Page 77 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

The kiss was not the desperate, controlled possession of the other night; it was slow, deep, and devastatingly tender. His arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her slightly off the floorboards, pulling her so tightly against his chest that she could feel the thunderous, rapid beat of his heart against her ribs.

Fanny held onto him, burying her face in the crook of his neck as he rested his forehead against hers, their shared breath warm in the quiet gloom of the study.

Outside, the heavy rain had stopped, and through the leaded glass of the tall windows, a single beam of gold afternoon sunlight broke through the gray clouds, illuminating the room in brilliant, unshakeable light.

The next week, a wicker crate sat in the center of the study, occasionally shifting with a series of scuffling noises and muffled, high-pitched yips.

Peter stood three feet away, his fingers tight in Lysander’s coat, staring at the box as though it might contain a dragon. Fanny knelt beside the trunk, her skirts spreading over the rug as she rested a hand against the small wooden latch.

“I made you a promise, Peter,” Fanny said softly, her eyes shining as she looked up at the boy. “And it was high time we brought a proper friend into this house.”

She unlatched the door and pulled it open.

A flurry of scruffy ginger fur, oversized paws, and a frantically wagging tail exploded out of the crate. The puppy skidded across the polished floor straight into Peter’s lap, sending the boy tumbling backward onto the carpet in a fit of breathless, ringing laughter.

“Look at his paws, Father!” Peter gasped, wrapping his small arms around the squirming dog as a wet nose peppered his cheek. “He’s enormous!”

“He is going to be a fine pet,” Lysander said, stepping forward to rest a heavy, warm hand on Fanny’s shoulder as a soft smile broke through his usual stern reserve.

“Buster,” Peter declared instantly, his face buried in the pup’s soft fur as his laughter echoed through the room. “His name is Buster.”

Epilogue

The afternoon sky had cleared to a pale, washed blue, leaving only a few wispy clouds trailing over the estate’s rolling hills. The dampness that had chilled Hilgrove Manor for days was gone, baked away by the late sun, leaving the manicured lawns smelling of sweet clover and crushed grass.

Fanny stepped off the stone terrace, smoothing the skirt of her yellow muslin gown. In her hands, she carried a heavy wicker basket lined with a crisp linen cloth, the scent of warm berry tarts and freshly baked bread drifting up into the air.

Beside her, Michael ran ahead, his small legs bouncing with eager, erratic energy that brought a sudden, bright warmth to her chest. His cheeks, gray and sunken only a week earlier, were flushed a healthy, rosy pink. He wore no jacket today—only a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows—and his dark hair bounced as he sprinted toward the ancient oak tree by the riverbank.

“Mind your footing, Michael!” Fanny called out, her voice light and laced with laughter.

“I have the basket of apples!” he shouted back, barely slowing down as he balanced a small wooden tub under his arm. “The sheep will be waiting!”

Behind them, Lysander walked at a measured pace. He had shed his heavy, dark cravat and formal tailcoat, wearing a simple linen shirt open at the collar and a dark brown velvet waistcoat. In one broad arm, he carried two folded plaid wool blankets; with the other, he held his daughter’s small fingers. Emily skipped along at his side, her shoes making soft pat-pat sounds on the sod, her ribboned bonnet dangling from its silk ties around her neck.

“Father, look!” Emily squealed, pulling against his grip to point toward the hedge. “Buster is coming!”

A scruffy terrier with one floppy ear bounded out of the shrubbery, his tail whipping in a blur as he circled Lysander’s boots before darting off to chase a butterfly toward the river. Lysander let out a low chuckle, a sound so rare and deep that it made Fanny pause in the grass just to listen to it.

They reached the shade of the grand oak, where the thick canopy filtered the sunlight into dappled gold across the grass. Lysander shook out the first wool blanket with a single, practiced snap of his wrist, spreading it flat over the turf before laying the second beside it.

“Here, small soldier,” Lysander said, reaching down to take the wooden tub of apples from Michael. He rested his large hand on the boy’s head, his thumb gently smoothing back a stray lock of dark hair. “Sit before you wear yourself out entirely.”

“He is not tired, Papa,” Peter declared, though he promptly tumbled onto the plaid wool, his legs stretching out as he reached for a buttered roll Fanny was pulling from the basket.

The afternoon melted into a slow, unhurried rhythm.

Fanny unpacked the feast, setting out cold roasted chicken, wedges of sharp yellow cheese, sweet pickles, and small wooden bowls of wild strawberries. Buster sat at the edge of the blanket, his nose twitching frantically, his dark eyes shifting from Michael’s hands to Peter’s with quiet, hopeful pleading until Michael surreptitiously slipped him a crust of bread.

Down by the wooden fence line, a pair of gray sheep ambled over, drawn by the scent of the apple trimmings. Emily wriggled off the blanket, her small hands holding out a slice of red apple over the lowest rail. Her delighted shrieks echoed across the meadow as the sheep’s soft, velvety nose tickled her palm.

Lysander sat beside Fanny, his long legs stretched out before him, his shoulder resting lightly against hers. The dark, brooding tension that had defined him for years had melted in the warm sun, leaving his sharp jaw relaxed and his dark eyes soft as he watched his children play.

He didn’t speak often, but he didn’t need to. Every few moments, his hand would find hers on the blanket, his long fingers lacing through hers, his thumb rubbing small, soothing circles against her knuckles.

“Look at them,” Lysander murmured, his voice low and rich.

Fanny leaned her head against his broad shoulder, smelling the clean scent of soap, wool, and fresh air clinging to him. “They are whole again, Lysander. All of us are.”