Page 78 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

As the sun began to dip behind the western ridge, painting the sky in long stripes of burnt orange and soft violet, the chill of the evening crept back over the grass. The children’s energetic laughter softened into quiet yawns. Emily lay on the blanket with her head on Fanny’s lap, her eyelids drooping heavily over her dark eyes while Buster lay asleep across Michael’s ankles and Peter lay close to Lysander.

Lysander stood up, brushing the dry grass from his trousers, and scooped Emily into his arms, and Peter stood up and took his other hand. She let out a soft, sleepy sigh, burying her face into the crook of his neck. Fanny gathered the empty bowls into the wicker basket, while Michael, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, took her free hand.

Together, they walked back toward Hilgrove Manor, the tall stone house lit by the warm, golden glow of oil lamps burning in the windows.

Inside, the nursery was warm and quiet, the hearth crackling with a small, cheerful fire that cast dancing shadows against the painted walls. Mrs. Gable had already pulled down the white linen sheets and left a pitcher of warm water on the washstand.

Lysander carried Emily to her small four-poster bed, laying her down gently upon the mattress. Fanny leaned over, untying the silk ribbons of her bonnet and pulling the heavy wool blanket up to her chin.

Fanny pressed a soft kiss to Emily’s forehead, inhaling the sweet scent of clover and fresh air that lingered in her hair. “Goodnight, my sweet girl,” she whispered.

Emily murmured incoherently, her eyes already closed. Lysander bent down beside Fanny, his large frame blocking the candlelight, and pressed a kiss to his daughter’s soft cheek, lingering against hers for a long, tender moment before he smoothed her blanket one last time.

Lysander walked Peter to his bed and helped him up. He lay down, and Fanny covered him with the blanket.

“Father, can the tortoise join us for meals now?” Peter asked with sleep in his eyes.

“No, son, that is still out of bounds,” Lysander said, reaching down to kiss his forehead.

In the adjacent room, Michael was already tucked into his bed, his small form swallowed by the white feather mattress. Buster had curled into a round, furry ball on the rug beside his bedpost.

Fanny sat on the edge of the mattress, taking Michael’s hand in hers. “No bad dreams tonight, young sir,” she said softly, her dark eyes shining with warmth. “Only sunshine and sheep.”

Michael smiled sleepily, his fingers tightening once around hers. “Thank you for the tarts, Fanny.”

“You are very welcome, my brave boy.” She leaned down, kissing his temple and resting her cheek against his hair until he let out a long, contented sigh.

Lysander stepped up to the bedside as Fanny rose. He dropped to one knee on the floorboards, coming eye-to-eye with his son. He did not offer a stern, formal farewell. He wrapped his broad arms around Michael’s shoulders, pulling the boy into a tight, deep hug and holding him close against his chest.

“Goodnight, son,” Lysander rasped, his voice thick with a father’s fierce, protective love. “I am right down the hall.”

“Goodnight, Father,” Michael mumbled into his father’s shirt, his small arms wrapping around Lysander’s neck before he sank back into his pillows, his eyes fluttering shut.

Lysander stood up slowly, watching his son’s chest rise and fall in a deep, peaceful sleep. He reached out, taking Fanny’s hand once more, and led her softly out of the nursery, pulling the oak door shut until only a narrow sliver of light remained.

In the quiet, dim corridor, surrounded by the soft ticking of the grand clock and the peaceful silence of the home they had saved together, Lysander turned to her.

He didn’t say a word. He pulled her into his arms, wrapping his hands tightly around her waist, bringing her small frame flush against his chest. Fanny lifted her face, her arms sliding up around his neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at his nape.

Lysander leaned down, his lips meeting hers in a deep, warm kiss that tasted of sweet berries and the quiet promise of tomorrow.

The kiss deepened, a slow, languid exploration that spoke of a day’s worth of unspoken affection. Lysander’s hands, which had rested so innocently on her waist, began to move, tracing the curve of her spine beneath the thin muslin of her gown. Fanny sighed into his mouth, a soft, breathy surrender, and felt the corner of his lips curve into a smile against hers.

He broke the kiss, but only by an inch, his forehead resting against hers. The corridor was silent, save for the frantic, hopeful beat of her heart.

“Come,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her very bones. He took her hand, his long fingers lacing with hers, and led her down the hall, their footsteps muffled by the thick runner carpet.

Their bedchamber door was ajar, spilling a soft, golden rectangle of light onto the floorboards. Lysander pushed it open, and Fanny stepped inside. The room was bathed in the warm glow of a single candle burning on the mantel, its flame casting long, dancing shadows across the carved mahogany bedposts. The air smelled of lavender and beeswax, the sheets turned down in anticipation, a silent invitation. She heard the soft click of the door closing, the distinct, final turn of the key in the lock. The sound sent a shiver of pure, unadulterated want down her spine.

She turned to face him.

He stood in the shadows near the door, his linen shirt loose at the collar, revealing the strong column of his throat and the dark hair that dusted his chest. His eyes, usually so guarded and distant, burned with a quiet, intense light that made her breath catch in her throat. It was a look she had come to crave, one that was reserved only for her.

“Fanny,” he said, and her name on his lips was a rough, velvet caress.

She crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate, until she stood before him. Her hands came up to rest on his chest, feeling the steady, powerful beat of his heart beneath her palms. The warmth of his skin seeped through the thin linen, and she could feel the tension coiled in his muscles.

“Lysander,” she whispered, rising on her toes to press her lips to his.