Page 15 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

“Your Grace, you could not have chosen a more devoted, sensible creature!” Lady Gooldwer gushed, pivoting to face Lysander with a wide, manic smile while still holding Fanny aloft like a prize. “Fanny is remarkably quiet! She does not care for expensive gowns or frivolous balls, and she is exceptionally skilled at managing household servants and organizing closets! She will be the most obedient, perfect wife a duke could ever dream of!”

Fanny wanted the floorboards to open up and swallow her whole. She stared at the carpet, her jaw locked tight, her knuckles turning white in her mother’s grasp.

Lysander did not smile. He did not even blink. He looked at Lady Gooldwer’s fluttering handkerchief with a cold, detached indifference before shifting his gray eyes back to Fanny’s flushed, bent head.

“I need to hear the answer from Lady Fanny herself,” Lysander said.

The instruction was quiet, but it carried the weight of an absolute command.

Lady Gooldwer immediately caught his meaning. “Of course! Naturally! A private moment for the happy couple!” She spun around, grabbing Blanche by the elbow with surprising strength. “Come along, Blanche! We must give them space!”

“Mama, wait.” Blanche tried to protest, her eyes darting back toward Fanny with deep concern.

“Nonsense! They require privacy!” Lady Gooldwer swept her eldest daughter out of the room with sweeping, dramatic arm movements, practically pushing Blanche through the oak doors.

As she crossed the threshold, Lady Gooldwer’s voice echoed boisterously down the grand hallway. “Butler! Bring the champagne! Bring the finest wine in the cellar at once! We are celebrating!”

The three pugs burst out into the hall after her, their paws clicking furiously against the wood as they barked in a high-pitched, excited chorus, joining in the noisy celebration as if they understood that their mistress had just secured a coronet for the family.

The heavy oak doors clicked shut.

Fanny stood by the tea table, her breath catching in her chest. The echo of her mother’s hysterical joy faded into nothing, leaving only the steady, rhythmic ticking of the clock in the corner.

Slowly, Fanny lifted her head.

Lysander stood five paces away from her, large, dark, and motionless. He had set his top hat on the sideboard, his hands resting lightly behind his back. Morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows, catching the uncompromising angle of his jaw and the quiet, intense focus in his gray eyes.

He was not offering her romance. He was not offering her soft words or empty reassurances. He stood before her, a man from a broken home, offering her a key to her cage.

Fanny took a slow, deep breath, smoothed the front of her simple morning dress, and stepped out from behind the table.

Seven

The oak doors had barely clicked shut behind Lady Gooldwer’s fluttering lace and the yapping of her pugs when the atmosphere in the morning room shifted, heavy and dense.

Lysander let his hands drop from behind his back. He looked at the closed door, the shadow of a deep, unyielding scowl darkening his brow.

“Your mother is a deeply tiresome woman,” Lysander said, his voice flat, gravelly, and unvarnished. He turned his gaze back to Lady Fanny, taking in the neat, modest lines of her morning dress and the stiff, defensive posture of her shoulders. “She represents every single aspect of London society that I hold in absolute contempt—the shallow ambition, the performative hysterics, and the horrifying eagerness to trade a daughter’s life for a title before the tea has even gone cold.”

Lady Fanny’s head snapped up, a sharp, golden spark igniting in her amber eyes. Her hands clenched into small fists at her sides.

“Do not speak of my mother in that tone,” Lady Fanny said, her voice steady despite the flush of heat creeping up her neck. “She may be dramatic, and she may care far too much for Mayfair’s foolish opinion, but she has spent the last four years worrying over how to keep a roof above our heads while my father’s debts threatened to drown us. I will not stand here and allow you to insult her in her own house.”

Lysander’s jaw tightened, a dark flicker of appreciation passing behind his eyes. She did not cower. Even caught in the ruins of her reputation, she stood like a small, stubborn guard protecting her family.

He took a slow step forward; his polished boots heavy against the rug. “Defend her if you must, Lady Fanny. But I am not here to discuss Lady Gooldwer’s virtue. Noon has arrived. I require your answer.”

The sudden, direct demand hung between them, stark and uncompromising.

Lady Fanny’s chest rose and fell in a shallow, rapid rhythm. From the far end of the hallway, the faint sound of champagne corks popping echoed through the quiet house—a cruel reminder of how quickly her family had already surrendered her fate. She swallowed hard, taking a small, deliberate step back toward the edge of the mahogany table.

“I cannot give you an answer today,” she said, her throat tight.

Lysander’s eyes narrowed into dangerous, calculating slits. “We had an agreement.”

“We had a conversation while my gown was torn,” Lady Fanny corrected, lifting her chin to meet his piercing gaze. “If I am to step into your home, if I am to take on the responsibility of raising three young children, I must meet them first.”

She gripped the polished edge of the table behind her, her knuckles turning white. “It is only fair, Your Grace. It is only right that those three children get to see the woman who intends to become their mother before a contract is signed. I will not be thrust into their lives as a stranger.”