling house.

“Very well, Your Grace,” Fanny said softly, her amber eyes shining with a quiet, unbroken defiance as she met his gaze. “Lay out your rules. Let us see how neatly you can map out our lives.”

Lysander leaned back in his leather chair, the low glow of the candelabra carving his sharp jawline out of the dark. He gestured with a long, calloused finger toward the blank parchment on the table between them.

“Your duties will focus primarily on Emily and Peter,” he said, his baritone steady and detached. “You will supervise them at all times—throughout their morning lessons, their afternoon exercises, and their unstructured hours before supper. They require absolute stability. Routine. A firm hand to ensure they do not stray from their schedules.”

Fanny sat back, watching him. The candlelight caught the broad span of his shoulders beneath his dark wool coat and the subtle shift of muscle beneath the fine fabric as he reached for his wineglass. A sudden, unbidden heat flared in her chest, bringing the vivid memory of his mouth pressed against hers in the shadow of the chapel archway—the heat of his skin, the unexpected roughness of his thumb against her jaw.

She quickly looked down at her silver fork, her heart hammering a fierce, betraying rhythm against her ribs.

No. Do not go there.

She pressed her knees together beneath her skirts, forcing her breathing to slow before looking back up into his cool gray eyes.

“Structure is fine, Your Grace,” Fanny said, her voice remarkably even despite the pulse fluttering in her throat. “But when do they get to be children? When do they run through the gardens? When do they play?”

“They have an hour of outdoor exercise built into their afternoon,” Lysander replied without hesitation. “It is fully supervised.”

“Supervised exercise is not play,” she countered gently, leaning forward, resting her forearms against the edge of the mahogany table. “And why are they kept so isolated from one another? They sleep in entirely separate wings of the house. Why?”

Lysander’s expression didn’t soften, but his eyes narrowed slightly. “It prevents unnecessary disruptions during the night.”

“And what about Michael?” Fanny pressed, her eyes searching his dark features. “You have not mentioned his schedule once. Where does he fit into your ground rules?”

Lysander set his glass down. “Michael is under Veronica’s care. Exclusively.”

Fanny frowned, a cold prickle of unease settling in her stomach. “Veronica?”

“His nurse,” Lysander said flatly. “She has been with the family since Michael was an infant. He requires someone with experience. Someone who understands his delicate temperament. You are new to this household. Veronica knows what he needs.”

The image of Emily’s wide, terrified eyes flashed through Fanny’s mind, along with the girl’s ragged whisper:

You need to protect him from the night monster.

“I wish to meet Veronica,” Fanny said, her voice hardening with quiet resolve. “And I want to understand Michael’s care. Emily spoke to me today. She mentioned something about a… a night monster. She was terrified, Lysander.”