Page 15

Bronwyn

I t was a warm day, even for summertime. The kind where humidity hung thick in the air, clothing stuck, sweat beaded and ran with unwelcome frequency, and insects hummed and buzzed about as if they actually enjoyed the scorching sun. When Bronwyn had lived farther north, in Teneboure, such days were rare, though she remembered them from her youth in the countryside. Often, she found them a good excuse to stay inside and paint or read.

Not today, however.

Lord Griffith carried Bronwyn’s parasol, shielding her from the sun’s rays and leaving her free to fan herself. She might just expire before they ever reached the stands. Her companion didn’t seem bothered by the heat, however, charming and smiling as always. How he could stand it, she couldn’t say. Perhaps an advantage of growing up in the south, near the capital.

Bronwyn waved her fan in his direction, buffeting him with a gentle breeze. His arm tightened on hers in surprise before he turned his head and beamed. “Why, thank you, gracious lady.”

It wasn’t lost on her that the green tones in his jacket matched her dress. Though she hadn’t told him what she planned to wear, his somewhat foppish outfit sported numerous shades in the plaid pattern of its mostly tan and brown accents.

In spite of herself, she grinned. “It’s the least I can do.”

How easy he made it to forget her troubles, to forget why she was really with him. He was a kind and pleasant companion. She likely would have accepted his invitation to the races even if she wasn’t trying discover more about whomever had cursed her sister, but when his invitation arrived the day after her conversation with Malik—whom she’d seen little of since—she’d jumped to accept it.

Besides, her two afternoon teas with groups of noble ladies had been less than insightful. There’d been gossip aplenty, including numerous ponderings on whether the king and queen’s wedding moon would lead to an heir and, if so, the gender of the child, their name, and other such predictions. The women seemed to think Bronwyn could provide them with exclusive tidbits to heighten their own standing with others. It had been hard to sit through. Harder still to smile and laugh and pretend her sister was having a blissful, romantic retreat with her new husband rather than lying under the effects of a sleeping curse. Said husband was almost worse off, trapped in his grief with a single-minded focus to find a cure.

“We have seats in the premiere box of the central stand today,” Lord Griffith commented as they approached the racecourse. Three grandstands stood side by side along one length of the course, with two smaller ones on either side and a higher stand in the middle. Though Bronwyn had never been to a race, Lord Griffith had described it to her on the way. The central stand was the nicest, the only choice for nobility attending the races. The lower stands were more cramped, and prone to raucousness from those betting their hard-earned coin or spending too much of it on drink. As they passed, she cast a glance at one of the lower stands. It was already crammed to the gills with men and women alike. She wasn’t usually one to pay much attention to status, but if it meant fewer patrons and more airflow, for once, she was grateful to be connected to the crown.

“That sounds lovely,” Bronwyn replied.

He winked. “Only the best.”

It certainly was the best. The central stand itself was lavish, with plenty of space and footmen carrying drinks and food to eager patrons. Their box was right along the front, with a perfect view of the racecourse where riders and trainers presently warmed up their horses. A few others were already present in the group of seats, though she did not recognize any of them. The central stand was far less crowded as a whole, as if many had yet to arrive or few held tickets in general—possibly both.

They took two seats on the front row. Bronwyn inched forward in hers to better see beyond the railing, taking in the gorgeous horses stretching their legs. Their various colored coats shone in the sun, and though she often didn’t favor the pungent smell of animals, the occasional waft that floated up to them in the stands was welcome. It was real, grounded, amid all the wealth and finery that made up patrons.

“Do you come to the races often, Lord Griffith?” Bronwyn asked her companion.

He leaned forward, palms braced on his thighs. “Come now. Don’t you think we’re well enough acquainted for you to call me Phillip?”

The mischievous twinkle in his eyes sent a flush racing across her cheeks.

“I’d prefer to call you Bronwyn, if you don’t mind,” he continued. “It is such a lovely name.”

“Yes, Phillip.” She stumbled a bit over his name, though it was a common one. “That would be just fine.”

“I’m glad.” He kissed the back of her hand. She was still lost in the unexpected intimacy of that act when he released her and continued, “But to answer your question. I have always enjoyed horses, though I spent many seasons watching from the lower stands rather than the central one here.”

“Oh? Is it a better view?”

He laughed. “Hardly. Well, I suppose you are closer to the horses, but you can see the race itself much better from this vantage. My family wasn’t always noble, you see, and our rise in status was rather, well … frowned upon by much of society in my younger years.”

“I didn’t know that.” She leaned back a bit, seeing him in a new light. It was strange. Given the magic that ran in many royal and noble lines, most titles were gained by way of closely guarded blood ties and marriages often planned from youth.

“Yes, thankfully, it’s old news to most now.” He leaned back and looked out at the horses as he spoke. “But my father was granted the title and estate by the late King Jesstin, Goddess grant them both peace, when I was just a young boy. We were not much before that—my father was a simple merchant.” He glanced back, giving her a shy smile.

King Jesstin, Drystan’s father, had been a good man, a good king. Or so all accounts claimed. But still, raising a commoner to noble rank in such a way was a rare thing, usually only performed for those who’d done a great service to the crown. Bronwyn scooted closer. “What did your father do to be granted such generosity?”

Lord Griffith shrugged. “He was a supporter of the king, that much I know. But I never received the full details of it. King Rhion had my father killed not long after he claimed the crown, likely for the very same reason.”

She sucked in a harsh breath. “He…”

Lord Griffith nodded, all humor fading from his features. “A terrible thing. It was publicly announced that he died of illness, but that’s not the truth, of course.”

“That bastard.”

Lord Griffith laughed.

She slapped a hand over her mouth and quickly looked around, but no one seemed to be listening in. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken that way.” It wasn’t what was expected of young women, especially not in such company. She might speak her mind at home without concern, but here? She really was trying to do better.

But his humor remained as he took her in. “Why not? Rhion was a vile king who deserves such. Good riddance, I say.”

She sighed in relief, sinking back into her chair.

This time, it was Lord Griffith who leaned in over the armrests. “But you see, that’s why I like you so much.” He placed a hand on her arm, and she nearly jumped out of her seat. “You know what it is to be common. Your true self hasn’t been polished away by all of this.” He gestured around them. “I suppose time has done more to refine my less noble edges, but it’s comforting to find someone else who might be seen by some as an outsider, someone who has ventured among these peacocks and not lost themselves amid the feathers.”

Her heart pounded in her ears at his touch, threatening to drown him out, but she forced herself to focus on each and every word. “I quite agree.”

His fingers tightened ever so slightly on Bronwyn’s arm. Her breath caught as he leaned. But then he paused, his gaze cutting behind them and halting.

Lord Griffith released her and stood. “Ah, Lord Osian. Mr. Davies.”

Bronwyn glanced over one shoulder. More patrons had arrived at their box, and this time, she recognized one of them from tea.

“Miss Davies.” Bronwyn smiled at the woman who approached with the two men Griffith greeted. Over the past several months in the capital, Bronwyn had met many women of high standing, noble birth and not. Of them all, the one she found the truest comfort and companionship in was Miss Charlotte Davies. In fact, she’d been the only bright spot at the tea Bronwyn had recently hosted.

Though not of noble blood, Charlotte’s late father, and now her brother, ran a significant business importing foreign goods, and the wealth they’d earned had purchased the family’s invitation to society as it were. Society might have scorned Lord Griffith’s rise in status in his younger days, but the Davieses didn’t seem to share those troubles, making easy friends with members of the nobility despite their lack of title. Although perhaps it was Griffith’s title itself that had caused the scorn—the fact that it had gone to an outsider rather than a family like the Davieses, who’d been invited in by the nobility themselves.

Either way, it was that common upbringing Griffith mentioned that made Bronwyn and Charlotte kindred spirits. Or perhaps it was Charlotte’s frankness of word and ability to tiptoe the lines of proper society so as not to offend but to still be herself. Charlotte was the blueprint off which Bronwyn tried to model her behavior these days.

“Miss Kinsley!” Charlotte’s brown curls bounced along with her garnet pendant earrings as she waved gleefully and made her way forward. Styled and primped to perfection, Miss Davies looked like she’d just stepped from her boudoir, an act of magic in itself on such a hot day. She could give lessons on the perfect way to match accessories to any outfit, but then, one would have to be able to afford jewelry like hers, and few could. Especially not sets that matched so well. “I didn’t know to expect you today.”

True, Bronwyn had not said anything about the races. Perhaps I should have , she mused. Either way, the woman’s presence was a breath of fresh air, literally and figuratively. And Goddess above did she need it. She could have sworn Lord Griffith was about to do something entirely ungentlemanly, and the mixed emotions in her middle said she wasn’t quite ready for that, especially not with an audience.

“Lord Griffith here invited me.” She gestured to where he’d rounded the short aisle of seats to greet the newcomers.

Charlotte waved her little lacy fan. “I’m glad of it. You simply must meet my brother, Elis!”

The brother in question turned toward her. His shaggy brown hair framed a pleasant face made even brighter by his broad grin and dimpled cheeks. Despite the slight wildness of his hair, the rest of him was well put together, a strong if somewhat petite figure filling out his day suit. “A pleasure. You must be Miss Kinsley. And this is our friend, Lord Osian.” He indicated the other gentleman with them.

The half-grin Lord Osian offered and the twinkling in his blue eyes unsettled her. Or maybe it was his pointed features, or the amount of styling oil slicking back his blond hair. As his gaze roved down her body, she swallowed thickly and forced herself to look back at Charlotte instead.

“It is lovely to see you,” Bronwyn said. Which was true, even if their companion left much to be desired despite his title.

The bright notes of a horn sounded from the racecourse, drawing their attention and silencing much of the crowd.

“Last call for bets on the first set,” Lord Griffith said.

“We’re so close to the first race already?” Charlotte asked in dismay. “I told you we should have come sooner.” She swatted at her brother.

“Shall we go place our bets?” Lord Osian stared at Bronwyn as he spoke, his eyebrows jumping.

“Let’s!” Lord Griffith patted Osian on the shoulder, Mr. Davies laughed, and the three of them headed toward the stairs at the back.

“Aren’t you coming?” Charlotte shifted her attention between Bronwyn and the men.

“I wouldn’t know who to bet on,” Bronwyn admitted. Nor was she in a rush to be near Lord Osian, to say nothing of the moment she’d shared with Lord Griffith minutes ago.

“Oh, but that’s half the fun.” Charlotte laughed as she waved her fan. “Perhaps I’ll place a bet for you. You need someone to cheer for, after all,” she added with a wink before trailing after the men.

Once they’d left, Bronwyn could finally breathe again. And she did, sucking in one deep breath, then another, before dropping into a chair at the edge of the box. She snapped open her fan and waved it in earnest, savoring the cool air and moment of peace.

“The races are bringing out all the royals today,” said a deep voice from the next box over.

The voice startled her, causing her to suck in a breath and flick her fan to the side as if she could ward the man off like a buzzing fly.

No such luck. None other than Mr. Yarwood stood just past the railing that separated the boxes. His pale suit stood in sharp contrast to his darker skin and hair.

“Pardon?” Bronwyn replied, unsure how to respond to his comment.

The square crystal glass he held contained a dark liquid, possibly whiskey, which he sipped at before responding. All the while, he watched her over the rim with a steady gaze. “I said the races are bringing out all the royals today.” He tipped his head back toward the gallery behind them.

Bronwyn tucked the fan into her lap before turning in her seat to scan the crowd. Her heart skipped a beat as it locked on a tall figure currently engaged in a lively discussion with a group of women. Malik. Not even the wide-brimmed hats worn by many of the ladies could completely conceal him from view. In fact, now that she saw him, it felt like his laughter parted the other sounds and zipped straight for her ears like an arrow.

“You seem surprised,” Mr. Yarwood observed.

She shifted in her seat. “I shouldn’t be. If there’s an event to be had in society, Ma—Prince Alistair is there.”

“Mmm,” he replied, settling in the seat at the very edge of his box, as near to her as he could get. Too bad the damnable railing was low, far too low to block her view of him. Rather, the way he sat, facing her instead of the racecourse with one elbow propped on his thigh, only brought him closer. “And my sister on his arm once again.”

Those words struck something in her chest that almost made her wince. She had no business feeling that way, of course. She and Malik were nothing to each other but reluctant allies in the quest to see the dragons ended. Even if they had been more, he’d said much of his time in society was a ruse, but she had a hard time believing that.

“You don’t seem fond of their companionship,” she said at last.

“My sister’s intentions are true enough. Though I wonder at his.” Mr. Yarwood leaned in further, voice dropping so low she could barely make out the next words. “I wonder at his intentions in all things.”

She blinked, taken aback. Could he have realized Malik’s intentions may not be aimed toward marriage? It was possible, though Bronwyn wasn’t about to ruin his ruse if so. But it was the last part— his intentions in all things —that gave her pause. Even on this sweltering day, those words made her a bit chill. “Whatever could you mean, Mr. Yarwood?”

“An heir to the throne who spends more time at parties than at the castle. One who doesn’t seem that connected to others attached to the royal family.” He raised his brows at her for emphasis.

The barb stung more than it should, and she shifted once more, suddenly deeply uncomfortable. “That’s nothing unusual,” she replied, though her comment lacked strength.

“No? Not to mention that he’s the son of the late king, one revealed to be quite … monstrous. Yet here he is, walking free and supposedly supporting his cousin instead of claiming the crown himself?”

Bronwyn’s hands clenched around her fan. She found herself wringing the delicate thing so tight it might snap. “He is also his mother’s son. A mother, that, may I remind you, comes from your extended family. Are you saying your line is tainted with darkness, Mr. Yarwood?”

His lips wrinkled in distaste. “I would never speak ill of his mother. She was known for her kindness, Goddess rest her soul.” He made the sign of the Goddess with his free hand. “But do you not think it strange? As you said, he is everywhere in society. Everywhere the accidents happen. And who has the most to gain should the current king fall?”

“ He placed the crown on King Tristram’s head. I saw it myself. If he were ever to have taken it, it would have been then.”

A dark chuckle slipped from Yarwood’s lips. Bronwyn glanced around in a panic. Where was Lord Griffith when she needed him? Or anyone else, for that matter.

“The best games are long ones, Miss Kinsley,” Mr. Yarwood said, demanding her attention once more. “You’re new to this life and far too honest for court. I would hate to see anything unfortunate happen to you.”

She leaned back, blinking furiously. “Is that a threat?” Goddess above, perhaps she should have allowed her guards to come into the stands rather than ordering them to stay on the grounds.

“No.” He shook his head. Some of the tension in his shoulders loosened. “Merely a warning. You know as well as I that there are those out there—dragons, they’d call themselves—who have an eye for dramatic change. I wouldn’t want to see you caught up in it.”

The moment he began to take another sip of his drink, Bronwyn shoved to her feet and stared down her nose at him. “I’m starting to think you one of them, sir ,” she sneered.

With a huff, she turned to flee the box. But he caught her wrist, the hold of his fingers like an iron band.

“I assure you, I am not.” His voice was hard, cold, any softness or humor gone from his features. He released her as quickly as he’d grabbed her. “Beware the prince, Miss Kinsley.” And then he turned away from her, walking deeper into his box and sipping at his drink as if their conversation had never happened.

Bronwyn’s heart pounded against her chest. Sweat trickled between her breasts, and no amount of fanning herself made her breath come easier. She searched the crowd in earnest for a familiar face, but there was still no Lord Griffith, no Charlotte, and, to her surprise, no Malik. Her head swam at the last bit, emotion sloshing so dangerously she swayed on her feet.

She couldn’t stay in the box. Not another minute. Desperate for air, for time to think, she fled the box and made for the stairs.