Page 14 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

“Oh, absolutely not!” Lady Gooldwer shrieked from her chair, sitting bolt upright. Pip let out a startled bark. “Devonshire? I am not giving up London to go there! The air in the country is far too damp, and my pugs absolutely hate the grass! Barnaby develops a dreadful cough whenever he sets foot on the lawn!”

Lady Gooldwer waved her hand dismissively at Fanny. “If Fanny wishes to hide from society, she must go to the country alone! I shall remain here in Mayfair!”

Fanny closed her eyes for a brief second, breathing in the quiet, heavy air of the room.

Her mother’s words, absurd as they were, struck at the very core of her reality. An exile to Devonshire meant hiding in a quiet dower house, living on her sister’s charity, and watching the years slip away in silent solitude. It meant accepting the slow, miserable death of a ruined woman. It meant giving up her dream of a home of her own, a nursery filled with laughter, and children to hold in her arms.

Exile was not what Fanny wanted. She did not want to hide.

She lifted her head; her gaze shifted to the tall clock ticking in the corner of the morning room. The gold hands read eleven-fifteen. Forty-five minutes remained until noon.

The overlapping voices in the morning room dissolved into a dull, rhythmic buzzing in Fanny’s ears.

Her mother was already debating which lace trim would best suit a quiet carriage ride to Devonshire. Blanche stood beside her, her brow furrowed as she mentally drafted letters to respectable gentlemen across the country. Fanny watched them, her chest tightening until she could barely draw breath.

It felt precisely like the night before—trapped within the suffocating, towering walls of the boxwood labyrinth, turning corner after corner only to collide with another cold, unyielding dead end. Hiding away in the countryside was a quiet surrender. It meant accepting the slow death of her spirit, living as a ghost on her sister’s generosity, forever stripped of the chance to build a life of her own.

There was only one way out of the maze. Only one path, dark and uncertain as it was, offered her a life of purpose, a home to run to, and three motherless children who desperately needed someone to stand between them and the quiet terror of their stone halls.

Fanny cleared her dry throat, her fingers knotting together in her lap.

“There is another option,” Fanny said quietly.

Neither her mother nor Blanche heard her over the frantic yapping of Pip.

Before Fanny could raise her voice, the double doors of the morning room were flung open with a sharp, heavy report. The butler stood in the doorway, his spine rigid, his face drained of color. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He swallowed hard, adjusting his gloves with a trembling hand, before finally finding his voice.

“His Grace… the Duke of Hilgrove.”

The room plummeted into silence. Even the pugs ceased their hysterical barking, sensing the sudden, drastic shift in the air.

The duke stepped into the morning room.

He instantly dominated the space, his broad frame framed by the doorway. He was impeccably dressed in a crisp black morning coat, dark trousers, and a high linen collar that framed his sharply carved jaw. His dark hair was brushed back, but his gray eyes were as cold, piercing, and unyielding as the midnight fog. He held his tailored top hat in one gloved hand, his broad shoulders squared as he scanned the room, his gaze sweeping over the shocked faces before locking directly onto Fanny.

Her mother froze mid-gesture, her lace handkerchief suspended in the air. Blanche shifted her weight, stepping half an inch in front of Fanny, her dark eyes narrowing into suspicious, protective slits.

The duke took three measured, heavy steps into the parlor, the floorboards barely creaking beneath his weight. He stopped near the center rug, making no move to offer small talk or pleasantries.

“I am here to ask for Lady Fanny Waldron’s hand in marriage,” he said. His voice was a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated through the small room, flat and devoid of any theatrical flourish.

They all stared at him.

Lysander did not flinch beneath the collective, stunned silence, his dark face entirely unreadable.

Fanny watched him closely, noting that he did not so much as flinch at the reaction he caused. She knew he was accustomed to the gasps, the horrified pale faces, and the icy stares of society, but today he clearly had no patience for social dancing. He needed an answer, and he intended to have it.

“I am here,” Lysander repeated, his tone dropping an octave, firmer and more deliberate than before, “to ask for Miss Fanny’s hand.”

Lady Gooldwer’s face drained of color, turning a pasty, sickly white that matched her lace cap. Fanny could practically see the terrible, dark whispers of Mayfair flooding her mother's mind all at once—the late Duchess, four years ago, the mysterious circumstances, and the dark monster of Hilgrove Manor.

Her mother looked up at the tall, formidable man towering over the furniture, and for a fleeting second, pure terror showed in her eyes. Yet, Fanny knew her mother was, above all else, a woman of the ton. Lady Gooldwer would never refuse a duke; a coronet was a coronet to her, no matter how dark the shadows clinging to its gold.

A sudden, dizzying wave of triumph replaced the terror on her face. Lady Gooldwer let out a breathless, dramatic gasp and rushed forward, completely ignoring Blanche’s warning hand. She seized Fanny’s cold wrist, clutching her daughter’s fingers in a tight, desperate grip.

“Oh, Fanny!” Lady Gooldwer cried, her voice trembling with an artificial, hysterical joy. “I always knew you would make me proud! I never doubted it for a single second!”

Blanche closed her eyes, a look of profound, agonizing embarrassment washing over her features as she pinched the bridge of her nose. Fanny felt her cheeks burn with a deep, furious blush, unable to pull her hand away from her mother’s vice-like grip.