Page 47 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

The Duke had discarded his morning coat, his broad frame clad only in a charcoal waistcoat and a crisp linen shirt, its sleeves rolled to the forearms. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his dark brows drawn together as he watched Emily meticulously demonstrate how to position a crisp dandelion leaf before Pickles’s extended snout.

“You must hold it very still, Peter,” Emily instructed with absolute, terrifying importance, adjusting her pinafore with the dignity of a prime minister. “If you wiggle the leaf, you will frighten him back into his shell, and then the whole morning’s schedule is ruined.”

“He is not frightened,” Peter argued, poking another scrap of clover into the crate. “He is merely thinking. And I am certain he is terribly lonely in this box. Look at his little face! Pickles needs a companion, Emily. Perhaps a lady tortoise with spots, or a very small frog to keep him company.”

“Frogs do not live with tortoises, you goose,” Emily sighed, though her eyes sparkled with quiet amusement.

At the soft sound of slippers against gravel, Peter turned his head. His face lit up in a brilliant, gap-toothed grin, and he sprang to his feet.

“Michael!” Peter shouted, dashing across the path and skidding to a halt before his brother. “Look! Fanny brought you outside! Come see Pickles! He is eating real dandelions from the lawn!”

Emily stood as well, smoothing her skirts, her reserved mask completely dropping as a genuine, delighted smile touched her face. “You are awake, Michael! Come, you may help us inspect the enclosure.”

Michael’s grip on Fanny’s hand tightened for a brief second, his wide, dark eyes darting cautiously toward his father.

Lysander had stiffened the instant he caught sight of the boy. His gray eyes flicked from Michael’s pale face to Fanny, and a sharp, defensive tension immediately locked his jaw. Fanny knew precisely what was running through his rigid, orderly mind: the strict nursery schedule had been shattered, Veronica was nowhere in sight, and a child supposedly confined to dark rooms for delicate nerves had been brought straight into the open air without his permission.

Fanny held Lysander’s gaze with steady, quiet resolve. The dark, sickening memory of the bruises hidden beneath Michael’s jacket weighed heavily on her heart, screaming for immediate confrontation, but she forced the turmoil down. Michael needed sunlight. He needed the sound of his brother’s laughter, the cool garden air, and the freedom to simply be a seven-year-old child. The battle with Lysander could wait until they were alone behind closed doors.

Gently releasing Michael’s hand, Fanny gave his small back a warm, encouraging nudge.

Michael took three hesitant steps forward, then crouched beside Peter at the edge of the wooden box. Within seconds, the two boys were shoulder to shoulder, Peter chattering animatedly about the tortoise’s grand appetite while Michael pointed with a timid, budding smile at Pickles’s wrinkled legs.

Fanny watched them, a profound, soothing warmth settling over her chest. Beside her, she felt the air shift as Lysander’s rigid posture softened. He looked down at the three children gathered around the moss crate, Michael’s soft giggles mingling with Peter’s loud declarations and Emily’s dignified critique. The Duke’s tight, combative scowl vanished, replaced by an uncharacteristic, peaceful stillness.

For the first time since Fanny had crossed the threshold of Hilgrove Manor, Lysander did not step in to enforce a rule. He did not call for Veronica, nor did he reprimand her for defying his routines.

Slowly, the hard, severe line of his mouth relaxed, and the corner of his lips curved upward into a genuine, breathtaking smile.

Fanny caught the movement, and her heart gave a sudden, unexpected flutter against her ribs.

She stepped closer to his side, the crisp wool of her sleeve brushing his shirt, and tilted her head up to meet his gray eyes, a playful glint in them.

“Well, well,” Fanny murmured, keeping her voice light and low so as not to disrupt the children. “I was beginning to believe the muscles in your face were forged of Sheffield steel, Your Grace.”

Lysander did not immediately banish the smile. He turned his head, looking down into her warm eyes with a quiet, lingering heat that made her breath catch.

“Sheffield steel has its uses, Madam,” Lysander replied smoothly, his baritone rich with understated amusement. “It withstands pressure remarkably well.”

“Perhaps,” Fanny countered, a soft laugh bubbling in her throat as she smoothed her skirts. “But you ought to smile more often. It suits you far better than that dreadful, storm-cloud glare you practice in the mirror.”

Lysander’s gray eyes darkened, a teasing spark dancing behind his lashes as he leaned down an inch closer to her ear. “I assure you, I do not practice my glares in mirrors. They are natural, reserved especially for obstinate duchesses who take immense pleasure in turning my estate upside down.”

A blush warmed Fanny’s cheeks, but she held his piercing gaze, her lips parting in a bright, defiant smile that matched the morning sun.

The playful warmth between them vanished in a single, chaotic heartbeat.

“Look! He is running!” Peter shouted, suddenly leaping backward to follow the tortoise as it lumbered past the corner of the wooden crate.

Peter’s heavy boot came down blindly toward the flagstones, aiming straight for the small creature’s shell.

Emily gasped, lunging forward with desperate speed. She shoved Peter hard in the shoulder, knocking him clear of the path, but her own momentum sent her skidding across the damp stone. Her slippers slipped on the wet moss, and she crashed down hard on her knees and hands, her pinafore tearing on the rough gravel.

The tortoise crawled onward, completely unscathed, but Michael let out a high, frantic scream of pure panic. Traumatized by the sudden violence of the fall, the boy shrank back against the garden wall, clutching his ears and weeping hysterically.

“Emily!” Lysander’s relaxed demeanor dissolved instantly, his face hardening as he closed the distance in two massive strides.

Emily scrambled frantically to her feet before he could reach her, her small frame trembling violently. Tears flooded her dark eyes, spilling down her pale cheeks as she looked up at her father’s looming, severe figure. She clutched her scraped palms to her skirt, her chest heaving in ragged, desperate gasps.