Page 65 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

“Look at them,” a drawling, supercilious voice sneered from the shadow of the nearby alcove. “The reclusive duke brought his little country bird out of hiding, after all.”

Lysander froze two paces from the marble pillar, his dark brows drawing together as the familiar, oily tone cut through the sweeping violins.

Beside a high velvet drape stood Lord Bromley, a glass of dark brandy balanced lazily between his fingers. He was leaning against the wood paneling, whispering to a younger baronet whose mouth was curved into a cruel, amused grin.

“She plays the dutiful duchess remarkably well, doesn’t she?” Bromley continued, his tone dripping with quiet, malicious contempt as his eyes tracked Fanny across the floor. “Though one wonders how long she can maintain the performance. Before she managed to ensnare Hilgrove, she was practically begging for notice at Greystone. I recall quite vividly how desperately she needed to be put in her place. She said something clever, and I ensured she regretted it. Three hooks and a boot heel, and the whole room did the rest.”

The baronet chuckled weakly into his glass, but Lysander heard nothing more.

A cold, deafening silence slammed down over his mind, blotting out the orchestra, the crowd, and the rustle of silk. The memory flared instantly behind his eyes—the moment at Greystone when he had watched from across the ballroom as Bromley’s thumb hooked into the back of Fanny’s bodice with practiced, deliberate speed. The step backward onto the trailing silk of her hem. The sickening moment the hooks had given way, and the bodice had fallen, and the entire room had gone silent, and Fanny had stood alone in the chandelier light with her arms crossed over her chest and nowhere to go.

Lysander didn’t think. He didn’t calculate the consequences, nor did he care for the delicate rules of Mayfair decorum. The icy, controlled discipline that had governed his entire adult life shattered.

In three broad, sweeping strides, Lysander crossed the short distance between them.

Bromley barely had time to turn his head before Lysander’s massive frame blocked out the chandelier light. Lysander’s arm drew back and snapped forward with brutal, terrifying velocity.

His fist caught Bromley squarely on the point of his jaw with a sickening, heavy crack.

The force of the blow lifted the smaller nobleman clean off his feet. Bromley collided violently with a marble pedestal, sending a massive gilded vase shattering across the floorboards before he crashed onto his back, out cold, blood welling instantly over his split lip.

A collective, sharp gasp tore through the immediate circle of guests. The music stumbled into a ragged silence as couples froze, the high-pitched shriek of a countess ringing across the wide room.

Lysander stood over the unconscious lord, his broad chest heaving in deep, rasping breaths. His dark hair had fallen slightly over his brow, and his gray eyes burned with a wild, terrifying fury as he flexed his bruised knuckles inside his glove.

“Lysander!”

The panicked, breathless cry cut through the stunned hush of the room.

Fanny broke away from Sterling, ignoring the whispers and wide eyes of the crowd as her emerald skirts swept across the floorboards. She reached his side in seconds, her face pale, her eyes wide with sheer shock as she looked from the bleeding man on the floor up to her husband’s rigid, trembling frame.

“Lysander, what in heaven’s was that?” Fanny gasped, reaching out to catch his arm, her small fingers digging into the heavy wool of his sleeve. “What have you done?”

Lysander did not look at the crowd, nor did he offer a glance to the horrified host rushing toward them. He slowly lowered his hard gaze to Bromley, his voice tearing past his throat in a low, terrifying growl that carried cleanly over the silent room.

“I owed you that punch, Bromley,” Lysander said, his voice flat, gravelly, and lethal. “Ever since the despicable thing you did to my wife at Greystone when you tore her clothes.”

A violent ripple of hushed, scandalized murmurs erupted across the perimeter of the ballroom.

Fanny’s breath hitched in her throat, her face flushing a deep, sudden crimson as the full weight of his words registered.

Before the host could reach them, Lysander turned sharply, his large, calloused hand reaching down to lock firmly around Fanny’s fingers.

“We are leaving,” Lysander growled, his grip tight, protective, and unyielding.

He didn’t wait for her reply. He pulled her cleanly past the stunned circle of aristocrats, his broad shoulders plowing a path through the frozen crowd toward the grand exit. Fanny didn’t fight him, nor did she look back; she held fast to his hand, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs as he swept her out of the blinding light of society and back into the dark, stormy night.

Twenty-Five

The ride back to Hilgrove Manor was wrapped in a suffocating, impenetrable silence, broken only by the violent lash of rain against the carriage windows and the heavy, rhythmic thud of the horses’ hooves.

Fanny sat stiffly on the velvet bench, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her gloved knuckles turned white. Beside her, Lysander was a dark, towering silhouette carved from stone. He stared straight ahead into the cabin’s shadows, his chest heaving in slow, deliberate rasps, his jaw locked so tight the muscles along his temple throbbed. The heavy scent of rain, cedar, and raw adrenaline rolled off him in waves, filling the tiny space until Fanny felt lightheaded.

When the coach finally ground to a halt before the main portico, Lysander did not wait for the footman. He threw the door open, stepped out into the pouring rain, and held out his hand to her. His grip was broad, burning hot, and as steady as an iron bar as he guided her up the stone steps.

They crossed the threshold into the quiet, dim foyer. Night had long since fallen over the estate; the household was asleep save for a few low wall sconces casting long, amber shadows across the flagstones.

Lysander stripped off his gloves, tossing them onto the hall table with a dark, restless energy. He turned toward the grand staircase, his broad shoulders squared, clearly intending to retreat into his study and lock the door against the world once more.