Page 26 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

He stepped aside to allow Fanny to sign. As she leaned over the desk, the soft sleeve of her ivory gown brushed against his coat. Their elbows touched—a light, transient point of contact, yet the sudden heat of it burned through the dark wool of his sleeve.

Lysander immediately took a full step backward, putting a deliberate, wide space between them. His eyes fixed on the wall above her head, his posture shifting into total, unapproachable detachment.

Fanny completed her signature with a smooth flick of the pen, set the quill back into its holder, and straightened up. She did not miss his sudden retreat.

She turned her head, her amber eyes locking onto his cold gray gaze. A bitter, sarcastic curl touched the corner of her swollen lips.

“Do not worry, Your Grace,” Fanny said softly, her voice dripping with dry irony as she smoothed her gloves over her wrists. “You may breathe easy. I will not bother you with foolish ideas of romance, nor will I burden you with expectations of affection.”

Lysander said nothing, his face remaining a wall of cold stone as the vicar folded the registry closed.

Half an hour later, the heavy iron-studded carriage rolled up the grand gravel driveway of Hilgrove Manor. The trip from the chapel had been conducted in absolute, suffocating silence, with the children trailing behind in a separate carriage with their nanny.

Lysander stepped down first, extending a hand to assist Fanny onto the stone portico. Her fingers were light and brief against his palm, slipping away the exact second her feet touched the ground.

They walked into the grand entrance hall together. The massive oak front doors swung shut behind them with a deep, echoing thud that reverberated through the lofty stone archways, sealing out the damp afternoon air and the rest of the world. The butler and liveried footmen bowed low, then quietly retreated down the long corridors, leaving the newlywed couple alone in the cavernous space.

Fanny stood in the center of the marble floor, her ivory train pooling around her slippers. She turned to face him.

“Now that the doors are closed,” Fanny said, her voice echoing clearly off the high stone walls, “we can drop the theater. I promised to act as a stranger within these walls, Your Grace, and I intend to keep my word.” She paused, looking up at the grand staircase leading to the nursery wing, her amber eyes resolute. “Two strangers raising three children under one roof.”

Lysander stood tall in his dark coat, his hands resting behind his back, his gray eyes locking onto hers with absolute, iron finality.

“That,” Lysander said, his low baritone cutting through the quiet hall, “is precisely the right way.”

Eleven

The heavy oak doors had barely sealed behind them, locking out the damp afternoon wind, when Lysander caught the faint, uneven rasp of her breath.

He paused on the marble floor, his gray eyes flicking sideways. Fanny stood a step behind him, her hands clutching the front of her ivory silk gown. Her knuckles were stark white. The pale, waxy cast that had settled over her features in the chapel had deepened, turning her skin an eerie, translucent gray. Her ribcage hitched in short, frantic gasps that drew no air, her small chest straining helplessly against the rigid boning of her dress.

Before she could stumble, Lysander turned his head toward the far side of the entrance hall where the housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, and the household staff stood assembled. Nearby, the nanny was ushering the three children in from the secondary carriage.

“Veronica,” Lysander commanded, his low voice sharp as a snapped whip, cutting across the room with iron authority. “Take the children to the nursery. Immediately. They are not to enter the main hall until I call for them.”

Veronica froze, her eyes widening slightly at his harsh tone, but she gathered Emily, Peter, and Michael without a word and steered them toward the rear servant stairs.

The moment the children’s footsteps faded down the corridor, Fanny’s knees gave out completely. She collapsed forward like a sail cut from its mast, her eyes rolling back into her head as unconsciousness claimed her.

Lysander moved with instantaneous, quiet precision. Stepping into her fall, he caught her broad in his arms before her head could strike the hard marble floor. He spun her around in one fluid motion, cradling her back against his broad chest while keeping her upright on her knees.

“Mrs. Gable, fetch the smelling salts and call for Dr. Thorne,” Lysander barked over his shoulder, his voice remarkably steady despite the violent spike of adrenaline surging through his blood. “Now!”

The housekeeper scurried down the hall, her keys jingling frantically against her apron.

Lysander ignored the rustle of fleeing servants, focusing entirely on the unconscious woman in his grip. Her head fell back heavily against his shoulder, her dark curls spilling over his lapel, her skin ice-cold to the touch. She wasn’t getting enough air. The rigid structure of her wedding gown—tailored tight for the altar—was crushing her ribs, locking her lungs in a vise.

Without a second thought, his gloved fingers moved to the long row of silk-covered buttons trailing down the back of her bodice. With practiced, forceful efficiency, he tore open the top half of her dress, exposing the pale linen of her chemise beneath. Reaching down to the heavy laces of her stays, he dug his thumb under the tight silk cord and pulled hard, snapping the binding knot.

The stiff whalebone lacing split open with a sharp, sighing tear.

Instantly, Fanny’s chest heaved in a violent, shuddering gasp. Air rushed back into her lungs with a ragged, hollow rasp. Her body convulsed as she drew in one deep, desperate breath, then another, the dark flush of returning circulation blooming faintly along the crest of her cheekbones.

Yet her amber eyes remained closed. She did not wake. She slipped back into a heavy, limp unconsciousness, her body entirely reliant on his strength to keep from crumpling onto the floor.

Lysander did not wait for Mrs. Gable or the servants to return.

Sliding one heavy arm beneath her knees and the other around her waist, he scooped her off the marble floor in a single, effortless motion. Her head settled into the crook of his neck, her dark hair brushing his jaw, her cool breath blowing faint and rhythmic against his throat.