Fated Eclipse: The Illegitimate Princess And Her Alpha Suitors

Chapter 237: The Queen’s Unwanted Arrival

Duke Valenridge crossed the chamber in three swift strides and laid Lyria upon the bed with a gentleness that seemed at odds with the urgency of his movements.

Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow and uneven, her skin pale beneath the careful application of cosmetics that had begun to smudge against the dark fabric of his coat.

He straightened and looked around.

The room was bare. There were no ornaments upon the walls, no lavish draperies at the windows, no gilded furniture or plush carpets such as one might expect in the chambers of a princess. A simple bed. A plain wardrobe. A small table. A single chair. That was all.

He said nothing.

But something in his expression shifted—a tightening of his jaw, a flicker of something cold in his pale green eyes. He turned away from the room and faced the maids.

”Move,” he said. ”Now. Stop behaving as though you do not work for her.”

Sally looked at the floor while Theresa hesitated.

The Duke’s voice dropped lower, rougher at the edges.

”What is wrong with you? Do I need to tell you what to do?” he asked them, and still they stood where they were.

He shook his head then, a fake smile on his face.

”Remove Her Highness’s clothes so as to give her the opportunity to breathe freely.”

Sally stepped forward, her hands clasped before her.

”Your Grace,” she said carefully, ”it is not appropriate for two gentlemen to remain in the chamber whilst we—”

”Not appropriate?” he asked.

He chuckled darkly then, and as he spoke, his accent thickened. His r’s rolled, his vowels broadened.

”Not bloody appropriate,” he repeated. ”You did not do what you were supposed to do. You have no right to speak to me about what is appropriate. Not now. Not when she has been burning up with fever beneath your very noses and none of you noticed.”

Theresa shifted her weight.

”If you refuse to do your job,” the Duke continued, his voice cold and steady, ”then Baron Redwick and I shall do it for you. I am quite certain Her Highness would prefer that.”

Baron Redwick, who had been standing near the door with his hands clasped behind his back, adjusted his spectacles. He did not speak. He did not need to. His silence was assent enough.

Theresa’s eyes widened.

”Your Grace, at least step out—”

”I am not bloody stepping out,” he said.

Theresa swallowed.

”Then at least turn around,” she said. ”For the Princess’s privacy.”

The Duke stared at her for a moment. Then, slowly, he turned his back to the bed.

”Do it quickly,” he said.

The maids rushed to Lyria’s side.

Theresa lifted her head, cradling it in her hands, while Sally worked at the fastenings of her gown. The fabric was damp with sweat, clinging to her skin, and as they peeled it away, they could see the heat radiating from her body. Her skin was flushed beneath the powder and cream, her cheeks red, her neck slick with perspiration.

Her breathing was uneven. Just from being next to her, they could feel how much she was burning up.

They worked fast. The gown came away, then the stays, then the thin chemise beneath. They wiped her down with a cool cloth, chasing the heat from her skin, and dressed her in a simple shift of soft linen. Theresa removed her slippers and unwound the bandages from her feet, revealing the raw, weeping cuts beneath.

They wrapped her feet in fresh bandages, pulled the blankets up to her chin, and stepped back.

”We are finished, Your Grace,” Sally said.

The Duke turned.

Lyria lay still beneath the blankets, her face pale against the white pillow, her breathing shallow but steady. Her hair had come loose from its pins, fanning across the pillow in dark waves, and her lips were cracked and dry.

Before he could speak, the door opened.

The Queen swept into the chamber, her gown of deep emerald rustling against the polished floor, her posture perfect, her expression composed. Diana and a man holding a box—a clear sign that he was a physician—walked in behind her.

Baron Redwick bowed immediately, his posture correct, his head lowered.

The maids curtsied too.

”Your Majesty,” they said in greeting.

Duke Valenridge did neither.

He turned to face the Queen, and after a long moment, he inclined his head in a shallow bow—a gesture that was more mockery than respect, his lips curved in a smile that did not reach his eyes.

The Queen’s gaze sharpened at that, irritation clouding her features, but she said nothing.

”Your Majesty,” Duke Valenridge said.

”Your Grace,” the Queen replied.

Her eyes moved past him to the bed where Lyria lay, then to Baron Redwick, then to the maids. Her expression did not change, but something in the air shifted—a tension, a quiet anger barely contained.

”I was informed that the Princess was unwell,” she said. ”I came to see her myself. I did not expect to find two gentlemen in her chambers.”

Baron Redwick opened his mouth to speak, but Duke Valenridge spoke first.

”You,” he said, ignoring the Queen entirely, his gaze on Diana, who blinked in shock. She pointed to herself.

”Me?” she asked, and he nodded.

”I beg your pardon, Your Grace?” she said.

”Your name,” he said. ”What is it?”

Diana glanced at the Queen, then back at the Duke.

”Diana,” she said.

”Diana,” he repeated, his accent still thick at the edges. ”I am curious about something.”

The Queen’s eyes narrowed at that.

”Your Grace,” she said, ”are you ignoring me?”

He turned to her then, his expression innocent.

”No, Your Majesty,” he said. ”I simply wish to understand something. Surely you would not deny me that?”

The Queen said nothing.

He turned back to Diana.

”Forgive me if I am mistaken,” he said, ”but I believe I instructed you to summon a physician. I do not recall mentioning the Queen.”

Diana’s mouth fell open.

She stared at him, her face pale, her hands trembling at her sides.

Baron Redwick adjusted his spectacles. His face was carefully neutral, but his hands were still.