Page 17 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

The pale morning light filtered through the tall, arched windows of the study, illuminating the slow, rhythmic swirl of dust motes in the quiet room.

Lysander stood behind his mahogany desk, systematically reviewing a stack of land deeds and tenant ledgers. His ink-stained fingers moved with precise, practiced efficiency as he signed his name at the bottom of each parchment. Outside, the distant crunch of iron wheels on gravel signaled that his carriage was being prepared for the journey to Mayfair. It was half past eight.

A quiet knock echoed at the heavy oak door before it swung open without waiting for permission.

Horace, Earl of Dunstable, strolled into the room, tossing his leather riding gloves onto the corner of Lysander’s pristine desk. Horace had been Lysander’s closest companion since their schooldays—a man whose easy smile and lighthearted manner masked an acute, razor-sharp eye. He pulled back the heavy leather armchair across from the desk, sinking into it with an unceremonious sigh, then poured himself a cup of black tea from the silver pot on the side tray.

“You are up early for a man who spent his entire evening in the belly of the Mayfair beast,” Horace remarked, taking a cautious sip. His keen eyes swept over Lysander’s dark morning coat, crisp cravat, and the absolute lack of weariness on his angular face. “I half-expected to find you lingering over breakfast, nursing the headache that usually accompanies an encounter with the town’s gossips.”

Lysander did not look up from his ledger. His steel-nibbed pen scratched firmly against the parchment.

“My morning has been entirely productive,” Lysander replied, his gravelly voice low and steady. He dusted a coat of sand over the fresh ink, blew the grains away, and set the deed aside. “The matter of securing a duchess has been resolved.”

Horace paused, the teacup hovering inches from his lips. He blinked once, his brow furrowing in genuine astonishment. “Resolved? You were at Greystone Manor for less than two hours. Whom did you corner in the conservatory?”

“Lady Fanny Waldron,” Lysander said flatly, pulling the next document toward him.

Horace leaned back and let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Lady Fanny? The young woman whose gown suffered that unfortunate… accident on the ballroom floor?”

He shook his head, a mixture of awe and skepticism dancing in his eyes. “Good God, Lysander. You move with the speed of an invading army. Most men spend Seasons navigating calling cards, tea parties, and negotiating marriage settlements with tedious fathers before securing a promise.”

“Which is precisely why I found the arrangement so extraordinarily convenient,” Lysander said, his jaw setting into a firm line. He leaned his palms flat against the blotter, meeting his friend’s gaze directly. “I have avoided every single layer of Mayfair’s wretched theatricality. There was no frantic back-and-forth between scheming mothers, no endless bartering over settlements with ambitious lords, and no necessity to endure the ordeal of artificial social calls.”

He flexed his broad shoulders, a dark sense of satisfaction settling in his chest. “I was fortunate enough to bypass the dowagers’ pathetic matchmaking games entirely. Lady Fanny required immediate protection from social ruin, and my household required a mistress to restore order for my children. It is a straightforward business transaction, clear and unencumbered by nonsense.”

Horace set his teacup down, leaning forward, his amused smile softening into something far more discerning.

“A transaction,” Horace repeated softly, tilting his head as he studied the Duke’s hard features. “Lysander, my dear friend, you are describing a military treaty, not a marriage. Women, even those caught in the cruel gears of a scandal, rarely view their lives through the lens of a ledger. They expect to be wooed. They expect small attentions, gentle courtesies, and at least the illusion of warmth.”

Horace picked up his teaspoon, tapping it lightly against the rim. “I severely doubt you will be able to avoid at least some degree of courtship. She is a lady of quality, after all, not a steward you are hiring to oversee the stables.”

Lysander’s gray eyes turned icy, the line of his mouth hardening into an unyielding straight line.

“Then she will be swiftly disabused of any such foolish expectations,” Lysander said, his voice dropping into a stern, gravelly register that left no room for debate.

He stood up, his broad, looming frame towering over the desk as he reached for his pocket watch, checking the gold face. Nine o’clock. In one hour, his carriage would arrive at the Gooldwer residence to fetch her.

“I have no intention of playing the part of a foolish suitor, Horace,” Lysander continued, his tone measured, cold, and absolute. “I will make it abundantly clear to my future bride before she ever places her foot upon the threshold of this house that romance is entirely off the table.”

He snapped his pocket watch shut. “She will have my title, my protection, and the absolute authority of a duchess over this estate. My children will have a mother. But I will not offer her soft lies.”

Horace looked up at him for a long, silent moment, the playful light fading completely from his eyes, replaced by a quiet, lingering concern.

“I see,” Horace murmured, picking up his riding gloves from the desk and rising to his feet. He looked toward the door, where the sound of horses champing at their bits outside indicated that the carriage was ready. “Then I wish you luck today, Your Grace. Something tells me Lady Fanny may not be quite as easily managed as your land ledgers.”

Lysander did not reply immediately. He picked up his tailored top hat and straightened his dark cuffs, his gaze fixing on the unlit hearth across the room.

Love, in his experience, was nothing more than a dangerous, costly delusion. His first marriage had taught him that lesson down to the marrow of his bones.

He had watched his late wife turn their home into a war zone of volatile tempers, bitter resentments, and endless, exhausting theatrics. She had demanded a devotion he could never stretch far enough to satisfy, weaponizing affection until every quiet corner of Hilgrove Manor felt poisoned. When she died, she left behind three bewildered children, a fog of dark rumors, and a man who had sworn never again to hand a woman the power to dismantle his peace.

Marriage to Lady Fanny would be different. It would be a cold, clean contract built on duty, structure, and survival. No grand romantic expectations. No emotional trapdoors.

Except… as he tightened his gloved fingers around the brim of his hat, the memory of yesterday morning flared unbidden in his mind.

He could still feel the sudden, intoxicating heat radiating from her. He remembered how small she had seemed, cornered against that mahogany table, yet how her amber eyes had flashed with fierce, unbroken fire when she had called him a murderer to his face.

She had smelled of sweet clover and damp silk, her breath hitching just inches from his mouth. He had been a hair’s breadth away from gripping her jaw, pulling her up, and silencing her defiant lips with his own—a thought that was as reckless as it was dangerously addictive.