Page 28 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

Driven by a sudden, unbidden impulse, Lysander reached out his large, gloved hand. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his fingers hovering over her forehead, then gently brushed a stray lock of dark hair from her cool, smooth brow. His thumb lingered for the briefest moment near her temple, feeling the soft, rhythmic flutter of her pulse.

Weak, he thought to himself, though the sharp edge had bled out of the word entirely. Fierce, defiant, and completely foolish.

A quiet knock echoed from the chamber door. Fanny’s maid, a young girl with trembling hands, slipped into the room and curtsied low.

Lysander instantly pulled his hand back, resting it behind his waist as his face closed into its familiar, unreadable mask of cold stone.

“Look after her,” Lysander commanded the maid, his voice low, gravelly, and absolute as he turned toward the door. “Make sure she drinks the broth the moment she wakes. If her condition shifts by so much as a hair, report to me immediately.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the maid squeaked, dropping another deep curtsy.

Without another word, Lysander strode out of the bedchamber, his heavy boots echoing down the quiet corridor as he went to clear his house and give orders for the wedding breakfast.

The heavy velvet curtains blocked out the harsh glare of the morning sun, casting the bedchamber in a hazy, lavender gloom.

Fanny drifted between fitful sleep and hazy consciousness, the hours melting into a blur of warm silk sheets and the faint, bitter scent of herbal tea. Every time she tried to anchor her thoughts, her mind spun with chaotic fragments of the wedding day: the cold stone chapel, the heavy gold band weighing down her finger, the sudden, terrifying constriction in her chest, and the sickening sensation as the marble floor rushed up to meet her.

And then… there was that one fleeting, elusive memory that refused to fade.

In the quiet dark just before the physician arrived, she could have sworn she felt a hand—large and heavy, yet unexpectedly light—resting gently against her brow. She remembered the sensation of long fingers brushing a stray curl from her face, a thumb lingering for the briefest second near her temple, where her pulse hammered.

Fanny pressed her eyes shut, letting out a soft, dry sigh into the pillow.

No.

It had to be a dream, a hallucination brought on by exhaustion and lack of air. Lysander was a man of cold stone and rigid ledgers. He did not brush hair from women’s faces.

A tiny, carpeted scuffle near the foot of the bed shattered the silence.

The hair on Fanny’s arms stood on end. That prickling sensation of being watched returned, sharp and unmistakable. She opened her eyes slowly, turning her head on the feather pillow.

Two pairs of eyes were staring at her over the high wooden footboard.

Emily stood straight and rigid, her small hands clasped neatly over her floral apron, watching with a serious, maternal intensity far too old for her seven years. Beside her, Peter balanced on his tiptoes, his chin resting on the carved wood, his dark eyes wide with impatience.

“See?” Peter whispered loudly to his sister, nodding toward the bed. “I told you her eyes were moving! She isn’t dead at all!”

“Hush, Peter!” Emily scolded sharply, nudging him with her elbow before stepping gracefully around the side of the bed. “Father said we were only to observe from the doorway, not disturb her.”

Fanny pushed herself up against the carved headboard, the heavy silk blankets pooling around her waist. Her head throbbed with a dull ache, but the ghostly paleness had finally retreated from her skin.

“You are not disturbing me,” Fanny said, her voice raspy from sleep. She offered them a soft, welcoming smile. “Good morning.”

Emily stopped a few feet from the mattress, smoothing down her skirts with practiced precision. “How do you feel, Lady… I mean, Your Grace? Do you require anything to eat? Mrs. Gable has broth and buttered toast waiting in the warming pantry.”

“I feel much better, thank you, Emily,” Fanny replied, touched by the quiet, adult concern in her voice. “And please… when we are in private, Fanny will do nicely.”

Before Emily could respond, Peter abandoned all pretense of nursery discipline. He rushed forward, planting his hands firmly on the edge of the mattress, his small face illuminated with urgent hope.

“Did you bring him?” he demanded, his voice bouncing off the high ceiling. “Did you bring the small friend with four paws? Is he under the bed?”

A genuine laugh escaped Fanny’s lips, warm and bright, cutting through the heavy air of the bedchamber.

“He is not under the bed, Peter,” Fanny said, leaning forward and tapping the tip of his nose with her finger. “Building a proper home for a quadruped companion takes a bit of time, but I am working on it. I have already sent a letter to my uncle’s stable master.”

Peter’s eyes lit up like lanterns. “A real hound? With floppy ears?”

“The floppiest,” Fanny promised solemnly.