Page 62 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

“Never,” Fanny assured him softly, her amber eyes holding his. “Mrs. Gable is downstairs, and Miss Vance, your new governess, is waiting in the study with your evening reading. And Veronica has been sent down to the far wing; she is never permitted near your room or the nursery again.”

She smoothed his collar with a tender touch, giving him a warm, reassuring smile. “You are completely safe, Michael. Every corner of this house is looked after, and no one will ever hurt you here again.”

He did not pull away; his small fingers remained tangled in the lace of her sleeve. Fanny smiled gently, recognizing he needed a moment to ground himself.

“Come,” Fanny said, rising gracefully and leading him toward the small velvet settee near the window. “We have plenty of time. Let us have a cup of tea together before I put on my gloves.”

She motioned to Sarah, who quickly poured two cups from the pot resting on the side table—a warm, milky brew for Michael and a fresh cup for Fanny. Michael sat close beside her, cradling his cup in both hands, taking slow, deliberate sips as the warmth settled into him.

The quiet moment was broken by the sound of pattering footsteps down the corridor. Peter burst through the door first, holding his wooden sword, with Emily trailing right behind him at a far more measured pace.

“Fanny! The guards say knights do not drink tea before sunset!” Peter announced, stopping short upon seeing Michael sitting quietly beside her.

“Knights drink whatever keeps them sharp, Peter,” Fanny replied with a warm chuckle, setting her teacup down onto its saucer.

Emily stepped into the room, her dark eyes darting from the glittering emeralds around Fanny’s neck to her brother’s serene face. She walked over to the settee, placing a gentle hand on Michael’s shoulder.

“I told him you would not leave without saying goodbye,” Emily said softly to Michael before looking up at Fanny with a grave, mature expression. “You do not need to worry about him. I am going to stay in the nursery with Michael and Peter all evening. I will read them the story about the sea voyages until it is time for bed.”

Michael looked up at his sister, his shoulders visibly relaxing as he reached out to touch her apron. “With the pictures of the big ships?”

“With all the pictures,” Emily promised, giving his shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze. She turned back to Fanny, offering a confident, quiet nod. “I will look after him while you and Father are away.”

Fanny felt a deep, overwhelming surge of affection fill her chest. She reached out, catching both of Emily’s hands in hers. “I know you will, Emily. You are a wonderful sister.”

Outside in the courtyard, the sharp clatter of iron horseshoes against the gravel signaled that the carriage was waiting. Fanny gave each of the children a warm hug, taking one last look at Michael, whose quiet smile assured her that the dark shadows had been kept at bay.

The rain fell in thick, steady sheets against the carriage roof, the heavy drops drumming a hypnotic rhythm on the dark leather lining. Outside, the storm had turned the country road into a blur of gray mist and whipping branches, but inside the small, enclosed cabin, the air was warm, scented with damp wool, cedar, and the sweet orange-blossom scent clinging to Fanny’s skin.

Fanny sat braced against the velvet cushions, her posture rigid as the carriage swayed around a sharp turn. Sitting directly beside her, Lysander’s broad, massive frame filled nearly half the seat. His tailored black coat brushed against the deep emerald silk of her gown with every jolt of the coach, creating a soft, dangerous friction that made her pulse flutter wildly against her ribs.

She stared down at her lap, her gloved fingers twisting the small silver handle of her velvet reticule. The heavy emerald necklace felt strangely warm against her throat now, but the heat blooming in her cheeks had very little to do with the jewels.

She glanced out the rain-slicked window, watching the iron gates of Hilgrove Manor disappear behind a thick curtain of gray fog.

“They will be fine, you know,” Lysander’s deep, gravelly baritone cut through the steady patter of the rain, smooth and unhurried.

Fanny started slightly, turning her head to meet his dark gray eyes. He was leaning back against the leather squabs, his long legs stretched out in front of him, looking infuriatingly relaxed despite the storm howling outside.

“I know,” Fanny murmured, letting out a soft, restless breath. “I know Emily is looking after Michael, and Miss Vance is wonderfully capable, and Mrs. Gable is supervising the kitchen fires. It is only… this is the first time we have both left the estate together. The house feels so vast when the lamps are lit at dusk. What if Michael’s night terrors return? What if Peter tries to bring Pickles into the dining room again?”

A slow, faint curve touched the corner of Lysander’s firm mouth, a rare, devastatingly handsome expression that sent a sudden spike of heat straight to her belly.

“Now who is being overprotective?” Lysander asked, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that vibrated through the quiet cabin. “If memory serves, you spent your first three weeks at Hilgrove lecturing me on the grave dangers of suffocating the children with constant vigil.”

Fanny’s eyes narrowed, a bright, playful spark igniting behind her lashes as she tilted her chin upward. “That was entirely different. You were keeping them behind locked gates like tiny prisoners of war. I am merely expressing the very normal, deeply rational concern of a stepmother who does not wish to return to a burnt-down West Wing.”

“The West Wing survived a century of civil unrest, Fanny,” Lysander replied smoothly, his eyes glinting with dry amusement in the dim light of the carriage lantern. “I assure you it can withstand my children for an evening.”

“Your children can be remarkably creative when left unattended,” Fanny countered, a soft, melodic laugh escaping her lips before she could catch it. She shifted in her seat, her dark green skirts rustling, bringing her knee within a hair’s breadth of his thigh. “Peter managed to turn the morning room sofa into a pirate frigate in under four minutes on Tuesday.”

“He derived the design from the sea charts in the gallery,” Lysander noted, a subtle thread of pride woven beneath his stoic tone. “His engineering was surprisingly sound.”

“His engineering ruined two velvet bolsters, Lysander,” Fanny teased softly, her amber eyes holding his with warm, familiar affection.

Silence settled between them again, but it was no longer tense—it was cozy, thick with the shared warmth of two people who had slowly, painstakingly, carved out a quiet peace. The lantern swung gently overhead, casting long, golden shadows across Lysander’s sharp cheekbones and the harsh, angular line of his jaw.

Fanny leaned her head back against the cushion, looking at him through her lashes as the rain continued its gentle drumming above.