Page 59 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

“You have done wonders here, Fanny,” Blanche whispered, her voice meant only for Fanny’s ears. She flicked her gaze toward the top of the stairs, where Lysander stood like a tall, dark sentinel in his tailored black coat, his broad shoulders framed by the carved stone archway. “He cannot keep his eyes off you. Remember what I said. Let him see that the fortress is no longer needed.”

“Safe journey, Blanche,” Fanny murmured, her cheeks warming despite the biting wind.

With a final rustle of silk and a chorus of frantic pug snorts from inside the cabin, the carriage door clicked shut. The driver cracked his whip, the iron-shod wheels ground over the gravel, and the heavy coach rolled down the winding drive, vanishing behind the golden oak trees.

Fanny stood on the gravel until the sound of the horses faded into the quiet afternoon. She let out a long, slow breath, feeling the deep, satisfying stillness settling over the estate.

She turned back toward the stairs. Lysander was already descending the stone steps, his dark gray eyes pinned entirely on her.

“The wind is rising,” Lysander said, his low baritone cutting through the chill. He stopped on the step above her, his shadow enveloping her completely. “The children should be inside.”

“Of course,” Fanny replied, turning to the three little figures shivering near the door. She offered them a warm, encouraging nod. “Come along, my brave explorers. The sun is setting, and it is time for the nursery.”

Peter let out a loud, theatrical sigh, dragging his boots across the threshold. “Must we go up so soon? Pickles hasn’t had his evening dandelion!”

“Pickles is already asleep in his box, Peter,” Emily instructed, taking her brother firmly by the elbow to guide him toward the grand staircase. “And Mary said hot barley soup and toasted cheese are waiting in the small parlor.”

Michael walked quietly beside them, his small hand gripping the banister as they began the climb up the wide, carpeted stairs. At the landing, he paused, turning his small head to look down through the carved wooden spindles at his father and stepmother in the hall below.

“Goodnight, Father,” Michael called out softly, his voice clear and free of hesitation. “Goodnight, Fanny.”

Lysander went slightly rigid beside Fanny, his hand coming to rest against the carved newel post. He lifted his chin, softening the hard line of his jaw as he looked up at his son.

“Goodnight, Michael,” Lysander replied, his deep voice carrying a quiet, steady warmth. “Sleep well. Peter, Emily, straight to your rooms once you have eaten.”

“Yes, Father,” Emily called back, her tone polite and serene as she ushered her brothers down the upper corridor.

The heavy oak doors at the top of the landing closed, leaving the grand entrance hall in total silence.

The servants had retired to the lower kitchens to prepare the evening fires, leaving only the soft crackle of the hearth in the nearby drawing room and the pale, amber light of the high wall sconces filtering over the polished flagstones.

Fanny unclasped the brass hook of her cloak, letting the heavy wool slide from her shoulders. Before she could drape it over the hall bench, Lysander stepped into her space. His large, calloused hands caught the velvet mantle, lifting the weight from her fingers with smooth, effortless precision. He set the cloak aside on the mahogany table, his eyes never leaving her face.

“Thank you,” Fanny said softly, smoothing the plum-colored wool of her bodice as she looked up into his dark, angular features.

“For removing your coat?” Lysander asked, a faint, dry thread of amusement lacing his baritone.

“For today,” Fanny corrected gently, taking a slow step toward the warmth of the drawing room hearth. The firelight flickered across her features, highlighting the soft amber glow in her eyes and the delicate flush on her cheeks. “For opening your doors to my family. For tolerating three pugs, two turtles, and my mother’s endless commentary on your timber yields.”

Lysander followed her into the room, his heavy boots making no sound against the thick Persian rug. He did not stop until he stood directly before her, his massive frame blocking out the rest of the room, shutting out the world beyond Hilgrove Manor.

“Your mother is remarkably opinionated regarding forestry,” Lysander murmured, though his tone was entirely devoid of sharp bite.

Fanny let out a soft, melodic laugh that bubbled up from her chest, her lips curving into a bright, luminous smile that sent a visible ripple through Lysander’s composure.

“She is opinionated about everything,” Fanny confessed, tilting her head up to meet his piercing gray gaze. “I know how difficult it was for you to invite them, Lysander. I know how fiercely you protect this house and your peace. Seeing Anastasia with Emily today, seeing Michael laugh without looking behind him, it meant more to me than I can express.”

She paused, a soft, tender smile gracing her lips as she glanced toward the nursery wing.

“He slept through the entire night in his own bed yesterday without waking once from his bad dreams,” Fanny added quietly, her voice full of warmth. “The shadows in this house are finally lifting, Lysander.”

Lysander stared down at her, his broad chest rising and falling in a deep, heavy rhythm. The flickering firelight carved sharp shadows along his cheekbones and jaw, but the cold, impenetrable stone mask he had worn for four long years was nowhere to be seen. In its place burned a dark, raw, and utterly consuming intensity that made Fanny’s breath catch in her throat.

“I did not do it for your mother, Fanny,” Lysander said, his voice dropping into a thick, gravelly register that vibrated straight through the floorboards and into the soles of her slippers.

Fanny’s pulse began to hammer wildly against her ribs, her heart leaping into her throat. “Then why did you do it?”

Lysander stepped closer, so close that the crisp linen of his waistcoat brushed against the soft wool of her gown. The scent of wood smoke, rain, and cedar wrapped around her, intoxicating and heavy.