Page 21 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

She looked up into his darkening eyes, her amber gaze locking onto his with fierce, uncompromising intent.

“Part of that solemn responsibility,” Fanny continued, each word deliberate and sharp, “will be ensuring that you actually listen to my observations. If I see a frightened, lonely boy running into the bushes because he hears his father’s footsteps, I will speak of it. I will bring you my concerns, Your Grace, whether they fit neatly into your ledgers or not.”

Lysander’s chest rose and fell in a heavy, ragged rhythm. “You are getting extraordinarily ahead of yourself,” he growled, his voice dropping into a dangerous, dark whisper.

“Am I?” she challenged, her lungs burning with the sudden, intoxicating rush of defiance. “Or are you simply terrified that someone might finally look past that frightening title of yours and call you out on what you are missing?”

“Silence,” he spat.

“I will not be silent.”

He stepped so close that the crisp, masculine scents of cedar, cold rain, and bitter clove enveloped her. His gray eyes, usually as impenetrable as slate, darkened until his pupils dilated, swallowing the iris whole. His gaze dropped from her defiant amber eyes to the soft, parted curve of her lips, lingering there with a heavy, possessive weight that made the air in her lungs vanish.

Fanny’s breath hitched. A sudden, molten heat flared low in her stomach, radiating through her limbs and turning her knees to water. She hated how easily he unsettled her, yet as she stared at the sharp line of his jaw and the broad, powerful expanse of his chest, she could not deny the terrifying pull drawing her toward him. She wanted to push him away, but every nerve in her body hummed to lean closer, to feel the scorching press of his body against hers.

Lysander’s gaze slowly dragged back up to meet hers, his jaw flexing as he fought the visible edge of his own restraint. He wasn’t merely furious at her stubbornness; he was consumed by the agonizing realization of how badly he wanted to break it.

He leaned down until his mouth was a hair’s breadth from her ear, his hot breath skimming the sensitive skin of her neck. “Do not provoke me, Fanny,” he murmured, his low baritone thick with an unspoken, treacherous desire. “Not unless you are prepared to deal with the consequences.”

The sound of her name on his lips sent a sharp tremor straight down her spine. Fanny swallowed hard, her pulse hammering wildly against her collarbone, caught between the terrifying thrill of his proximity and the undeniable hunger burning in his eyes.

Before she could draw another breath, his big hand surged forward, his gloved fingers wrapping around the back of her neck, his long fingers tangling into the soft curls at the nape of her hairline. He yanked her upward and forward, pulling her body flush against his hard, unyielding chest, and brought his mouth crashing down onto hers.

A sharp gasp tore from Fanny’s lips, but he caught the sound, devouring it whole.

It was not a soft kiss. It was not a gentle, polite courtship kiss meant for a parlor. It was deep, dark, and possessively intense—an explosion of raw, suppressed tension that had been building between them since the moment he had stepped into her house. His lips were firm, hot, and demanding, forcing hers open with a relentless pressure that made her knees go instantly weak.

Fanny’s fingers, driven by a sudden, terrifying instinct, snapped upward, clutching at the broad lapels of his heavy wool coat just to keep herself upright. The scent of him—cedar, cold rainwater, and bitter clove—flooded her senses, overwhelming every rational thought in her head. She felt the rough scrape of his jaw against hers, the possessive grip of his hand pulling her so tight against his body that she could feel the thunderous, violent pulse of his heart hammering against his ribs.

For several breathless, dizzying seconds, the world shrank to the heat of his mouth, the iron grip of his arm around her waist, and the sheer, intoxicating force of his presence. Her head spun, a fiery coil of sensation tightening in her stomach as she kissed him back, yielding to the raw power he exerted over her.

Then, just as suddenly as he had taken her, he tore his mouth away.

His grip on her waist loosened, and his hand slipped from her neck. He stepped back two full steps, his chest heaving as he drew in cold, ragged draughts of morning air.

Fanny swayed on the damp path, her back slamming into the rough bark of an ancient oak tree. Her lips were hot, swollen, and tingling, her chest heaving in rapid, desperate gasps. She stared at him through a dark haze, entirely breathless, her mind spinning in complete, utter confusion.

Lysander’s gray eyes were pitch black; his dark pupils dilated until only a thin rim of iris remained. He looked down at his gloved hands, then up at her flushed face, a fleeting look of dark fury—directed entirely at himself—flashing across his sharp features. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, forcing his harsh breathing back under iron control, until the cold, unyielding mask settled over his face once more.

He did not apologize. He did not offer a hand to steady her.

“Follow me,” Lysander said, his voice gravelly, tight, and completely stripped of warmth.

He turned on his heel without waiting for a response. His heavy boots crunched sharply against the gravel as he strode back down the garden path, his dark coat billowing out behind him.

Fanny remained leaning against the oak tree, her hand trembling as she lifted her fingers to touch her swollen lips, the taste of him still lingering on her skin. A sharp, burning wave of frustration surged through her veins, hot and bitter.

Fanny was left standing alone in the damp grass, her heart hammering against her ribs, once again forced to pull her scattered dignity together and trail behind him like an obedient shadow.

Setting her jaw until it throbbed, Fanny straightened her skirts, lifted her chin, and began the long walk back toward the grand stone house, following the dark figure who had just stolen her breath.

She listened to the faint echo of footsteps down the hall. Her mother’s sharp, impatient voice rang out. Knowing she had only a few moments before her mother burst through the doors, Fanny drew a steadying breath.

The iron frame of the drawing-room door felt cold beneath Lysander’s palm as he pushed it open.

Inside his mind, a relentless battle raged. He tried to systematically purge from his memory the ghost of her swollen lips, the scent of sweet clover, and the terrifyingly soft yielding of her waist against his chest. He was a man of logic and ledgers, not an impulsive youth undone by a stolen kiss in a garden. He clamped his jaw tight, forcing the heat from his veins until the familiar, impenetrable mask settled firmly over his features.

He stepped into the bright, high-ceilinged room where Fanny sat upright on a velvet settee, her dark green skirts arranged with meticulous care. Beside her, Lady Gooldwer was still dabbing at her eyes with a damp lace handkerchief, muttering breathless praise about the plaster moldings.