Page 57 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

Lysander stood frozen by the hearth, his dark gray eyes tracking every micro-movement his wife had just made.

It was breathtaking. In a world governed by loud demands, selfish posturing, and shallow display, a woman like Fanny was dangerously easy to overlook. Society—and certainly his own late wife—valued drama, sharp wit used as a weapon, or absolute submission.

Fanny possessed none of those ugly traits. Her grace was quiet, and her thoughtfulness so constant and instinctual that it operated like the steady pulse beneath the house’s surface. People accepted the comfort she provided without ever realizing the incredible, watchful effort it took to create it. She made herself invisible in the very act of serving everyone around her.

A dark, heavy heat stirred low in his chest, mixed with a sudden, fierce possessiveness that caught him completely off guard.

She was his duchess. And while the rest of the world might take her easy, selfless warmth for granted, he saw it. He saw the sharp intelligence behind those amber eyes, the unyielding strength in her spine, and the effortless way she brought harmony to a room that had known only cold discipline for long years.

Fanny smoothed the front of her plum-colored skirts and turned around, catching him staring at her from across the rug.

Instead of lowering her eyes or curtsying with the quiet deference she showed her mother or the household staff, she tilted her head upward. A small, distinctly wicked glint sparked in her gaze. She walked straight up to him, stopping well within his personal space—close enough that he could feel the radiating warmth of her body and catch the delicate scent of sweet orange blossom clinging to her neck.

“You were about to deploy your House of Lords voice on an eight-year-old and three pugs, were you not, Your Grace?” Fanny whispered, her voice low, dry, and laced with a teasing confidence that made the blood run hot in his veins.

Lysander looked down at her glowing face, his harsh, angular features remaining stoic, though a dangerous, simmering heat sparked behind his dark lashes.

“My ‘House of Lords voice’ is extraordinarily effective on unruly subjects,” Lysander replied, his gravelly baritone dropping into a thick, intimate register that made her breath hitch.

“Perhaps,” Fanny countered softly, stepping a fraction closer until the soft wool of her bodice brushed against the dark linen of his waistcoat. Her warm amber eyes held his with absolute, fearless defiance. “But Pip is entirely immune to ducal scowls. He only responds to gentle persuasion and biscuits. You have much to learn about handling wild beasts, Lysander.”

A quiet, profound sense of satisfaction bloomed deep within Lysander’s chest.

In a household where everyone walked on eggshells, where his own children flinched at shadows, and the staff spoke in hushed, nervous tones, Fanny stood before him, unburdened by fear. She felt entirely safe with him. She spoke her mind without hesitation, matched his cold reserve with sharp, affectionate banter, and challenged his rigid boundaries because she trusted him. She knew the man behind the armor and did not retreat from him.

Lysander reached out, his large, calloused hand coming to rest lightly against the small of her back. The heat of her skin burned right through the layers of her gown, sending a sharp, electric jolt straight to his core.

He bent his head down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he spoke, his breath warm against her skin.

“Then it is fortunate,” Lysander growled softly, his fingers tightening slightly against her waist, “that I have such an exceptionally skilled duchess to instruct me.”

Fanny’s cheeks flushed a brilliant, delicious pink, her pulse fluttering wildly against her collarbone as she looked up at him, her parted lips betraying the sudden, thick wave of desire that flared between them.

Twenty-Two

The soft clatter of porcelain teacups against saucers carried across the small morning parlor as the high-pitched barks of the pugs echoed faintly from the terrace outside.

Through the sheer muslin curtains, Fanny watched Anastasia, Emily, and Peter kneeling in a tight circle on the sunlit lawn, meticulously building a small enclosure of twigs and dry leaves around Pickles and Clementine. The three pugs were tumbling over one another in the damp grass, their frantic snorts floating through the mild autumn air.

Fanny settled back onto the velvet settee, smoothing the plum wool of her skirts, feeling a quiet, peaceful warmth resting in her chest.

Across the low mahogany table, her mother leaned into her silk cushions, taking a slow sip of her sweetened tea before setting the cup down. Her dark eyes swept over the room, taking in the bright, polished wainscoting and the fresh autumn roses arranged on the mantel.

“I must admit, Fanny,” her mother began, her voice dropping into the conspiratorial tone she reserved for drawing-room confessions, “when you first agreed to marry the Duke of Hilgrove, I prepared myself for the absolute worst. London paints him as a ruthless, unfeeling creature, a man who drove his first wife to her grave and locked his heart in stone walls.” She set her fan flat on her knee. “I confess I feared what I would find when I came today. But the house is perfectly lovely. The cornicing alone⁠—”

“The cornicing is exceptional,” Blanche agreed, looking up from her embroidery with a quiet, perceptive gleam in her dark eyes. “Though the rumors were hardly gentle, Fanny. Mayfair speaks of him as though he were a villain from a gothic novel.”

Fanny looked toward the window for a moment, watching the distant figure of Lysander walking along the outer edge of the terrace. He had his hands clasped firmly behind his back, his broad shoulders casting a long, commanding shadow across the stone path, yet his gray eyes remained fixed on the children playing in the dirt.

“London knows nothing of him,” Fanny said softly, turning back to her mother and sister. Her voice was steady, free of any defensive heat, carrying an unshakeable conviction that made both women pause. “The entire ‘murderer’ reputation is a fiction born of idle tongues.”

Lady Gooldwer raised a delicate brow, her teacup hovering mid-air. “Fanny.”

“He is not a cruel man,” Fanny continued gently, leaning forward to rest her hands over her knees. “He is simply a man who was deeply betrayed. His first wife abandoned this house and those three helpless children, leaving him to pick up the broken pieces alone. Everything Lysander does—his rigid rules, his distant reserve, his stubborn reliance on ledgers and schedules—is merely his attempt to protect his children from being hurt again.”

She paused, a faint, tender smile touching her lips as she remembered his clumsy attempt to comfort Emily in the bedchamber nights ago. “It may be the wrong way to go about it,” Fanny admitted, her voice dropping into a low, affectionate murmur. “He constructs fortresses when he ought to offer open arms. But he is trying, Mother. In his own stiff, awkward, unyielding way… he is trying his absolute best for them.”

Silence fell over the small parlor, heavy with sudden, unexpected weight.