Page 16 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

Lysander let out a low, humorless exhale through his nose. He recognized a tactical retreat when he saw one.

“You are stalling,” Lysander said softly, his voice cutting through the quiet room.

He began to walk toward her—slow, deliberate, and imposing. With every heavy stride he took, the morning room seemed to shrink, his massive, looming frame blocking out the pale sunlight streaming through the sash windows.

“You think you can play a delicate game of postponement,” he continued, taking another step, closing the distance until the heat of his presence radiated through the chilly air. “You think if you delay me, if you demand conditions and push the deadline, you can maintain control over a situation that has already slipped through your fingers. If you believe you can outplay me, Lady Fanny, you are gravely mistaken.”

Lady Fanny’s back hit the edge of the mahogany table. She was effectively cornered, trapped between the heavy wood behind her and the dark wall of his chest in front of her. He stood less than two feet away, towering over her, his broad shoulders casting her completely in shadow.

Her breath hit her lips in short, shallow gasps. But she refused to drop her gaze. She refused to curl into herself.

“You may try to intimidate me, Your Grace,” Lady Fanny whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and sudden, blazing defiance. “You may loom over me in my own house and wield your height and title like a weapon. But at the end of the day, you are no different from me.”

Lysander’s brow twitched upward by a fraction of an inch. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” she said, her amber eyes blazing with fierce, raw honesty. “You are a person society has already judged and condemned. They have decided who you are, just as they have decided who I am. They look at me and see a ruined, desperate spinster, and at you, a dangerous, cold creature. The only difference between us, Your Grace, is that as a man—and a duke—you have the freedom to walk through their hatred unscathed. I do not.”

She took a sharp breath, her chest pressing close to the dark wool of his coat. “So do not stand there and attempt to bully me into making a choice I am not ready to make. I will not be frightened into your ledger.”

Silence fell over the room. For two agonizing seconds, Lysander stared down at her. Then, slowly, the hard, unyielding line of his mouth relaxed. A faint, dark smirk curled the corner of his lips—a sudden, dangerous flash of genuine amusement.

This one has nerve.

Beneath the quiet morning dresses and the soft manners lay a spine forged of cold, tempered steel.

“Careful, Lady Fanny,” Lysander murmured, his voice dropping into a low, intimate register. He leaned down an inch, closing the remaining space between them. “Do not be so eager to make me innocent of all charges.”

Lady Fanny gasped softly. He was so close now that his scent—cedar, cold rainwater, and bitter clove—completely overwhelmed the room. A fine, involuntary shudder ran through her limbs, but her eyes remained locked onto his.

“A man who cares so fiercely for his children’s well-being…” Lady Fanny whispered, her voice faltering for a fraction of a second before regaining its edge, “…cannot possibly be a…”

She stopped, the terrible, heavy word catching in her throat.

Lysander stepped half an inch closer, his chest almost brushing hers, his shadow completely enveloping her. “A what?” he prompted, his low baritone vibrating against her collarbone. “If you are brave enough to lecture me on my freedom, Lady Fanny, do not censor your words now. Speak it.”

She lifted her chin, staring directly into his dark, unblinking eyes.

“A murderer,” she whispered.

The word left her lips, stark, sharp, and irrevocable. It hung in the air between them, stripping away every polite pretense, every aristocratic lie, and every clever deflection. There it lay—the dark truth Mayfair only dared whisper in shadows, laid bare in the bright morning light.

Lysander did not flinch. He did not pull back. Instead, a quiet, dark satisfaction settled over his harsh features.

“There,” Lysander said, his voice as smooth and dark as crushed velvet. “You said it. No hiding. No polite riddles between us now.”

He stepped back slowly, releasing her from the suffocating pressure of his physical presence. Lady Fanny drew in a long, shaky breath, her hands gripping the wood behind her.

Lysander reached for his top hat on the sideboard, picking it up with smooth, effortless grace. He turned back to her, adjusting his gloves, his expression once again returning to a mask of impenetrable stone.

“Very well, Lady Fanny,” Lysander said, his tone entirely businesslike. “You shall meet the children. I will have my carriage brought to your doorstep at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. You will come to Hilgrove Manor, you will inspect my home, and you will meet my sons and my daughter.”

He turned toward the oak doors, taking two heavy strides before halting. He did not look back at her, but his profile was carved sharply against the morning light.

He needed to step out of this small, scented room immediately, before the dangerous, uncharacteristic heat rising in his veins drove him to do something entirely reckless—like grabbing her stubborn chin, pulling her face up to his, and crushing his mouth against hers to silence her defiance once and for all.

“Ten o’clock,” Lysander repeated sharply.

Without waiting for her agreement, he pulled open the heavy oak doors and stepped into the grand hall, his dark coat billowing behind him as his heavy footsteps echoed against the floorboards.