Page 11 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

Lysander reached out, his large, calloused hand gripping the boy’s small shoulder. He did not pull him close. He held him firmly, firmly enough to anchor him, yet kept a stiff, measured distance.

“Michael,” Lysander commanded, his voice cold, steady, and loud enough to slice through the panic. “Look at me.”

The boy thrust his arm outward, striking Lysander’s chest with a weak, frantic fist. “No! Don’t go! Don’t let her go!”

Lysander tightened his grip on the shoulder, his brow furrowing into deep, harsh lines. His mind raced, searching for the mechanism to shut off the terror, the logical sequence to bring order back to the boy’s mind. His presence did not soothe the child; it never did. He was an oak tree in a storm, sturdy, unbending, but offering no warmth against the cold.

“Listen to my voice,” Lysander said, stating the facts with hard, clinical precision. “You are in Hilgrove Manor. You are in your bedchamber. It was merely a dream. The floor is solid, the windows are locked, and the room is secure. There is nothing here to harm you.”

“Mama!” Michael wept, his small body curling into a tight ball on the cold floor, ignoring the facts entirely. “I want Mama! Where is Mama?”

Lysander’s jaw locked. He felt the familiar, sharp ache tighten in the back of his throat, but his face remained a mask of unyielding stone. He stared down at his son. He saw the small, trembling shoulder, the pale skin slick with cold sweat, and the raw, bleeding desperation of a seven-year-old boy who did not need a list of secure doors or verified facts. What Michael needed was to be gathered into soft arms, held tight against a warm chest, and rocked until the nightmare dissolved.

He needed a mother. The nursery maid, seeing the Duke freeze, took a hesitant step forward. She knelt on the other side of the boy, her hands shaky as she gently smoothed Michael’s damp hair away from his bruised forehead.

“Hush now, little master,” she whispered, her voice carrying a natural, gentle warmth Lysander could never replicate. “Come now. Let us get you back into the warm sheets. It was only a bad dream. The monster is gone.”

She eased the boy up from the floorboards. Michael did not fight her. He allowed her to lift him back into the four-poster bed, his heavy, tear-stained eyelids fluttering shut as she pulled the thick wool blankets up to his chin. Within minutes, his ragged hitches slowed into the deep, rhythmic breathing of exhaustion. The crying ceased. The room fell silent once more.

Lysander slowly stood up. His shadow stretched long across the moonlit floor as he looked down at the sleeping boy.

He remembered Fanny Waldron standing in the rose labyrinth three hours earlier. He remembered the fierce, protective anger in her amber eyes, the unyielding dignity with which she held her torn gown, and the raw, heartbreaking honesty in her voice as she admitted that her chance to be a mother had been stolen from her.

She wanted a family. His children needed a mother.

Lysander turned his back on the bed, his boots making a quiet, heavy sound as he walked out into the dark hallway, leaving the nursery maid to tend to the boy. He pulled his pocket watch from his coat once more, checking the silver face under the dim hall sconce.

It was half past two.

He had promised to call upon Lady Fanny at noon. Nine and a half hours remained.

Lysander closed the watch. Finding a duchess was no longer merely a matter of restoring order to his ledger or satisfying his duty. It was an emergency. And he would have her answer before the sun set tomorrow.

Lysander reached for the brass handle of the nursery door, his broad hand cold against the polished metal. Before his fingers could turn the latch, a small, pale shape stepped out from the deep shadow of the doorframe.

Seven-year-old Emily stood in the doorway, her small feet bare against the cold floorboards, her nightgown trailing slightly in the draft. Her dark hair was tangled from sleep, hanging over her narrow shoulders. She held her little chin up, her shoulders squared in an artificial, rigid, brave stance that was far too old for her years.

Yet, as her dark eyes lifted to meet Lysander’s broad, looming figure, the mask cracked.

A sudden, fleeting flash of raw, unadulterated fear flickered across her pale face. Her small hands clutched the cotton of her nightdress, squeezing it into tight, white-knuckled fists at her sides. She shrank back half an inch—a tiny, involuntary flinch that hit Lysander square in the chest.

It broke something quiet and vital inside him.

He didn’t move closer. He stayed precisely where he was, keeping his heavy frame locked in place so as not to loom over her any more than his height already dictated. He smoothed the harsh line of his brow, forcing every muscle in his angular face into a mask of rigid, unthreatening composure.

“What happened?” Emily asked, her voice a small, tight whisper that barely carried across the drafty hall. “Why was Michael screaming?”

Lysander lowered himself down onto one knee, the heavy wool of his trousers pressing into the floorboards. Even on his knee, he towered over her, but it brought his gray eyes level with hers.

“Michael is all right,” Lysander said, his low, gravelly voice measured and quiet. “He is asleep in his bed now. It was only a nightmare.”

Emily searched his face, her dark eyes wide and unblinking in the dim sconce light. She did not let her guard down. She let out a slow, careful breath through her nose, her little chest rising and falling beneath her nightgown.

“I know,” she murmured. “The screams woke Peter, too. I went to his room first.”

Lysander’s jaw tightened slightly. “Did you?”

Emily gave a single, solemn nod. “He was crying. I stayed with him and sang the song until he closed his eyes again. He is asleep now, too.”