Page 5 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

Behind her shoulder, out of her line of sight, Bromley’s free hand moved with practiced, malicious speed. His thumb hooked into the delicate silk back of her gown, popping three hidden brass hooks from their eyes in one brutal tug.

Fanny felt a strange, sudden looseness at her neck, a slight shift in the heavy satin of her bodice, but before she could reach back to check the fasteners, Bromley let go of her arm.

A slow, sickening smile spread across his features. He took two steps backward, bowing low with exaggerated mock chivalry. “As you wish, Lady Fanny. I shall leave you to your grand prospects.”

Confused by his sudden withdrawal, Fanny took a deep breath, her pulse hammering against her ribs. She turned on her heel to leave the dance floor, anxious to find Dorothy or her sister’s corner.

The moment she moved forward, a terrifying sensation washed over her skin. The heavy silk of her bodice slipped downward.

Fanny gasped, her hands instantly flying up to catch her chest, but the front of her gown caught sharply against something behind her. The trailing hem of her dress was pinned dead to the floorboards under the heel of Bromley’s heavy riding boot.

As she took another step forward, the loosened fabric pulled violently downward.

The remaining hooks tore free. The rich green silk of her bodice sagged open, sliding past her collarbones, down her shoulders, and pulling significantly lower. The thin, white linen of her chemise and a blinding curve of exposed skin flared bright beneath the chandelier lights.

The violin music faltered, then cut off entirely as a musician dropped his bow.

The entire ballroom went dead, terrifyingly silent.

A collective, sharp intake of air echoed off the high gilded ceiling—a chorus of shocked gasps from fifty matrons, lords, and debutantes. A fan clattered to the floor. Somewhere to her left, a mother shrieked softly and slapped her hands over her daughter’s eyes.

Fanny stood paralyzed in the center of the room.

The ballroom’s icy air hit her bare skin. She clutched the torn, sagging bodice to her chest with both hands, her knuckles turned bone-white, her breath coming in short, suffocating hitches. She looked up, her amber eyes wide with horror, and saw every head in Mayfair turned toward her—staring, judging, condemning.

Beside her, Bromley took a casual step back, looking down at his boot with an expression of mild, feigned surprise.

Exposed. Humiliated. Ruined.

Four years of carefully guarded dignity, four years of enduring whispers about her father, vanished in three horrifying seconds.

Tears burned hot and furious behind Fanny’s eyelids. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t look at Bromley; she didn’t look at the Dowager, and she didn’t look across the room where the duke of Hilgrove stood.

Holding the ruined gown against her chest with both arms, Fanny turned and ran. Her slippers slapped frantically against the polished parquet floor as she cut through the sea of staring faces, pushed through the heavy glass doors, and fled blindly out into the night air of the gardens.

Three

Lysander’s jaw locked so hard the muscles along his cheeks throbbed.

From his place by the high-arched windows, he had seen every fraction of the exchange. He had seen Bromley’s thumb hook maliciously into the back of her bodice, the deliberate step onto the hem of her gown, and the sick, satisfied tilt of the man’s mouth as the green silk tore open.

He had seen the sudden, terrible pale flash of Lady Fanny’s skin, and the raw, silent horror on her face before she turned and bolted into the dark.

He set his glass down on a side table with a sharp, heavy clink that cracked the glass stem in two. He didn’t check his hand for liquor or blood. He turned, his broad shoulders cutting through the stunned crowd like the prow of a warship.

“Your Grace!”

Bromley stepped directly into his path, wiping a spot of punch from his bright blue lapel with an airy wave of his gloved fingers. The man’s mouth was stretched into a wide, cozy grin.

“I am Lord Bromley,” the man said, offering a shallow, insolent bow. “How profoundly pleased I am to finally meet the legendary Duke of Hilgrove. I have watched you all evening, and I must say, I believe you and I are quite alike.”

Lysander stopped two feet from him. His dark gray eyes swept over the man’s smooth, unblemished face, the high knot of his neckcloth, and the lingering, malicious gleam in his gaze.

“I do not return the sentiment,” Lysander said, his voice flat and level.

He stepped around him, his heavy boots moving toward the garden doors.

“Oh, come now, Your Grace!” Bromley turned on his heel, falling into step beside him, his voice pitched in a conspiratorial whisper that made Lysander’s knuckles itch. “There is no need for grand airs between us. I have heard the whispers, of course, but I assure you, I never believed a word of those ridiculous rumors. And even if they were true—about the late duchess, I mean—who on earth could blame you?”