Page 48 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

“I am sorry! I am so sorry, Father!” Emily cried out, her voice breaking into a ragged, frantic sob. “I did not mean to push him! I did not mean to tear my pinafore! I am so sorry! Please, I was only trying to save the creature!”

She was not merely upset by the scraped skin on her palms; she was utterly paralyzed by the terror of having failed him, terrified that her clumsy fall had ruined her father’s fragile approval.

Fanny rushed forward instantly, dropping to her knees on the flagstones and gathering the weeping girl tightly into her arms.

“Hush, my sweet girl, it is all right,” Fanny whispered tenderly, pressing a kiss to the top of Emily’s dark curls as the child buried her face against her plum wool bodice. “You did nothing wrong. It was an accident. You saved Pickles, Emily. It is not your fault.”

Lysander stood over them, his dark brows locked in a deep, severe line as he looked down at the torn pinafore and the scraped gravel. His mind, trained on duty, order, and avoiding physical catastrophe, fixated on the hazard rather than the fragile heart trembling beneath his shadow.

“You must exercise far more care, Emily,” Lysander said, his gravelly voice stern and clipped, devoid of any soothing warmth. “Rushing blindly across slick flagstones is reckless. You could have cracked your skull against the terrace step.”

Emily froze in Fanny’s embrace.

The little girl pulled back slowly, her face falling into an expression of utter, devastating defeat. The brief, fragile bridge of hope they had built that morning shattered completely in her dark eyes.

“I am sorry,” Emily whispered, her voice sounding hollow, lifeless, and stripped of all childlike warmth.

She pulled her hands free from Fanny’s grasp, turned on her heel, and bolted down the garden path toward the house, her small boots slapping out frantic rhythms on the gravel until she disappeared through the terrace doors.

Lysander stood frozen on the path, his chest heaving as he looked around the shattered scene. Peter was quietly sniffling by the crate, Michael was still trembling against the wall, and the crisp autumn wind whipped through the empty space where Emily had stood.

She watched Lysander stare at the empty terrace doors for a single, agonizing moment, his hands clenching into tight fists before he turned on his heel and strode down the outer gravel path, his broad back rigid with tension.

Fanny forced her eyes away from him before dropping to her knees between the two boys on the damp flagstones.

“Breathe, Michael,” Fanny whispered, sliding her arms around the trembling boy, holding him firmly until the wild, erratic gasps in his chest began to smooth out. She reached out with her other hand, brushing a streak of dirt from Peter’s cheek. “You were very brave to watch over Pickles, Peter. Gently now, put him back into the moss.”

Peter sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand as he guided the tortoise into the wooden crate. “Pickles didn’t get hurt, Fanny.”

“Thanks to you and Emily,” Fanny said softly, pressing a gentle kiss to Michael’s pale forehead.

A quiet, kind-faced nursery maid appeared at the terrace doors. Fanny rose, smoothing her plum-colored skirts. “Mary, please take Master Peter and Master Michael to the small parlor. Stoke the fire and read them the book of seafaring voyages until tea is brought up.”

“Right away, Your Grace,” the maid curtsied, ushering the two boys inside.

Fanny turned on her heel and set off down the gravel path, tracking the heavy boot prints leading toward the south wall.

Lysander stood with his back to the path, staring into the dark woodland. His arms were folded tightly across his chest, his large hands clamped into fists against his forearms. The autumn wind whipped dark strands of hair across his forehead, yet he remained motionless.

“Are you angry with me, Lysander?” Fanny asked, her slippers coming to a halt three paces behind him.

Lysander let out a slow, controlled breath. He did not turn around immediately.

“I am not angry, Fanny,” he said, his gravelly voice clipped and flat. “However, I would appreciate it if you informed me in advance before completely overturning the children’s daily routine. A household requires order to function.” He turned his head slightly, his sharp profile carved dark against the gray sky. “Furthermore, I would have preferred Veronica to be present on the terrace to assist in keeping the children under control.”

Fanny stepped closer, her eyes narrowing. “There is something about Veronica that I cannot explain, Lysander. I do not know whether she is simply exhausted, or whether something else is wrong, but I do not trust the way she behaves around Michael.”

Lysander turned to face her fully, his brow furrowing in disbelief. “That is ridiculous. Veronica has cared for those three children since they were born. When Cecily died, Veronica came to me on bended knee and insisted that the children knew her and needed familiar care. She has sacrificed every scrap of her life to them for years.”

He paused.

Society knew only that Lysander had whisked Cecily away to the damp isolation of a remote country estate under the guise of a sudden, quiet illness—a cover story Sterling had willingly enabled to protect his own name—leaving gossip to transform Lysander’s proud, protective silence into whispers of murder when she died a year later.

“And what was she before that?” Fanny challenged, holding his gaze. “Did she have any training with young children?”

“She was Cecily’s personal lady’s maid,” Lysander said, his jaw tightening. “She was fiercely devoted to my late wife.”

“A maid to the late Duchess,” Fanny said softly, watching the tension in his face. “A woman devoted to your former wife, now keeping your most fragile child hidden behind locked doors. I believe Michael needs to spend time away from her, Lysander.”