Page 46 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

A sickening knot of ice seized Fanny’s chest. Her hands went cold, but she forced every muscle in her face to remain smooth and unalarmed. She reached out, her touch as light as a feather, gently smoothing the fabric of his jacket away from his shoulder.

“Michael, darling,” Fanny whispered, keeping her voice as steady and soothing as a lullaby. “May I see your back for just a moment?”

Michael stiffened instantly, his dark eyes flaring with sudden, terrifying alarm.

Gently, tenderly, Fanny eased his small jacket off his shoulders and lifted the fine white linen of his undershirt.

The sight beneath made the room spin around her.

Across his narrow shoulder blades and down the delicate ridges of his spine, the boy’s skin was marked by a patchwork of bruises. Some were fresh, deep indigo and violet marks, while others had faded to a dull, sickly yellow beneath the surface.

These were not the scrapes of a child stumbling over carpet or bumping into bedposts during a sleepwalking episode. They were vicious, calculated, and placed precisely where high collars and wool waistcoats would hide them from the world.

Horror and white-hot fury roared through Fanny’s veins, threatening to choke her. Someone had been systematically hurting this little boy.

She carefully smoothed the linen shirt back down, her fingers trembling slightly before she masked the tremor. She leaned in close, bringing her eyes level with his.

“Michael,” Fanny asked, her voice cracking with fierce, protective sorrow. “Who did this to you? Did someone hurt you, sweetheart?”

The boy’s face drained of color, turning white. Pure, unadulterated terror seized his features. He shrank back against the chair, his hands flying to cover his mouth, his small chest heaving in rapid, panicked gasps.

“No!” Michael wept, the tears bursting from his eyes in a desperate, silent torrent. “You cannot say anything! Please! If you tell, I will be punished! She will come in the dark, and she will make it worse!”

The sheer desperation in his voice broke Fanny’s heart into pieces. She did not hesitate. She swept the trembling boy into her arms, holding him tightly against her chest and wrapping her arms around his small back with gentle, unyielding strength.

“Hush, hush, my sweet boy,” Fanny murmured against his dark hair, rocking him as he clutched frantically at the wool of her sleeves. “No one is going to punish you. I promise you, on my life, you are safe with me. I will protect you. No one will ever lay a cruel hand on you again.”

Michael sobbed against her collar, his small frame shaking violently under the release of years of silent terror. He refused to speak a name, his little lips clamped shut out of sheer, suffocating dread.

Fanny pulled back just enough to look into his tear-streaked face, brushing the damp curls from his forehead.

“Would you feel safer sleeping in Peter’s room tonight?” Fanny asked gently. “You two could share the large bed, and you would not be alone.”

Michael’s eyes widened with immediate panic, and he shook his head furiously.

“No! No!” Michael gasped, clutching her wrists. “Peter will not be safe! If she comes for me, she will hurt Peter too! Peter cannot be there!”

Fanny stared at him, stunned to her very core. The boy was living in a nightmare so profound that he was actively trying to shield his brother from the monster in their halls.

Fanny cupped his cold cheeks with both her palms, her gaze burning with absolute certainty.

“Then you will sleep in my room,” Fanny said with calm, unshakable authority. “I am the Duchess of Hilgrove, and no one can harm you while you are with me. You will be completely safe in my bed.”

Michael looked into her warm, steady eyes. He searched her face for any hesitation or falseness, finding only solid, unbending protection. Slowly, his breathing slowed, and he gave a single, solemn nod.

“Good,” Fanny said, offering him a tender, encouraging smile as she wiped the wet tracks from his cheeks with her linen handkerchief.

She stood up, holding out her hand to him. She was done allowing this child to wither in isolation behind heavy curtains.

“Come along, Michael,” Fanny said brightly, her voice brimming with warmth and purpose. “Peter and Emily are in the gardens with a very peculiar creature named Pickles, and they have been waiting all morning to show him to you.”

Michael slipped his small, cool hand into hers, holding tight as Fanny led him out of the dark room and into the sunlit hall.

Eighteen

The crisp morning breeze carried the sweet scent of damp earth and crushed mint as Fanny stepped onto the flagstones of the herb garden, her fingers lightly curled around Michael’s small hand.

A few paces ahead, kneeling beside the low stone wall of the terrace, were Peter and Emily. Between them sat the wooden crate, and right beside the children stood Lysander.