Page 33 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

The second blow came two afternoons later. Fanny opened the rosewood wardrobe to choose a gown for supper, only to find three of her finest muslin dresses hanging in ribbons, their fabric cleanly slashed from hem to bodice.

She touched the frayed edges of the destroyed silk, her heart dropping into her stomach as shock gave way to a cold, sickening dread.

Poor Emily.

The girl was lashing out in the only way her rigid ladylike composure would allow, trying to shred the presence of the duchess who dared step into her mother’s shadow. Fanny said nothing to Lysander. She could not bring herself to punish children who were bleeding from invisible wounds.

The opportunity Fanny had been searching for arrived on a damp Thursday afternoon. While walking through the walled kitchen garden to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the estate, something small and dark shifted in the wet mud near the turnip patch.

She knelt, ignoring the dampness seeping through her velvet hem, and scooped up a small, mud-caked box turtle. Its tiny black eyes blinked up at her, its legs tucking neatly into its dark, yellow-patterned shell.

A slow smile curved Fanny’s lips.

Not a floppy-eared hound just yet, she thought, but a start.

She carefully wrapped the turtle in her embroidered handkerchief and made her way up to the nursery wing, bypassing the main staircase. The hallway outside the children’s rooms was quiet, the air thick with the scent of floor wax and old paper.

Fanny pushed open the door to the playroom. Peter sat cross-legged on the rug, staring listlessly at a set of wooden building blocks, while Emily sat by the window, stitching neat, silent cross-stitches into a square of linen.

“Peter?” Fanny called softly, closing the door behind her.

The boy looked up, his dark eyes dull with boredom. “Yes, Fanny?”

Fanny crossed the room and knelt on the rug beside him, keeping her hands folded in her lap. “I brought you a visitor. But you must promise to handle him with great care.”

Peter’s brow furrowed in skepticism, but he leaned closer as Fanny unfolded the linen handkerchief in her lap. The little turtle stretched its scaly neck out, its small webbed feet testing the soft fabric.

Peter’s breath hitched in a sharp, delighted gasp. His whole face transformed, the gloomy mask vanishing instantly as a brilliant smile broke across his cheeks.

“Is it real?” he whispered in absolute awe, his hands hovering over the small creature as if it were made of glass. “Can I touch him?”

“Very gently.” Fanny smiled, guiding his small, blunt finger to stroke the smooth top of the shell. “He likes wet moss and small garden worms. He is very quiet, but he is a wonderful listener.”

“A turtle!” Peter crowed, bouncing on his knees. “Emily, look! Look what Fanny found!”

Even Emily set her embroidery frame down, her curious gaze drifting toward them, a faint, undeniable twitch of a smile softening her strict lips. For the first time since Fanny had arrived at Hilgrove Manor, the room felt light. Peter giggled as the turtle slowly crawled onto his palm, his small face lit with pure, unadulterated joy.

“What is the meaning of this?”

The harsh, low baritone sliced through the room like a steel blade.

The laughter died instantly. Peter froze, clutching the turtle against his small chest as he scrambled to his feet. Fanny stood up smoothly, smoothing her skirts as Lysander stepped into the playroom.

He looked imposing, his tall frame filling the doorway, his dark coat dusted with rainwater from his afternoon ride. His gray eyes swept the scene—the discarded blocks, Fanny’s muddy hem, and the small reptile clutched in his son’s hands. His jaw tightened into a hard, unyielding line.

“Your Grace,” Fanny said, keeping her tone light and pleasant. “I found a friend in the garden.”

“You brought a wild animal into the nursery,” Lysander said flatly, his voice dropping into that deep, dangerous register that made the hairs on Fanny’s arms stand up. He walked toward them, his boots thudding heavily against the floorboards. “Peter, give that to me.”

“No!” Peter cried out, taking a sharp step backward, his small knuckles white as he hugged the turtle close. “He’s mine! Fanny gave him to me!”

“Peter,” Lysander said, his tone icy and absolute. “You will not keep vermin in your sleeping quarters. Hand it over.”

“It is not vermin, Lysander,” Fanny interjected, stepping directly between him and the boy, forcing Lysander to halt. The heat radiating from his broad chest hit her instantly, sparking that persistent, unwanted pulse in her throat. She looked up into his stormy gray eyes, refusing to back down. “It is a box turtle. It is harmless, clean, and requires nothing more than a shallow dish of water.”

“It does not belong in this house,” Lysander replied, staring down at her, his gaze dark and unblinking. “We have rules regarding the nursery, Fanny. I will not have dirt and reptiles dragging through the estate.”

“He needs something to care for!” Fanny argued softly, taking a half-step closer so the children wouldn’t hear the sharp edge in her voice. “Look at him, Lysander. Look at his face. He has done his lessons without complaint all week. A little joy will not ruin your precious routine.”