Page 6 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

Lysander halted dead in his tracks.

Bromley stopped beside him, chuckling softly, entirely blind to the shift in the air. “Women can be so dreadfully bothersome sometimes, can they not? Always demanding, always arrogant, needing to be put firmly in their place.”

Before the word place fully left Bromley’s lips, Lysander’s left hand shot out. His fingers clamped into the fine wool of Bromley’s lapels, gathering coat, waistcoat, and shirt into a single, crushing fist. He yanked the smaller man forward until their noses were three inches apart, lifting Bromley so far onto his toes that his boots barely scraped the floorboards.

The surrounding lords gasped, stepping back in a sudden, violent wave.

“Shut your mouth,” Lysander growled. The sound didn’t carry across the room; it vibrated low and dangerous in the center of Bromley’s chest. “I saw what you did.”

Bromley’s face went white. The smug grin vanished, replaced by a sudden, bug-eyed terror as he clutched at Lysander’s wrist with both hands. “Your Grace, that woman…”

“Lady Fanny.” Lysander’s grip tightened, the fabric tearing faintly under the strain. “This is the name of the woman you tried to ruin.”

“But she provoked me first—” Bromley choked out, his heels kicking uselessly against the floor.

Lysander didn’t wait for him to finish. He shoved the man backward with the full force of his broad shoulders.

Bromley flew six feet through the air, his boots skidding on the polished parquet before his back hit the floorboards. His glass of champagne shattered against his hip, soaking his bright blue trousers in dark wine.

Lysander looked down at him, his chest barely rising, his jaw set like stone.

“We are nothing alike,” Lysander said softly.

Across the room, the Dowager Duchess of Greystone moved with astonishing speed. Seeing the crowd surging toward the fallen lord and the lingering shadow of the scandal threatening to engulf her entire evening, she stepped onto the raised orchestra platform.

She struck her golden cane three times hard against the floor.

“Attention!” Her voice rang out, crisp, loud, and commanding. “Ladies and gentlemen! The final event of the Duke Hunt is upon us! The midnight game in the rose maze begins in five minutes! All eligible gentlemen and ladies, report to the terrace immediately!”

The crowd hesitated, torn between staring at Bromley scrambling to his knees in spilled punch and the prospect of the Dowager’s final match-making spectacle. Slowly, the tide shifted. Mothers began tugging their daughters toward the glass terrace doors. Lords straightened their coats, eager for the distraction.

Lysander stood amidst the moving crowd.

He had come to Greystone Manor for one purpose. He had come to find a duchess. He needed a mother for his children, a practical arrangement to restore order to his house, and the Dowager’s final game was his direct route to securing a willing candidate among the eligible ladies currently lining up on the terrace.

He looked toward the terrace doors, where dozens of bright gowns and polished boots were gathering under the lanterns. Then he looked toward the dark, quiet archway that led out into the rain-slicked garden labyrinth.

He remembered how Lady Fanny had held her head high when he accused her. He remembered the sharp, brilliant spark in her amber eyes when she told him she would rather dance with a bass viol. And he remembered the absolute, crushing silence of the room as her dress tore open—a woman destroyed in three seconds by a coward’s heel, left to face social death while the man who did it picked a punch off his sleeve.

Lysander tightened his jaw. He could not stand by and let it happen.

He turned his back on the terrace, his heavy boots cutting in the opposite direction. Ignoring the servants’ calls and the lingering stares of the remaining guests, Lysander pushed open the side doors and stepped out into the dark, damp night.

The night air sliced through the thin linen of Fanny’s chemise as she stumbled deeper into the high hedge walls of the rose labyrinth.

Her hands pressed hard against her chest, her fingers trembling as she squeezed the ruined green silk together. The gravel tore at the leather soles of her slippers, but she didn’t stop until the noise of the ballroom—the faint, distant scraped notes of the violins and the muffled din of laughter—faded into the rustle of wet leaves.

She leaned her back against a tall boxwood hedge, her breath coming in fast, shallow hitches.

Do not panic. Be sensible. Think.

She was three-and-twenty. A spinster who had spent four long years navigating the cold edges of Mayfair with a ruined father and no dowry. Her chances of finding a husband had been reduced to a sliver of thread before she had even crossed the threshold of Greystone Manor tonight.

In truth, she was losing nothing she had actually possessed. She could leave London tomorrow. She could pack her trunk, retreat to a quiet, forgotten cottage in the countryside for a year or two, and let the grass grow over the scandal. Eventually, the gossip would die down. Society would find a new target, and her life would settle back into its quiet, modest routine.

A hot tear spilled over her eyelashes, tracing a wet line down her cheek. Then another.

She buried her face in her wrist, a silent sob wracking her shoulders. It was a lie. She had lost something. She had lost the faint, stubborn glimmer of hope she had carried in her heart for four years—the desperate dream of a quiet home, a parlor of her own, and a child to hold in her arms.