Page 24 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

It had to be the silent little boy, watching from the safety of the upper floor, wrestling with his quiet grief and uncertainty. Earning the children’s trust—especially little Michael’s, whose soul seemed buried beneath layers of cautious silence—was going to require time, endless patience, and gentle persistence. But she would give it to him.

“Fanny, hurry along!” Lady Gooldwer called out from inside the carriage, her lace handkerchief fluttering frantically through the open window. “The wind is turning, and my nerves simply cannot bear another moment in the damp!”

Fanny offered a quiet nod, smoothed her dark green skirts, and climbed into the carriage, leaving the looming stone house behind.

By evening, the chaotic noise of the main house had settled, and Fanny sat at the small dressing table in her bedchamber, brushing out her dark curls.

The door clicked open, and Blanche slipped inside, shutting it firmly behind her. Her sister did not bother with ceremony; she crossed the floor with swift, eager steps and dropped onto the edge of the feather mattress, her eyes shining with unsuppressed curiosity.

“Mama is finally asleep,” Blanche whispered, leaning forward and resting her chin in her hands. “She spent two hours telling the housekeeper about the ducal crest on the tea service. Now, tell me everything. The absolute truth, Fanny. Not the polished version you gave Mama.”

Fanny set her silver-backed hairbrush down on the vanity, letting out a long, shuddering sigh that seemed to drain the tension from her shoulders. “It was… overwhelming, Blanche. The house is massive, cold, and entirely devoid of life. It feels less like a home and more like a mausoleum.”

“And the children?” Blanche asked softly, her playful demeanor softening into genuine concern.

“They are broken,” Fanny murmured, turning in her chair to face her sister. “Peter is wild and terrified of his father’s shadow. Emily tries so hard to play the perfect little lady to protect them all. And Michael…” Fanny’s voice faltered slightly, her hands folding tight in her lap. “Michael does not speak at all. He watches with these big, haunted eyes. But I promised them I would return. I promised Peter a dog, actually.”

Blanche gasped, a sudden, bright laugh escaping her lips. “A dog? You bargained with a ducal heir using a hound?”

“It worked,” Fanny said with a small, wry smile. “He agreed to let me stay.”

Blanche’s expression shifted, her keen eyes tracing the subtle, nervous tension in Fanny’s posture. She slid off the bed, kneeling on the floor beside Fanny’s chair and taking her sister’s hands in hers.

“And him?” Blanche asked quietly. “What of the Duke?”

Fanny’s gaze flicked toward the window, where the evening shadows were deepening against the glass. The memory of his heavy boots on the gravel, his broad frame blocking the sun, and the absolute, unyielding coldness of his terms rushed back over her in a suffocating wave.

“He made his expectations abundantly clear,” Fanny said, her voice dropping into a flat, quiet register. “There will be no courtship, Blanche. He wants a mistress for his estate and a mother for his children. Romance is entirely, permanently off the table.”

Blanche winced, tightening her grip on Fanny’s fingers. “Oh, Fanny… That is cruel.”

“It is practical,” Fanny corrected, though the word felt bitter on her tongue. “He is a man who treats life like a military ledger. He does not believe in love, and he certainly does not want it from me.”

Blanche leaned back, resting her elbow on Fanny’s knee, her face settling into a thoughtful frown as her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Well, if you want the truth, the rumors swirling through Mayfair are far more chilling than a mere tale of a bad marriage. I was speaking with Lord Danbury’s cousin yesterday at the milliner’s, and the things they whisper behind closed doors…”

Fanny’s hands stilled over the lace in her lap. “What things, Blanche?”

“They say he was an absolute tyrant to her,” Blanche murmured, her eyes wide with grim excitement. “They claim his temper was so brutal, his cruelty so unbearable, that the late duchess fled Hilgrove Manor in the dead of night to escape him. And when her carriage went into the river…” Blanche shuddered, leaning a fraction closer. “Half the people in London believe it was no accident. They whisper that the Duke ensured she would never run from him again.”

A cold draft seemed to sweep through the room, sending a sharp shiver down Fanny’s spine.

“They call him a monster, Fanny,” Blanche added softly, studying her sister’s pale face. “They say any woman who enters his house is walking straight into a cage with a man who has blood on his hands.”

Fanny listened, a quiet, heavy understanding dawning in her mind. It explained the guarded intensity in Lysander’s gray eyes, the defensive edge in his voice whenever she mentioned his children, and his absolute refusal to open his heart to another living soul.

Yet understanding a man’s scars does not make him any easier to bear.

“It changes nothing about who he is today,” Fanny said softly, her amber eyes clear and resolute. “No matter his backstory, Blanche, I am under no illusions. I will never be happy with a man as cold, commanding, and arrogant as the Duke. He takes what he wants, demands absolute obedience, and turns his back the moment he has finished speaking.”

Fanny paused, her chest tightening as the lingering heat of the morning rushed back over her skin without warning. A sudden flush warmed her cheeks.

Blanche’s eyes narrowed instantly. She caught the sudden shift in Fanny’s expression, the slight tremor in her hands.

“Fanny,” Blanche said, her voice dropping into a breathless, suspicious whisper. “What aren’t you telling me? What happened in that garden?”

Fanny tried to look away, but Blanche grabbed her wrists, her face lighting up with wild realization.

“He kissed you!” Blanche squeaked, clapping a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound before grinning broadly. “He kissed you, didn’t he? Tell me everything! Every single detail!”