Page 50 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

Veronica sat by the small window, mending the hem of a child’s woolen stocking. At the sound of the door opening, she rose with practiced haste, her silver spectacles clattering against her apron as she dipped into a low curtsy.

“Your Grace,” Veronica murmured, her hands smoothing the crisp linen of her waist. “I did not expect you in the nursery at this hour. Master Peter and Master Michael are downstairs with Mary.”

Lysander stepped inside, keeping his hands clasped firmly behind the small of his back. His imposing frame seemed to fill the narrow room, casting a long shadow across the worktable.

“Sit, Veronica,” Lysander said, his voice low, even, and deliberate.

The nanny hesitated, a flicker of guarded uncertainty passing through her pale eyes before she settled back onto the wooden chair.

“I have come to discuss your duties in this household,” Lysander began, his gray eyes searching her impassive features with calm, calculating scrutiny. “The Duchess and I have observed the toll these past months have taken on you. You have carried the weight of the nursery day and night, attending to Michael’s nighttime episodes without respite. We are concerned that you are severely overworked, and I intend to lighten your responsibilities.”

Veronica’s face drained of color as her fingers tightened around the wool stocking until her knuckles turned white. Her breath hitched in a sudden, sharp gasp.

“Your Grace is dismissing me?” Her voice trembled with raw panic, her eyes darting frantically to his unreadable face. “Please, Your Grace, I beg of you! I have served this family faithfully since the late Duchess was first wed! I promised her that I would guard her children! Do not turn me out of Hilgrove!”

“Calm yourself,” Lysander instructed firmly, raising a large hand to cut through her rising distress. “You are not being dismissed. Your long loyalty to this family is deeply valued, Veronica, and I have no intention whatsoever of letting you go.”

Veronica drew a ragged breath, pressing a trembling hand to her chest, though the sharp tension in her shoulders remained coiled tight. “Then what does Your Grace mean?”

“Michael is seven years old,” Lysander stated, keeping his tone measured and practical. “He is growing out of infancy and is far too old to require a nanny who attends to him every waking hour. I have instructed my solicitor to begin inquiries into a proper governess. A qualified instructor will soon take charge of the children’s daily lessons, deportment, and daytime supervision, which will afford you the rest and free time you have earned.”

Veronica’s mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. A dark, defensive flicker tightened around her jaw before she lowered her chin.

“And as for tonight,” Lysander continued, watching her reaction with keen, unblinking focus, “we have decided that Michael will trial sleeping in a different bedchamber, without your assistance. You will not be required to maintain a night vigil.”

Veronica’s eyes widened, a strange, calculating chill passing over her pale face before she forced her lips into a thin, tight smile.

“I see,” Veronica said softly, her voice pitched in a careful, reverent murmur that barely concealed the venom running beneath it. “I thank Your Grace for your consideration. It appears the new Duchess possesses considerable influence over you.”

Lysander did not shift his posture. He gave a single, indifferent shrug of his broad shoulders, his stone mask giving away nothing.

“See to your evening meal, Veronica,” Lysander said flatly, turning on his heel toward the door. “The matter is settled.”

By the time Lysander turned the brass handle of Fanny’s bedchamber door and eased the heavy door inward with deliberate quiet, he found a fire burning steadily in the wide hearth. It cast a soft, golden glow over the rose-colored damask walls and the grand four-poster bed. The air smelled of orange blossom, polished cedar, and warm linen.

In the center of the plush mattress, propped against a mound of goose-feather pillows, sat Michael. The boy wore clean nightclothes, his small knees drawn up beneath the quilted counterpane. Beside him, Fanny sat cross-legged, an illustrated book of constellations open across her plum skirts.

“…and then the sailor steers the rudder toward the brightest star at the top of the bear,” Michael was saying, his voice clear, rhythmic, and free of the hesitant hitch that usually choked his words. He pointed a small finger at the painted parchment, a tiny smile curving his lips. “Is that how they find the land in the fog, Fanny?”

“Precisely so, my brave captain,” Fanny murmured, her eyes shining as she brushed a stray curl from the boy’s forehead.

Lysander froze on the threshold, a tight knot clenching his throat.

In seven years, he had never heard his son string that many syllables together in a single breath. Whenever Lysander entered a room, Michael would shrink into his collar, lower his gaze to his boots, and answer only in flat, frightened monosyllables. Now, watching the boy gesture toward the painted page with bright, animated eyes, Lysander felt the stark contrast strike him straight in the chest.

At the faint creak of the floorboard, Michael’s head snapped up. The boy stiffened instantly, his hand dropping from the page as his eyes went wide with sudden caution.

Fanny looked up as well, offering Lysander a quiet, assessing glance before resting a gentle, reassuring palm flat against Michael’s small knee beneath the blanket.

“Good evening, Lysander,” Fanny said smoothly, her voice warm and welcoming, creating an effortless bridge across the silent room.

Lysander stepped inside, leaving the door slightly ajar. He kept his hands unclenched at his sides, consciously relaxing the hard line of his shoulders.

“Michael,” Lysander said, keeping his low baritone pitched soft and steady. “Are you comfortable here?”

Michael gave a single, careful nod, his small fingers catching the edge of the quilt. “Yes, Father.”

Before Lysander could step further into the room, a sharp, hurried tap sounded against the open doorframe.