CHAPTER 20: SECRETS AND CANVAS

​Eva’s POV

​"Eva, take the roast and iced tea up to the small dining room," Mrs. Gable called out, wiping down the flour-dusted counter. "The young lords returned early."

​"Right away, Mrs. Gable," I replied, smoothing my apron before taking the silver tray.

​I pushed through the double doors and walked down the quiet stone hallway. Entering the sunlit dining room, I kept my eyes respectfully lowered as I approached the heavy oak table where Lucian and Leo sat.

​"Good afternoon, My Lords," I said softly, setting the crystal pitcher down.

​Lucian nodded politely, his storm-gray eyes briefly meeting mine. "Good afternoon, Eva."

​Leo, however, leaned back in his chair with a wicked, playful smirk, eyeing the small tea towels tucked neatly into my apron side pocket. "Good afternoon, Eva. Tell me... are you planning to dust the entire west wing before sunset, or are those linens just for dramatic effect?"

​A quiet, breathless laugh escaped my lips before I could catch myself, my cheeks warming slightly. "They are quite functional, Lord Leo."

​I offered a small curtsy and turned toward the archway. I had almost reached the heavy velvet curtains near the hallway when Lucian’s deep, steady voice echoed through the quiet room.

​"...The last woman on our list is our only option left," Lucian said, his tone heavy with a frustrating weight. "She has to be the woman in the yellow dress."

​I froze. My breath caught in my throat, my fingers tightening against the empty silver tray. I pulled back into the shadow of the velvet curtain, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

​The yellow dress.

​"And if she isn't?" Leo asked, his voice dropping into a rare, serious register. "What then, Lucian?"

​"She will be," Lucian insisted flatly. "I need to find the woman from that waltz. I need to present her to Mother and marry her before Father locks me into this contract with Genevieve."

​My mind went completely blank.

​He is looking for the woman in yellow?

​A cold, electric panic rushed through my veins. The waltz. The terrace. The quiet laugh I had shared with him before slipping away into the dark gardens—he was turning the entire northern province upside down just to trace a ghost.

​He wants to marry her.

​I pressed my back against the cold stone wall, my pulse racing. He didn't know the lady in the yellow silk dress was currently dusting his father's library. He didn't know the woman whose waist he had held on the dance floor was the same maid who had pressed a hand over his mouth in his study.

​If he finds out it was me... my entire plan is ruined.

​I turned on my heel and practically floated down the corridor, heading straight up the back staircase toward the quiet safety of the upper floor, my mind spinning out of control.

​

​Genevieve’s POV

​I stood outside Lady Eleanor’s private sitting room for three full minutes, my hand hovering above the carved oak door, trying to steady my breathing.

​My silk gown felt heavy. My hair clips felt tight. But after my disastrous conversation with Lucian yesterday, I had nowhere else to turn. I knocked lightly, pushing the door open.

​Lady Eleanor sat near the tall arched windows, bathed in warm afternoon sunlight, holding a fine wooden palette and a delicate brush. In front of her stood a half-finished canvas of the valley hills.

​She turned, offering a gentle, surprised smile. "Genevieve. Good afternoon, child."

​"Good afternoon, Lady Eleanor," I said, my voice smaller than I intended. I gestured nervously to the easel. "May I... join you?"

​"Of course," Eleanor said, gesturing to a velvet stool beside her. "I was just finishing the autumn shadows."

​I stepped inside, pulling the stool closer and sitting down quietly. For a long moment, we simply watched the gold and blue paint blend together under her practiced strokes.

​"It's breathtaking," I murmured softly, looking at the canvas. "You capture the light so effortlessly."

​Eleanor smiled softly, not taking her eyes off her work. "It takes patience. Paint rarely goes where you want it to at first. You have to let it settle."

​I stared down at my manicured hands, twisting the silver ring on my finger as a bitter truth fought its way to my lips.

​"I know you do not like me," I said flatly.

​Eleanor’s brush paused in mid-air. She lowered her hand, turning her wise, warm eyes toward me. "Why would you think that, Genevieve?"

​"Because I am loud," I confessed, my voice cracking as weeks of exhaustion finally caught up to me. "Because I am arrogant, demanding, and I try entirely too hard. I know I am being forced onto your family, and I know I am not the daughter-in-law you envisioned for Lucian. I... I am not even being myself."

​Eleanor set her palette down on the small table. "And why aren't you being yourself?"

​I let out a shaky, bitter breath, looking out the window toward the distant mountains. "Because I don't know who I am anymore. My mother has dictated every step I take, every word I speak, and every gown I wear since I was a little girl. I was built to be a Duchess. Without the title... I don't know who is left."

​"Well," Eleanor said gently, her voice rich with a soothing, motherly warmth, "you have already made the hardest step, child. You recognized that the armor you wear is not who you truly are. Now, you simply have to let your real self step forward."

​I looked up, stunned by the absolute lack of judgment in her face.

​"And for the record," Eleanor added, a soft, amused smile touching her lips, "I never said I didn't like you. If I truly believed you had a cold heart, I would never allow my son to marry you, no matter what your mother demanded."

​Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. Eleanor stood up from her wooden stool, stepping toward me with open arms.

​"Come here," she whispered softly.

​I stood up, and before I could stop myself, I leaned into her embrace. Eleanor wrapped her arms around my shoulders, holding me close, her hand gently patting my back as if I were her own daughter.

​"Lucian is a stubborn, guarded man," Eleanor murmured against my hair, reassuring me with absolute conviction. "He is scared of losing his freedom. But I will speak to him personally, Genevieve. Do not lose hope. We will make this work."

​Standing in the warm sunlight of her studio, wrapped in a mother's genuine affection for the first time in my life, I squeezed my eyes shut—praying with everything I had that she was right.