Fated Eclipse: The Illegitimate Princess And Her Alpha Suitors

Chapter 68: Of Art, Honesty, and Something Sweet

Duke Valenridge turned.

His expression, which had been carrying the mild contentment of a man eating well in pleasant company, shifted immediately into something considerably more animated.

A wide smile spread across his face, but it was as fake as his respect for the royal family.

”Lucian,” he said.

Then his gaze moved to the figure beside Lucian.

”And the best artist present among us,” he added.

Baron Redwick, who had been walking beside Lucian with his usual composed bearing, stopped.

A faint colour rose along the line of his jaw.

He reached up and adjusted his spectacles.

Then, with the instinctive correctness of a man whose manners operated independently of his composure, he bowed.

The Duke waved his hand.

”None of that,” he said. ”I am not the King. There is no need to bow at a refreshment table.”

The Baron straightened, the faint colour still present.

”Your Grace,” he said, with the careful dignity of a man recalibrating.

”Valenridge,” the Duke corrected pleasantly. ”Or Evander, if you prefer. Either is acceptable. Lucian here calls me Evander.”

”We only agreed on that once,” Lucian growled.

”Did we?” Evander asked him. ”And here I thought we were now becoming friends after what I helped you with.”

Lucian stared at Evander for a while, and then he spoke.

”We need to talk, preferably without company.”

The Duke turned to him with an expression of mild interest.

”I am speaking with people at present,” he said.

”Valenridge—”

”Evander,” Evander corrected him.

Lucian sighed. ”Evander...” he began.

”You cannot simply drag me away from a conversation, Lucian,” Evander interrupted him. ”It is, as our friend Baron Redwick would likely confirm, quite rude.”

The Baron adjusted his spectacles again and said nothing, which was itself a kind of confirmation.

Lucian’s jaw tightened fractionally.

Before he could respond, a voice cut across the forming tension cheerfully.

”I thought your painting was extraordinary, Your Grace.”

Every head turned to Earl Hawthorne, who was looking at Lucian with the open, uncomplicated admiration of someone paying a compliment they meant entirely.

Lucian blinked.

The tension in his jaw eased by a degree.

”You are most kind, Lord Hawthorne,” he said.

”I do not know a great deal about art,” Benedict continued, ”but I know what stops me from looking away. And yours did.” He paused thoughtfully. ”As did Baron Redwick’s. I think the two of you produced the finest work today.”

Baron Redwick’s colour, which had been fading, returned with quiet efficiency.

He adjusted his spectacles.

”That is a most generous assessment,” he said.

”It is an honest one,” Benedict replied simply.

Duke Thorncrest, who had been listening, cleared his throat.

”And mine?” he asked lightly.

Benedict looked at him.

”Yours was very good,” he said.

”Very good,” Thorncrest repeated.

”Yes.”

”Not extraordinary.”

”It was very good,” Benedict said again.

Thorncrest studied him for a moment.

Then he laughed and shook his head.

”Right,” he said. ”Very good. I shall have that inscribed somewhere.”

Evander, who had been observing this exchange, turned to Benedict with an expression of mild inquiry.

”And mine, Benedict?”

Benedict picked up a pastry.

He examined it with considerable focus.

He turned it slightly, as though the angle of the light on its surface required careful assessment before he could commit to any opinion.

He did not answer.

Thorncrest’s laugh, which had been subsiding, renewed itself with fresh energy.

”He is avoiding it,” Thorncrest said, with delight.

Benedict took a bite of the pastry.

”I am simply eating,” he said.

”You picked up the pastry the moment Duke Valenridge asked his question,” Thorncrest pointed out.

”I was hungry.”

”You have been eating for twenty minutes.”

”I am still hungry.”

Thorncrest shook his head, thoroughly entertained.

Duke Valenridge watched Benedict chew with an expression of patient, faintly amused resignation.

”Benedict,” he said.

”Your Grace?”

”You may simply say it was not good.”

Benedict swallowed.

”It had a very interesting explanation,” he said finally.

Thorncrest pressed his fist to his mouth as he tried and failed to hold in his laughter.

”Fair enough,” Evander said.

Baron Redwick, who had been following this exchange with the precise attention he gave most things, straightened slightly.

”If I may,” he said.

”While the technical execution of Your Grace’s work was not—” He paused, selecting his words, ”—comparable to some of the other entries presented today, the explanation itself was, I thought, quite remarkable.”

He adjusted his spectacles.

”Bold,” he said. ”Uncommonly so.”

The Duke’s mouth curved into a smirk.

”Nothing escapes a scholar’s eye,” he murmured, more to himself than to the group, though the words were audible enough.

”Your Grace was saying things,” the Baron continued, ”that most men in this courtyard would not have said.”

”I was explaining a painting,” Evander said pleasantly.

”You were,” the Baron agreed, ”in a most particular way.”

Evander shrugged at that.

Lucian, who had been standing slightly apart from the group, had gone quiet. His gaze was focused on something or somewhere that existed at an angle to everything else happening in the courtyard.

”Lucian,” Evander called out. ”Is something the matter?”

Lucian turned.

His expression rearranged itself into the composed neutrality he wore by default, and he shook his head once—a small, dismissive motion.

”Nothing,” he said. ”Forgive me. I was distracted.”

Evander regarded him for a moment longer than was strictly necessary.

Then he let it go.

The conversation resumed its natural flow, moving through several small topics with the easy drift of five men who had arrived at something approaching genuine ease with one another.

Benedict, who had been reaching for another pastry, paused. His brows drew together faintly.

”Is it only me,” he said slowly, ”or is there... something sweet in the air?”

Thorncrest glanced at the table.

”I should certainly hope so,” he replied dryly. ”We are, after all, standing before an abundance of confections.”

”It is not the pastries,” Benedict said, his brow still creased. He turned his head slightly, as though following something at the edge of his perception. ”It is more like—”

He searched for the word.

”Perfume?” he said finally.

Lucian went completely still at that.

He turned to Benedict with an expression that had sharpened considerably.

”Describe it,” he said.

His voice was low and even and entirely serious.

”Describe what you perceive. Precisely.”