Page 22 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

Lysander signaled to the butler standing by the door. “Bring the children.”

Moments later, the heavy oak doors opened, and three small figures were ushered into the room.

Emily took the lead, her posture rigid, her chin lifted in a flawless imitation of a young lady of quality, though her small hands clutched the folds of her floral dress. Behind her, Peter shuffled, his dark hair freshly combed back, his slippers dragging reluctantly across the rug, his eyes darting frantically toward the floor as if searching for an escape. Bringing up the rear was Michael—silent, pale, and wrapped in an oak-like stillness, his gaze fixed entirely on his own polished shoes.

Lysander cleared his throat, his low voice cutting through the quiet room. “Lady Fanny, allow me to present my daughter, Lady Emily, and my sons, Lord Michael and Lord Peter.”

Emily immediately stepped forward, curtsying with crisp, practiced precision. “Welcome to Hilgrove Manor, Lady Fanny,” she announced, clearly stepping into the role of spokesperson for the trio. “Father informed us that you might be staying for a while and reviewing our nursery schedule.”

Fanny did not remain seated. She rose smoothly from the settee, her amber eyes warm as she sank into a graceful, low curtsy that brought her down nearer to their eye level.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Emily,” Fanny said, taking the young girl’s words with respectful seriousness. “And no, I am certainly not here to audit your arithmetic lessons. I am here to get to know you.”

Emily’s stiff shoulders relaxed by a fraction of an inch, a flicker of genuine surprise softening her watchful brown eyes.

“We keep a very strict schedule,” Emily continued, eager to maintain her poise. “Drawing at ten, French at noon. But… it can be rather quiet here. We rarely have guests.”

“Quietness can be useful,” Fanny replied gently, and Lysander noticed that her tone was completely devoid of the patronizing cadence adults usually offered children. “Though I have always found that days pass much faster when there are playmates to share them with. Perhaps you would like to spend more time playing with other children? I have a niece who is just about your age. She has an extraordinary passion for watercolor painting and collecting pressed wildflowers.”

A sudden, bright spark lit up Emily’s face. “A girl? Is she truly seven?”

“She turned seven in May,” Fanny said with a small, knowing smile.

Before Emily could ask another question, Peter let out a loud, miserable whine, stomping his small foot into the thick rug. “I don’t want any strangers in the house!” he pouted, burying his face into the side of Emily’s dress, his fingers tugging at her skirts. “We don’t need new people. Strangers are loud, and they take things.”

Lysander opened his mouth to sternly reprimand the boy for his atrocious manners, but Fanny caught his eye with a sharp, warning glance that silenced him instantly.

She turned back to Peter, leaning in slightly, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper that reached only the children and Lysander.

“What if the visitor came with a special delivery?” Fanny asked, her amber eyes twinkling with a secret code. “Say… a small, trustworthy companion who does not change his clothes when you turn your back? A friend with four paws and a tail that wags instead of one that hides in stone walls?”

Lysander’s brow furrowed in complete, utterly baffled confusion.

What on earth is she talking about? An animal?

Peter’s head snapped up from Emily’s skirts instantly. His dark eyes went wide as saucers; the tears evaporated from his lashes in a heartbeat. “A real one?” he whispered, taking an eager step toward Fanny. “One that stays?”

“One that stays,” Fanny promised solemnly. “And one who is far too large to slip into tiny cracks.”

Peter looked as though he had just been handed the keys to the kingdom. He nodded frantically, a sudden, dimpled grin breaking across his dusty face.

Lysander shifted his weight, his eyes narrowing as he made a mental note to interrogate Fanny the moment they were alone about whatever bizarre bargain she had just struck with his youngest son.

Lysander watched Fanny turn her attention to the third child. Michael stood a few feet back, his arms pressed tight against his sides, his blue eyes staring blankly at the floor pattern. Fanny stepped closer, speaking softly to him, asking about the wooden carving he was clutching in his small fist.

Michael did not look up, but his tiny fingers tightened around the wooden toy, clutching it closer to his chest as he retreated deeper into his silent shell.

Fanny slowly lowered herself to the floor, settling onto the cold rug a few feet away so she wasn’t looming over him. She kept her hands folded loosely in her lap, her voice dropping into a gentle, unhurried cadence.

“I brought a small turtle up from the garden today,” Fanny murmured, keeping her gaze on the carved horse in his lap rather than forcing him to look at her. “He is small, brown, and very quiet, but he likes wet moss and warm stones. I put him in the glasshouse by the south garden.”

A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch passed through Michael’s shoulders. The absolute stillness in his small frame wavered, his thumb tracing the worn wheel of his wooden horse.

“I know everything in this big house must feel very noisy and strange right now,” Fanny continued softly, offering him a warm, quiet smile. “And I know I am a stranger. But I hope… in time… we might become good friends, Michael. You don’t have to say anything today. I just wanted you to know I am here.”

For a long, agonizing second, the room remained dead silent, save for the crackle of the hearth.

Then, Michael’s small chin lifted by a fraction of an inch. He didn’t turn his head fully, but his dark, shadowed eyes flicked sideways toward her, wide and cautious beneath a fringe of unruly dark hair.