Page 58 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

Lady Gooldwer and Blanche exchanged a long, meaningful look across the mahogany table. Her mother’s sharp, theatrical eyes softened into genuine surprise, while a slow, knowing smile began to curl the corners of Blanche’s lips.

“Well, well,” Blanche murmured, setting her embroidery hoop flat on her lap. She tilted her head, studying Fanny with a sharp, perceptive gaze that made a sudden, betraying flush creep up the back of Fanny’s neck. “When on earth did the two of you start getting along so remarkably well?”

“We are merely managing the household together,” Fanny replied quickly, picking up the silver tea tongs to fiddle with a sugar cube, keeping her eyes firmly pinned to the bowl. “It takes time to understand a man like Lysander. One must look past the stone exterior to see what lies beneath.”

“Only ‘understand’?” Blanche teased softly, her voice laced with lighthearted, affectionate irony. She leaned across the table, tapping her fan lightly against Fanny’s wrist. “Come now, Fanny. You look at him as though he hung the moon, and I saw the way he watched you rescue Emily from the pugs. That was not the gaze of a man managing a business arrangement.”

Her mother’s face lit up with immediate, eager interest, her fan opening with a crisp snap. “Blanche is right! Is there something more romantic flourishing between you? Have you truly melted the frozen Duke?”

The heat in Fanny’s cheeks flared into a fiery blush. The memory of Lysander’s broad frame kneeling beside her in her bedchamber, his calloused fingers brushing hers as they listened to the rhythmic breathing of his children, rushed through her mind. She remembered the raw, heavy desire burning in his gray eyes just moments earlier in the drawing room, a dark, silent promise that had made her pulse flutter wildly against her ribs.

Yet, behind that simmering tension lay the reality of the distance they were still navigating. The unconsumed vows, the lingering ghosts of his past, and the terrifying wall of control he was only just beginning to tear down.

Fanny let out a soft, slow breath, smoothing her plum skirts as she met her sister’s teasing gaze with steady, honest candor.

“There is… warmth between us,” Fanny admitted quietly, the truth feeling sweet and heavy on her tongue. “And perhaps even the beginning of something deeper. But do not start ordering nursery clothes just yet, Mother. There will not be an heir arriving at Hilgrove Manor anytime soon.”

Lady Gooldwer blinked, a brief flicker of disappointment crossing her features, but Blanche merely smiled, a warm, deeply supportive expression that filled Fanny’s chest with relief.

“Good things take time, Fanny,” Blanche said gently, reaching across the table to squeeze her fingers. “And if anyone can teach that stubborn man how to love again, it is you.”

Through the window, the terrace doors creaked open, and Lysander’s deep, gravelly baritone floated clearly into the room.

“Because a tortoise carries his house on his back, Peter,” Lysander was saying, his voice patient and even. “He does not need to hurry. The shell protects him from the rain and the sun alike, so he moves only as fast as he pleases.”

“Does he ever leave it behind if it gets too heavy?” Peter asked, his small voice echoing off the stone terrace.

“Never,” Lysander replied softly. “It grows with him. It is part of who he is.”

Fanny looked out at him, feeling her heart give a quiet, unmistakable leap, knowing that whatever lay ahead, the cold walls of Hilgrove Manor were finally beginning to thaw.

The late afternoon sun cast long, bronze shadows across the gravel drive as the heavy, crested traveling coach pulled up before the main portico. The autumn air had turned crisp, carrying the sharp scent of damp pine and wood smoke from the chimneys.

Fanny stood on the top stone step, her fingers lightly resting on the dark wool of her cloak to keep the chill wind from biting through her sleeves. Beside her, the three children clustered near the balustrade, their breath misting in pale clouds as the footmen loaded the last of her mother’s trunks onto the rear iron rack.

Near the carriage door, Anastasia clutched her wooden turtle box to her chest, her bright yellow hair ribbons whipping around her face in the breeze.

Emily stepped forward first, moving with a quiet, careful dignity that made Fanny’s heart swell. She stopped two paces from her cousin, smoothing the front of her dark blue pinafore before holding out a small, neatly folded scrap of parchment.

“I drew a map of the herb garden for Clementine,” Emily said, her voice clear and remarkably steady. “It shows where the sun hits the stone wall best in the afternoons, so she knows where to sleep.”

Anastasia’s face lit up, and she tucked the paper into her cloak pocket before throwing her arms around Emily’s neck in a fierce, unceremonious hug. “Thank you, Emily! You must write to me about Pickles every week! Mother says I may send letters by Tuesday’s post.”

Emily stiffened for a fraction of a second at the sudden physical contact, then her small hands lifted, lightly patting Anastasia’s back. “I will write on Mondays. And… I hope you will come back very soon, Anastasia. The nursery is far too quiet when it is only us.”

“I shall demand to come back for Christmas!” Anastasia declared with certainty, pulling back with a wide, gap-toothed grin. She turned her bright gaze toward Peter and Michael, who were crouching near the wheel to watch the coach horses stamp their hooves. “Goodbye, Peter! Goodbye, Michael! Do not let Pickles eat all the clover!”

“He eats only the sweetest leaves!” Peter called back, waving a muddy stick in the air. “I am teaching him to march in a straight line!”

Michael gave a small, timid wave, his dark gray eyes bright as he offered a soft, genuine smile. “Safe travels, Anastasia.”

Down on the driveway, her mother was making a grand production of her departure. She blew theatrical kisses toward the porch from beneath a massive velvet bonnet as a footman carefully gathered the three squashed-faced pugs into wicker travel baskets.

“Oh, my sweet Fanny!” Lady Gooldwer called out, her voice echoing across the courtyard as she accepted Blanche’s arm to ascend the carriage steps. “Do try to ensure the Duke does not spend the entire winter counting timber yields! A house requires life, my dear! Life and music!”

“I shall keep that in mind, Mother.” Fanny smiled, stepping down one stone to kiss her mother’s powdered cheek before turning to her sister.

Blanche gathered Fanny into a warm, lingering embrace, her dark eyes shining with affectionate understanding as she pulled back to look into Fanny’s face.