The lords' maid

Eva’s POV The coarse linen of the servant's apron felt heavy against my collarbones as I pulled the white ties tight around my waist. Standing before the small silvered glass in my quarters, I smoothed down my dark grey gown. My hands were steady, but the fire behind my ribs was unyielding. Today, I was merely preparing to take up the broom and dustcloth, waiting for the first crack in the De Witt fortress. A sharp knock sounded against my wooden door. "Eva!" Mrs. Gable the head maid called from the stone corridor. "Finished adjusting your cap, girl. Her Ladyship requires two maids in the main courtyard." I opened the door immediately, bowing my head. "Is there a grand task for the morning, Mrs. Gable?" "Her Ladyship wishes to deliver seasonal gifts to a neighbouring estate," Mrs. Gable explained, her keys jingling as she turned. "Laura offered to go, but Her Ladyship specifically requested you accompany her alongside Martha. Wash your hands and step lively." Down in

Lucian’s POV The wooden wheels of the family carriage rattled over the cobblestones of the capital road, each jolt vibrating through the soles of my polished boots. Across from me sat my father, Duke Arthur De Witt. He was a man made entirely of iron, ledger books, and strict expectation. His silvered head remained bowed over a stack of trade manifests, his quill scratching rhythmically against the heavy parchment despite the sway of the coach. "The grain tariffs in the eastern provinces are rising by three percent," Father said without looking up, his voice dry and clipped. "When we enter the council chamber with Lord Sterling’s envoys tomorrow, Lucian, you will lead the negotiation." "Sterling’s men will not yield three percent on grain without a concession on timber," I replied, staring out the glass window at the passing forest. "They are greedy, Father, but they are not foolish." "Then you will make them see reason," Father stated, dipping his quill in ink. "A future Du

Lord Leo’s POV If I had to sit through one more minute of my father discussing trade tariffs and eastern grain quotas, I was going to throw myself out the grand library window. Lucian, of course, sat at the mahogany table looking like a statue carved from stone—attentive, serious, and utterly immune to boredom. But I was built for sunshine, cello strings, late-night tavern music, and soft laughter. Formal state meetings were a slow form of torture. Taking advantage of the Duke leaning over a map of the capital, I silently slid back from the table, ducked behind the heavy velvet drapes, and slipped out the side door into the quiet corridor. Free at last. I stretched my arms over my head with a long, satisfying breath, pulling my linen shirt collar open. I had roughly twenty minutes before Lucian realized I was gone and sent a guard to fetch me. As I turned the corner into the high marble gallery, a strange sight caught my eye. Near the massive grandfather clock sat a brass bucke

Lucian’s POV The afternoon sun hit the stone terrace in bright, blistering sheets as Leo and I tossed our riding gloves onto the iron table. My shirt was damp with sweat, my shoulders aching from breaking in a stubborn bay stallion for two hours. Beside me, Leo collapsed into a wicker chair with his usual dramatic flair, pouring himself a tall glass of iced lemon water and downing half of it in a single gulp. “You pulled the reins too late on the turn,” I said, pulling my chair out and sitting down. “If that horse was any sharper, you’d have landed face-first in the dirt.” Leo grinned, tossing his wet hair out of his eyes. “Ah, but I didn't land in the dirt, big brother. That’s called style.” I couldn't help the quiet exhale that escaped me. Leo hid it behind jokes and easy charm, but I caught the subtle way his eyes darted toward the far end of the terrace, waiting for our father to look up from his papers. He craved the Duke’s approval. He could pretend all day that he

Eva’s POV The air in the quiet corner of the main kitchen was thick with the scent of simmering broth, crushed herbs, and roasting meats. I stood near the wooden prep table, my eyes lowered as I carefully chopped fresh rosemary for Lady Eleanor’s evening soup. Beside me, Mrs. Gable moved with a cold, terrifying efficiency, stirring an iron pot over the hearth, her keys clinking softly with every step. The silence between us was far worse than an outburst. “I gave you my trust, Eva,” Mrs. Gable said softly, not even looking back at me as she stirred. “I saw a quiet, intelligent girl who needed honest work. And yet, you sneak off to the village market like a thief in the night.” “I am truly sorry, Mrs. Gable,” I murmured, my knife slicing through the herbs with measured precision. “I did not mean to breach your trust.” “Then tell me the truth.” Mrs. Gable commanded, turning around to face me, her sharp gray eyes locking onto mine. “What were you doing in the market? And do not tel