Page 52 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

“Father?” Michael whispered cautiously. “Will you tell us a story… about our mother?”

The question struck the quiet room like a sudden drop in temperature.

Lysander’s jaw tightened, an old, bitter ache rising in the back of his throat. Memories of Cecily flashed through his mind. Her dismissive laughs, the sharp complaints about screaming infants, the vanity that left no room for affection, and the night she packed her jewels and walked into the dark without looking back. There were no sweet bedtime tales to share, no gentle lullabies she had sung, and no tender warmth he could conjure from the past.

He drew a slow breath, looking down at the three hopeful, innocent faces watching him in the candlelight. He could not give them the harsh truth, but he would not let them carry the burden of her coldness.

“Your mother was very strong on the day you were born,” Lysander said, his low baritone pitched soft and steady. “It was an unseasonably warm afternoon in late August. Bringing three children into the world at once is an extraordinary feat, and she bore it with great courage so that each of you could arrive safely.”

Emily rested her chin on her hands, listening with rapt attention, while Peter leaned forward, his eyes shining.

Fanny watched Lysander from across the mattress, her eyes softening with quiet tenderness. “And what do you remember most about that day, Lysander?” she asked gently, encouraging him to step deeper into the memory.

Lysander looked from Fanny to the triplets, the hard edges of his guard melting away.

“I remember the absolute silence of the house right before the first cry sounded,” Lysander answered softly, his voice carrying a depth of feeling he rarely permitted himself to show. “The physician placed each of you into my arms, one by one. First Michael, then Peter, then our little Emily. You were so tiny that all three of you could fit together against my chest.”

He reached out, his large, calloused hand gently smoothing Michael’s dark hair, then resting briefly on Peter’s shoulder and Emily’s small knee.

“I held you there by the window,” Lysander whispered, “and I made a solemn promise. I swore that no matter what happened in this world, I would protect you, provide for you, and never let any harm touch you as long as I drew breath.”

A profound, peaceful hush settled over the bedchamber.

Michael let out a contented sigh, his small eyelids fluttering shut as he snuggled deeper into the pillows. Peter yawned wide, his head dropping sideways against his brother’s shoulder, while Emily curled up on her side, her small hand resting over Fanny’s fingers.

Within minutes, the rhythmic, gentle sound of the three children’s breathing filled the warm room. For the first time in years, all three were asleep together, peaceful, secure, and untroubled by the dark.

Twenty

The gentle, even rhythm of the children’s breathing filled the quiet chamber, blending softly with the crackle of burning oak in the grate.

Fanny kept her hand still as Emily’s small fingers rested over hers. Across the wide expanse of the mattress, with three sleeping children curled between them, she looked up at Lysander. The flickering firelight danced across his harsh, angular cheekbones, softening the dark gray depths of his eyes and casting him in an unfamiliar, gentle warmth.

“They are remarkable children, Lysander,” Fanny whispered, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb the quiet. “They are polite, thoughtful, and protective of one another. They are clearly very well raised, and I must give you credit for that.”

Lysander let out a low, rough chuckle that rumbled deep in his chest. A faint, wry smile touched the corner of his mouth as he met her gaze.

“I believe that is the very first time you have spoken anything remotely complimentary about my parenting,” he murmured with dry amusement.

Fanny could not help the soft chuckle that escaped her lips. She tilted her head slightly, her warm eyes sparkling in the firelight.

“Do not let it go to your head, Your Grace,” she replied in a playful whisper. “Of course, you could stand to be a great deal more flexible. A little more warmth and affection would not bring your great stone manor crashing to the ground.”

The faint amusement on Lysander’s face slowly ebbed away, replaced by a quiet, brooding shadow. He looked down at his large hands resting on the counterpane, his fingers curling slightly into the dark velvet fabric.

“I do not know how to be close to them, Fanny,” Lysander confessed softly, every syllable dragged from his chest like gravel. “Every time I reach out, every time I attempt to soften the rules, I feel as though I am only destined to hurt them or drive them further away.”

Fanny’s heart tightened with a tender, aching sympathy.

“They are much stronger than you think, Lysander,” she said gently, holding his gaze with steady conviction. “They do not need perfection from you. They only need you to show them that you care.”

She paused, taking a slow breath as she gathered her courage. The intimacy of the quiet room, surrounded by his sleeping family, made the lingering shadow between them feel unbearable.

“What truly happened to their mother, Lysander?” Fanny asked softly, her eyes searching his guarded features. “I know you are not the monster society whispers of in dark corners. I know in my heart that you are not a murderer. So please tell me the truth.”

Lysander went utterly still. For a long moment, the only sound was the wind brushing against the tall glass panes outside. He stared into the darkness of the far wall, his jaw setting into hard lines as the ghosts of four long years rose between them.

“Cecily never wanted to be a mother,” Lysander began, his voice flat, heavy, and stripped of all pride. “She never wanted a marriage, and she certainly never wanted children. From the day they were born, she remained cold, distant, and utterly absent from their lives.”