Fated Eclipse: The Illegitimate Princess And Her Alpha Suitors

Chapter 39: Of Leather, Breath, and Dangerous Familiarity

Lyria’s POV

I had just finished the last bridle.

The leather lay darkened and supple beneath my hands, its surface freshly worked with oil and careful cloth, every buckle polished until it caught the thin slant of afternoon light that filtered through the high stable windows.

My fingers ached. My body ached too, with that slow, heavy soreness that came from long, unbroken labour.

I wiped my hands against the rag I carried at my waist and lifted the bridle carefully, mindful not to let it drag against the ground. The hooks along the tack wall were nearly full now. Only one empty iron peg remained.

I crossed the narrow aisle and hung it in place.

For a moment longer than necessary, I allowed myself to remain standing when I finished.

The stable breathed around me.

Horses shifted in their stalls. A gelding stamped once, impatiently. Somewhere behind me, a boy laughed softly before being hushed by another. Dust motes drifted lazily through the warm air, catching faintly in the light.

My shoulders loosened a fraction.

I gathered the empty bucket and the folded cloth and turned toward the barrow resting near the far door.

The discarded scraps of cloth, the dull tin of polish, and the small broken strap I had been instructed to dispose of lay inside it.

I took the handles and pushed. The wheel groaned faintly as the barrow rolled over the uneven stones.

Outside, the light was sharper.

The far heap lay just beyond the low fence, a small distance from the stable doors. I tipped the contents carefully, shook the cloth free of dust, and placed the empty bucket back inside.

Then I turned and pushed the barrow toward the stable again.

I did not expect anyone to be standing directly in my path.

And thank the goddess the impact never came, but one misstep and it would have.

I jerked the barrow back at the last moment as two tall figures stepped into view just beyond the threshold.

They startled as much as I did.

Both men shifted sharply aside, boots scraping against the stone.

”Gods—!”

I froze.

My hands tightened on the barrow handles.

”I— I am so s–s–sorry,” I blurted, dropping my head at once. My breath rushed unsteadily from my chest. ”I did not see you, sirs. I beg your pardon.”

The words tumbled out immediately. The temperament of nobles was known to everyone. I had heard servants talk about how rude they were and how unkind they were to servants.

In essence, they were like Jacinta.

I bowed my head further, fixing my gaze on the floor just ahead of their boots.

One pair was dark and immaculately polished.

The other bore faint dust along the leather, as though their owner had actually walked somewhere that was not a marble corridor.

For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.

Then—

”Tell me, Lord Hawthorne,” a familiar voice said slowly, mild amusement threading through every syllable, ”are my ears deceiving me, or is there truly a woman working in the stables?”

My body locked at the sound of the voice.

My heart stumbled violently against my ribs.

No.

No, no, no—

I knew that voice.

I had heard it only the night before, beneath flickering lanternlight and drifting laughter. I had heard it teasing me about tradition and kisses and gallantry. I had heard it call me stubborn.

My grip tightened around the wooden handles of the barrow.

For a breathless instant, fear curled sharply through me.

What if he recognised me?

What if something about my voice—my height—my stupid, traitorous presence gave me away?

Then sense cut through the panic.

I had worn a cloak last night, one whose hood did the job of shielding my face, and I had also been wearing a different mask.

He had not seen my face. Not properly, at least. There was no way he would recognise me.

And even if he had... what noble would truly remember a faceless girl he had encountered by chance in the street?

I forced my breathing slower.

A discreet glance flicked sideways before I could stop myself.

The man who stood slightly to the right—the one the Duke had addressed—was built quite unlike him.

He was broad, powerfully so. He had to be the biggest male I had ever seen.

His shoulders filled the dark cut of his coat easily, the fabric pulled tight across solid muscle that spoke of training rather than idle ornament. His arms were thick beneath the sleeves, forearms strong and lightly corded where his gloves ended.

His hair was a soft, light brown, falling in a careless yet almost infuriatingly perfect sweep across his brow, as though styled by wind rather than by valet. Sunlight caught faintly in it, giving it a warm sheen.

He carried himself with an easy, grounded confidence.

I recognised him at once.

Earl Benedict Hawthorne of Windmere.

My stomach dipped and I bowed deeper. I had no idea why I kept meeting the suitor candidates when I was not supposed to.

I fixed my gaze deliberately on the line of his boots.

Servants did not look at nobles directly, after all.

”Your Grace,” the Earl replied calmly.

His voice was lower than the Duke’s, and less amused too.

”This is the first I have heard of such a thing,” he paused before he continued. ”Back in Windmere, there is nothing of the sort.”

The Duke huffed a quiet breath of something like mild surprise.

”I assure you, Lord Hawthorne,” he replied lightly, ”it is no custom of Highmoor either.”

I remained silent, still bowing, when suddenly one of the shoes approached me.

The Duke stepped closer.

Enough that I felt his presence—felt the displacement of air as he leaned slightly toward me.

I shifted instinctively backward.

The wooden wheel of the barrow bumped softly against the stone, making me flinch.

I could feel his eyes on me. They were studying me, and intently at that.

”Have we met before?” he asked suddenly.

My breath caught.

For half a second, my mind emptied completely.

Then panic surged and dragged words from me before my fear could tighten my throat fully around them.

I shook my head at once.

”No, sir,” I said quickly.

I coughed—softly, deliberately—roughening my voice a little.

”W-why would you think y-you have m-met me?” I added carefully.

”I am only a l–lowly servant,” I continued, keeping my eyes fixed stubbornly on the ground. ”I do not move in the places Your Grace is... h–highly esteemed to frequent.”

There was only silence after my words. I could feel the Duke’s gaze sharpen as he tilted his head.

”Do you perhaps have a cold?” he asked gently.

My heart lurched.

”What?” I said.