Page 27 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

He strode past the grand staircase, his heavy boots striking the oak risers in rapid, measured beats. He carried her up the broad flight of stairs, down the long, carpeted portrait gallery, and into the principal bedchamber wing. He pushed open the heavy door to her newly prepared bedchamber and crossed the high-ceilinged room in three long strides.

He laid her gently on the wide, velvet-draped bed, stepping back just enough to arrange her heavy ivory skirts so she rested comfortably on the soft mattress.

Yet as his hands left the fine fabric of her gown, Lysander’s chest heaved with a sharp, ragged breath. A dark, unfamiliar knot of panic tightened in his stomach, coiling cold and heavy around his ribs.

He stared down at her pale, motionless face, his pulse hammering against his throat. Her usual fiery defiance was gone, replaced by a terrifying, fragile stillness that made his own lungs seize.

God blast it all.

His jaw clenched until the muscle twitched violently along his cheekbone. He had pushed her too far. He had let his own black temper and the unbearable, simmering hunger she provoked in him drive him to corner her, oblivious to the strain behind her amber eyes.

He was accustomed to dealing with hardened men and calculated social warfare; he had treated her like an opponent to be subdued rather than a woman bearing the overwhelming weight of his broken household.

Lysander reached out, his long, calloused fingers trembling slightly as he brushed a stray lock of soft hair away from her forehead. Her skin was far too cool beneath his touch.

An agonizing surge of guilt slammed into him. If anything happened to her—if this house, his dark reputation, or his own suffocating presence broke her—he knew with grim, absolute certainty that he would never forgive himself.

“Fanny,” he rasped, his gravelly voice cracking as the cold stone facade he wore for the world shattered completely. He leaned over her, his broad shoulders hunched in raw, helpless worry. “Fanny, wake up.”

“Your Grace!” Mrs. Gable burst into the room, breathless, holding a tray with a damp cloth and a small glass vial. “The groom has ridden out. Dr. Thorne was already in the village; he should be at the front gates within minutes.”

“Set those down and bring her personal maid up immediately,” Lysander ordered, his eyes never leaving Fanny’s pale, motionless face. “She needs to be taken out of these heavy clothes.”

“Right away, Your Grace.”

Within ten minutes, the heavy clatter of carriage wheels announced the arrival of the physician. Dr. Thorne—a silver-haired man who had attended the Hilgrove family for over two decades—hurried into the bedchamber, carrying his black leather bag.

Lysander stood by the cold fireplace, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his gray eyes tracking the doctor’s every move with quiet, formidable intensity.

Dr. Thorne bent over the bed, examining Fanny’s pulse, checking her pupil dilation, and gently pressing his fingers against her neck. He spent several minutes listening to her chest before stepping back, placing his stethoscope into his bag, and turning to face the Duke.

“Well, Dr. Thorne?” Lysander demanded, his voice dropping into a dangerous, dark murmur.

“She is in no immediate danger, Your Grace,” Dr. Thorne said smoothly, offering a reassuring, practiced smile. “It is nothing serious. Merely a complete physical collapse brought on by exhaustion.”

Lysander’s brow furrowed into a sharp, icy line. “Elaborate.”

“Her pulse is weak, and her body is severely depleted,” the physician explained, gesturing toward the bed. “Judging by the state of her abdomen and her current weakness, Lady Fanny—pardon me, Her Grace—has not consumed a proper meal in at least three or four days. Combine that sheer lack of nourishment with an overly tight corset, the damp weather, and the immense emotional stress of a wedding morning, and the body revolts.”

Lysander swallowed hard, a sudden, bitter tension knotting in his stomach.

She hadn’t eaten.

While her mother was busy fussing over ducal tea services and arrangements, the girl had been starving herself out of stress.

“What is the treatment?” Lysander asked flatly.

“Rest, absolute quiet, and forced nourishment,” Dr. Thorne instructed, snapping his bag shut. “Weak broth and tea for the remainder of today, followed by solid meals tomorrow, whether she claims an appetite or not. Keep her in bed for twenty-four hours. She will be back on her feet by morning.”

“See that you send the bill to my study,” Lysander said, bowing his head slightly. “Mrs. Gable will show you out.”

Once the physician and the housekeeper had departed, the room fell into a heavy, unbroken silence.

Lysander stood alone beside the grand bed. The afternoon light had dimmed, casting long, dark violet shadows across the velvet canopy. Fanny lay still beneath the heavy blankets, her dark eyelashes resting like tiny velvet fans against her pale skin. Her breathing was deep, even, and quiet.

He stepped closer to the edge of the mattress, looking down at the woman who was now legally and permanently his wife.

She looked small in the massive ducal bed—frail, vulnerable, and entirely stripped of the fierce, fiery defiance she had worn like armor in the garden just days ago. He hated seeing her like this. He preferred her angry, sharp-tongued, and glaring up at him with amber eyes full of unbroken fire.