Page 29 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

Satisfied with the contract, Peter let out a triumphant cheer, spun on his heel, and dashed out of the open bedchamber doors, his slippers thudding wildly down the carpeted corridor toward the nursery wing.

The room grew quiet once more. Emily lingered by the side of the bed, her fingers twisting slightly in the folds of her apron.

“Emily?” Fanny asked softly, patting the mattress beside her. “Would you like to sit?”

The girl hesitated for a beat, then shook her head, still standing. She looked down at her polished shoes, her voice dropping to a quiet murmur.

“Are you… Are you our mother now?” Emily asked, the words raw and vulnerable. “Now that you have signed the grand ledger and married Father?”

Fanny’s heart squeezed tight in her chest, an ache of sympathy washing over her. She reached out, resting her hand gently on the wooden bedpost between them, keeping her tone entirely honest.

“No, Emily,” Fanny said gently, looking directly into her brown eyes. “I am not here to replace your mother. No one ever could, and it would be wrong of me to try. You carry her memory, and that belongs to you and your brothers.” Fanny replied gently, keeping her tone warm and measured. “And I hope, in time, I can be someone you⁠—”

“Our real mother didn’t like this house,” Emily interrupted, her words sharp and calculated as she crossed her small arms over her chest. “And you won’t like it here for long.”

She stepped closer to Fanny, her gaze deliberately tracking down the fine, immaculate silk of Fanny’s dress with a cold, calculating scrutiny.

“Father brought you to fix things,” Emily said, a bitter, precocious smirk curling her small lips. “But you aren’t our mother. Nobody stays at Hilgrove Manor.”

Fanny felt the air catch in her throat, stunned by the sheer venom masked by the child’s polite, aristocratic diction. This was no bewildered, grieving girl seeking comfort; this was a sharp-edged, protective little soldier guarding her territory, determined to push Fanny out before Fanny could ever breach her defenses.

Fanny took a slow breath, letting the steady resolve settle into her voice.

“I will do my very best to make sure you, Peter, and Michael never lack anything. Not comfort, not safety, and certainly not someone who listens to you.”

Emily took a step closer to the bed, her eyes darting nervously toward the heavy mahogany doors before leaning in.

“Will you protect Michael?” she whispered, her tone suddenly laced with a strange, dark dread.

Fanny frowned, a cold coil of confusion tightening in her gut. “Michael? Of course I will protect him. But… from what, Emily? Is someone unkind to him?”

Fanny thought of the quiet boy with haunted eyes who refused to speak, clutching his wooden toy as if it were a shield against the world. Had one of the servants been harsh? Was there a strict tutor who needed to be dismissed?

Emily swallowed hard, her voice dropping into a razor-thin thread of sound that sent an icy shiver straight down Fanny’s spine.

“You need to protect him from the night monster,” Emily murmured.

Fanny’s breath caught in her throat. The quiet, deadly seriousness in the child’s face sent a sudden, dark wave of fright through her. “The night monster? Emily, what do you mean? Is it a bad dream? A shadow in his room?”

“It comes when the house is dark,” Emily whispered, her eyes wide with a deep, ancient fear. “It makes him silent. It takes his voice away, and⁠—”

Before Fanny could press her, before she could unravel the terrifying riddle hanging in the air, a crisp, rhythmic knock echoed from the open doorway.

A young maid stepped onto the threshold, making a low curtsy. “Good afternoon, Your Grace. Cook wishes to know whether you are recovered enough to take your breakfast in the small dining parlor or would prefer a tray brought up to your chambers?”

The electric tension in the room shattered instantly. Emily backed away two quick steps, her face closing up, the tight, ladylike mask sliding seamlessly back over her features as if she had never spoken at all.

“I… I will take my breakfast in the parlor,” Fanny told the maid, forcing her voice to remain steady while her mind reeled from Emily’s warning.

“Very good, Your Grace. I shall inform Cook.” The maid curtsied again and retreated down the hallway.

Fanny swung her legs over the side of the high mattress, setting her feet on the soft carpet. The dizziness was completely gone, replaced by a fierce, driving necessity to understand what was happening in this house.

She looked down at Emily, who was watching her quietly from the foot of the bed. Fanny stepped towards her, filled with a sudden, overwhelming urge to offer the girl the physical comfort she so clearly lacked. She opened her arms, leaning down to wrap her in a warm, motherly hug.

Emily instantly stiffened. She took a sharp step back, her arms locking tight at her sides, her head turning away to avoid contact.

Fanny froze for a second, her open hands hovering in the cool air between them. Instead of forcing the gesture, Fanny let her hands fall gracefully back to her sides, smoothing the linen of her nightgown. She did not let the rejection sting. She offered Emily a soft, unwavering smile, letting the girl see that her warmth was not conditional on obedience.