Fated Eclipse: The Illegitimate Princess And Her Alpha Suitors

Chapter 85: The Scholar and the Bees

Julian had not expected the date to be like this.

He had not, if he was being entirely honest with himself, expected much from it at all. He had won the competition. Additional time with the Princess was the reward. He had accepted this with the same measured practicality he applied to most things and had presented himself at the flower garden at the appropriate time, in the appropriate attire, with the appropriate disposition.

What he had not accounted for was the particular quality of the Princess’s company.

She was beautiful. That was not in question. She was articulate, she was charming when she chose to be, and she understood the mechanics of conversation well enough to maintain one indefinitely.

And yet.

Julian had walked beside her and felt nothing that he could identify as attraction. Not the slightest suggestion of it. It was somewhat concerning — not because the feeling was absent, but because he was so aware of its absence.

He was also aware of something else entirely.

The scent.

It had been present since before he arrived at the garden. Faint at first — the way it always was at the edges of a space — and then closer, warmer, more insistent as the Princess arrived with her maids.

The scent was sweet in a way that had nothing to do with the flowers around him. It was distinct, and he recognized it too.

The first time he had perceived it had been in the library.

The girl with the mask. Lyria. She had been collecting a primer when he found her. He had asked her about it — about the perfume, because he had assumed it was perfume — and she had denied wearing any. He had not believed her at the time. He was not sure what he believed now.

The second time had been the kitchen.

Late at night, when he had gone for a snack. The Marquess of Westreach had been there, which had not improved the occasion, and Lyria had been there too, and the scent had been present throughout that entire uncomfortable midnight interlude, with the same warm insistence.

The third time had been the competition. It was faint then, too. He had been distracted by it during the recess, when Earl Hawthorne had mentioned something sweet in the air and Duke Aurelgrave had gone entirely rigid.

And now here it was again.

Here, in the flower garden, overpowering the lavender and the roses and the wisteria and everything else the garden had to offer, was the same scent.

Which meant Lyria was nearby.

His gaze moved, briefly and without obvious intent, along the line of maids standing at the appropriate distance behind the Princess.

It was possible she was among them.

It would be somewhat confusing, though, given that the first time they had met she had told him her mistress had sent her for a primer. The Princess was well educated. She would have no need for a primer.

Unless.

Julian almost smiled.

Unless the primer had been for Lyria herself.

He thought about her eyes. They were curious eyes. Eyes that showed she was hungry for knowledge in a way that was not often seen, least of all in someone of her station.

He liked people like that.

He really had not expected to find that quality in a palace maid. Most people, in his experience, treated knowledge as a means to an end rather than a thing of value in itself.

Lyria was different. He could tell that she was.

She was... interesting.

He was aware that finding a palace maid interesting was not the most remarkable observation a man had ever made, and yet the fact remained that he had not been able to stop thinking about her since the library. Which was, by his own standards, a notable development. He was not generally a man given to thinking about people he had briefly encountered. He was a man who thought about systems and the practical improvement of things that needed improving.

Lyria was not a system nor a practical improvement.

And yet.

But rather than focus on the scent, Julian realised he should focus on the Princess, who was now standing extremely close.

The distance between them was, at this point, a matter of inches. Her head was tilted as she stared at him, her lips puckered obviously.

He was aware of what she wanted.

He was aware that the appropriate response to what she wanted, given that he was a suitor candidate in a formal competition for her hand and she was the Princess, was probably not to take another step backward.

But he took another step backward.

Then he heard it.

Two things simultaneously.

The buzzing — low and layered. Bees, he thought, and there were a lot of them too.

And a voice.

It was panicked and high. It was a voice he knew, one he had thought about numerous times — but not in this way at all.

Julian turned.

The line of maids behind the Princess had fractured.

Most of them had stepped back or sideways, creating a space that was less a formation and more a circle of people who had decided, with remarkable unanimity, that whatever was happening in the centre of that circle was not their problem.

In the centre of it was Lyria. He was certain of it.

Her hands were raised above her head, her movements erratic as she attempted to ward off the swarm of bees that circled her, drawn perhaps by the flowers, now agitated by her sudden panic.

Her composure — so carefully maintained — was gone.

In its place was fear.

Genuine, unguarded fear.

Her eyes were wide, bright with unshed tears, her breathing uneven as she tried to move without drawing further attention to herself — and yet she could not remain still.

”Please go away, go away, please,” she cried in panic.

Some of the maids were watching with smirks on their faces.

Julian looked at the smirks for a moment.

He did not understand them. Someone was in distress. The distress was visible and genuine and required a response. He could not identify the reasoning that produced a smirk in response to visible, genuine distress and decided he did not particularly need to understand it.

He was already moving.