Page 18 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

Lysander forced the dark heat down, locking his jaw as he turned toward the door.

He walked past his friend out into the grand hallway, his heavy boots echoing through the cold stone corridors of Hilgrove Manor as he set off to collect his future wife.

Eight

The heavy iron gates of Hilgrove Manor groaned on their hinges, swinging wide to admit the sleek black carriage.

Inside, Fanny smoothed the skirt of her dark green morning gown, her hands trembling despite her best efforts to stay still. Beside her, Lady Gooldwer was practically vibrating with nervous excitement, her eyes wide as she pressed her face almost against the window, taking in the grand stone facade, the towering oak trees, and the sweeping, manicured lawns.

“Remember what I told you, Fanny,” her mother hissed, turning to grip Fanny’s wrist with a frantic, desperate intensity. “Do not ruin this! Do not ask foolish questions, do not look at him with that stubborn, sharp expression of yours, and for heaven’s sake, do not ruin our good luck! Do not dare breathe a word that might send him back to his ledgers!”

“Mama, please,” Fanny murmured, gently peeling her mother’s fingers away.

The carriage ground to a halt before the estate’s massive stone steps. A footman in crisp silver-and-navy livery whipped open the carriage door, and before Fanny could even step out, a small army of servants seemed to materialize to greet them. A formidable housekeeper, dressed in stiff black silk and wearing a massive ring of brass keys that chimed at her waist, stepped forward to bow, flanked by two solemn footmen and a butler whose expression was carved from solid granite.

Lady Gooldwer took one look at the grand hall rising beyond the open oak doors—the marble pillars, the glinting chandeliers, the absolute, overwhelming wealth—and promptly lost all her composure.

“Oh, bless you! Bless you all!” her mother blubbered, bursting into sudden, noisy tears of pure relief as she grasped the bewildered housekeeper’s hands. “You cannot imagine… the nightmare… the gossip rags… and now, look at this palace! Oh, my sweet Fanny is to be your mistress! We are saved!”

The housekeeper blinked, her stiff posture faltering as Lady Gooldwer wept openly into a lace handkerchief, clutching the butler’s sleeve for support while rambling hysterically about the journey and her pugs. The servants immediately clustered around her, murmuring polite reassurances while attempting to guide the sobbing woman up the grand steps.

Fanny seized the opportunity instantly.

While the household staff was thoroughly occupied trying to soothe her mother’s theatrics, Fanny backed away quietly, her slippers making no sound as she stepped off the gravel drive and slipped around the side of the massive stone mansion.

She needed air. She needed a moment away from the suffocating weight of her mother’s desperation and the impending ghost of Lysander’s presence.

The park surrounding Hilgrove Manor was vast, stretching out in rolling green hills bordered by ancient, gnarled oaks and dense thickets of woodland. Fanny walked briskly, letting the cool morning breeze wash over her heated face. The gravel path gave way to soft, damp grass, and the heavy silence of the countryside settled over her.

As she rounded a high, clipped yew hedge near the edge of a formal garden, a tiny, dark shape darted across the stone path ahead of her.

A second later, a small boy came crashing out of the bushes on all fours. He was perhaps seven years old, dressed in a mud-stained linen smock, his dark hair falling wildly over his forehead. He scrambled across the gravel on his knees, his small, dirt-caked hands reaching out eagerly toward the base of a stone wall where a tiny, gray field mouse was scurrying for cover.

Fanny’s heart leaped into her throat. “No! Stop!”

She rushed forward, her skirts swishing loudly, and gently caught the boy by his shoulders just as his fingers were about to close around the filthy, wild rodent. The mouse darted into a narrow crack between the foundation stones and vanished into the dark.

The little boy froze. He looked down at the empty stone crack, then slowly lifted his head to look up at Fanny.

His dark eyes welled with sudden, massive tears, his lower lip trembling violently. “You made me lose him!” he sobbed, his small fists clenching in the grass as a raw, heartbroken cry tore from his chest. “You ruined it! He was my friend!”

Fanny immediately dropped to her knees in the damp dirt, completely uncaring about the silk hem of her dress. She knew how adults typically handled such moments—a brisk scolding about dirt, a dismissive laugh at a useless pest, a command to wipe his nose and behave. But she knew better. To a child, a small, ridiculous wish was never small; it was their entire world. To dismiss it was to tell them their heart did not matter.

“I am so sorry,” Fanny said, looking him straight in the eye without a trace of condescension. “I know you were trying to catch him. But mice are very small, you see, and wild ones carry bad sicknesses in their fur. It would make you very ill if he bit your fingers.”

The boy wiped his nose on his sleeve, letting out a hitching sob, but he listened. “He wouldn’t bite me. He likes me.”

“Even if he likes you, mice are far too small,” Fanny reasoned gently, her tone completely earnest. “They slip through cracks and get lost easily. It is very hard work trying to keep a friend who is small enough to hide under a single leaf. If you want a real pet, you should ask for one that is much harder to lose—like a dog who follows at your heels, or a cat who sleeps on your bed.”

The little boy quieted down, his tear-streaked face screwing up in deep, thoughtful concentration. He looked back at the tiny crack in the stone wall, then down at his muddy hands.

“I am tired of losing him,” the boy admitted softly, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. He looked up at Fanny, his dark eyes wide and deadpan. “And I don’t even think it’s always the same mouse. It changes its clothes a lot. Yesterday it had a brown spot on its back, but today it was all gray.”

Fanny nodded with profound gravity.

“Mice are famous for changing their clothes when you aren’t looking,” Fanny agreed solemnly. “It makes them entirely untrustworthy companions. What is your name?”

“Peter,” he murmured, wiping his cheek.