Page 20

Malik

W hen Lady Sian invited Malik to attend the party at Lord Griffith’s manor with her, he jumped at it for all the wrong reasons.

Oh, he told himself it was an excellent opportunity to spend more time around a few potential suspects and to see how the experiment of Bronwyn’s painting worked out. But really, he knew the true reason for his anticipation was the thought of seeing her again.

He’d kept himself away the last few days. He had needed that time to collect himself. A few minutes alone with her and he’d nearly destroyed months of work, days of agony in keeping his distance and pretending his interests lay elsewhere.

Damn it all, he’d become weak. The moment she’d taken a bite of that jam-filled pastry and moaned in delight, his cock had gone hard as a rock in his breeches. How she hadn’t noticed, he still wasn’t sure. And when some of the jam had clung to the curve of her lip? Well, who could resist sampling that?

And then she had to go and bring up Lord Griffith—

The carriage jolted over a bump in the road, and Lady Sian pressed into his side.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Your Highness.” She eased herself off him but stayed much closer than before, their shoulders nearly touching. “This ride has been so unusually bumpy.”

It had been rather tame, actually, but he wasn’t surprised that she took advantage of each little jostle to get nearer to him. The tactic would work on most men. In fact, her pleasing face and family name would be enough to win over most. It may even have worked on him if his heart wasn’t already elsewhere.

“You could give His Highness more space,” her brother said from the opposite bench. Though the man was never the exuberant sort, he seemed more dour than usual this evening.

“Oh, oh, yes, of course.” Sian slid to the side.

Finally, Malik could breathe again. He needed to get his wits about him or it was bound to be a long night, and they hadn’t even arrived at Lord Griffith’s manor. Already, with his thoughts back on that day in the opera house, he’d accidentally committed to some social event at the Yarwood home—he’d casually replied “yes” after completely missing the question.

Mr. Yarwood stared out the window in apparent boredom as his sister began talking once more. She hadn’t been near this expressive when Malik had first met her at the royal wedding. Had he known how she’d bloom around him, he might have chosen someone else for this ruse. The guilt of the deception was beginning to gnaw at him like a stubborn rat at a cord.

She touched his arm. “Malik?”

He pulled away from the touch without thinking. Damn it all, he shouldn’t have given her permission to use that name. Another slip on his part. Why couldn’t he simply have left her with Alastair? He hated that name, but it would be better than the familiar one she now found any reason to use.

“Mm?” He grinned, trying to cover up his reaction and the fact that he clearly had not been listening to her again.

“I asked if you think we have cause to worry tonight.” She blinked up at him dolefully. “We have had such unfortunate luck of late.”

“I wouldn’t think so,” Malik replied with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. “Why would they bother with a private party?”

“You never know.” Mr. Yarwood tore his gaze from the passing view of the brightly lit streets of the upper end, with their gas lamps and wrought iron gates leading to the various manors. “The accidents do seem to follow His Highness these days.”

It was rare that Malik wanted to squirm under someone’s gaze, but the pointed stare of the young lord—along with his words—had that effect. Malik had been present for the most recent incidents, there was no mistake about that.

“What are you implying, Rees?” Malik asked. That he was as much a target as the royal couple? Probably.

It was one of the reasons they’d installed Bronwyn’s paintings at the entrances to the castle. If a wielder of dark magic came inside, or someone else brought a spell in, the paintings should catch it. But none of the negative space where he’d worked the spells had yet turned black. That should have made him rest easier, but it only made him—and Drystan—uneasy. Perhaps the spell wasn’t as effective as they’d hoped. Or maybe the dragons believed the ruse that Drystan and Ceridwen were off on their wedding moon and were now avoiding the castle.

“Nothing, of course,” Rees replied. But it was far from nothing. “I only hope they leave us be this evening. For my sister’s sake.”

Not that of his prince. The slight quirk of the other man’s lips had a hint of viciousness to it that surprised Malik. He’d long considered whether Rees Yarwood or his family might be associated with the dragons, and the man’s attitude wasn’t helping on that front. In fact, Malik might have to go out of his way to get the man near Bronwyn’s painting.

It was another reason he was glad to be going to the party tonight. He had no doubt that Bronwyn was more than capable of handling the situation herself and reporting to him when the painting shifted color. However, if it did change color, it meant the danger was in their immediate vicinity, and he wouldn’t allow her to face that alone. If he’d had to invite himself to the party, playing it off as gracing them with his royal presence or some such nonsense, he would have.

A short time later, their carriage was ushered through the gates and stopped in front of their destination. The three-story-tall manor bore a mostly flat facade of pale marble stretching up to its dark, steep roofline. The windows were bright, showing off the gas lighting inside. Though the many homes along the elite drive were older, this one had clearly been updated by its current occupant. Lord Griffith had climbed far in life, he’d give him that. Or, rather, his late father had, rising from the rank of commoner to a lord who could afford one of the nicest homes in the capital.

Liveried footmen opened the manor’s ornate double doors as Malik approached with Lady Sian on his arm, her brother a step behind. Though they were by no means late, several people already lingered in the grand hall, laughter and pleasant conversation filling the air. The host was at the center of a group, speaking with sweeping gestures. Laughter erupted. The man himself looked quite pleased, smiling broadly in his pristine evening coat, his shock of red hair a sharp contrast to his otherwise monochrome formal attire.

Lord Griffith caught sight of them, his brows raising as he stretched on his toes before excusing himself from the group and making his way over. “Your Highness!” He gave a dramatic bow. “So glad you’re able to join us this evening. I’m ashamed, I should have thought to send an invitation myself, but I feared I may be over-reaching in expecting your attendance at my humble home.”

Malik chuckled. Humble, indeed. “Nonsense, I’m pleased to be here, and grateful to Lady Sian for asking me to accompany her and her brother. Hopefully, I’m not the one intruding.”

“Of course not.” The young lord was all smiles, as if the king himself had paid a visit, not merely his cousin and heir. “It is an honor. Please, enjoy yourselves this evening.”

Malik went in search of drinks—or, that was the excuse he gave while he searched for Bronwyn. It only took a few minutes to deduce that she had not arrived yet. If she had, she likely would have been near Lord Griffith, not only for the man’s interest in her; it seemed Bronwyn found comfort in his presence as well, however much Malik might detest that fact. He knew she didn’t care much for society gatherings, so having someone like Lord Griffith to do the socializing on her behalf was a boon for her.

More people filed in. The recent race disaster was a prime topic of conversation, particularly among those who had been present. Elis Davies, who’d been burned while fleeing the stands, had recovered well thanks to some magical intervention that apparently cost a pretty penny. A few guests praised Malik for his help in quelling the disaster, though none of the conversation gave him the details he yearned for. Yet.

“And where were you after the fires broke out?” Malik asked Lord Osric, who’d yet to comment. He’d been there, Malik knew, thanks to Bronwyn and her disgust of the man.

His blond mustache twitched. “The privy, if you must know.”

“Saved by a piss!” Mr. Davies slapped him on the shoulder, earning a frown and a disapproving look from Lord Osric as well as a few of the women. But Davies simply laughed and took another sip of his drink, which was already running low.

Malik looked past the laughing man and stilled.

There she was.

Bronwyn always looked lovely in his eyes, but she was especially resplendent in her gown of dark forest green and cream. Golden accents were stitched across the bodice, which certainly drew the eye. Whether she intended that or not, he couldn’t say, but more than one man stared at her where she stood on the black-and-white-checked marble floor under the light of the crystal chandelier.

A box was clasped in her hands, wrapped with cream paper and secured with a ribbon that matched the color of her dress. Clever.

Lord Griffith rushed to greet her. The young man’s enthusiasm seemed real, as did the smile Bronwyn gave him in return. In fact, she’d been stiff and stoic entering the house, but the moment she spied Griffith, her posture eased.

Malik’s hand clenched into a fist. If he’d still held a glass, it might have shattered.

“They do make such a lovely couple, don’t they?” Lady Sian said, looking between them and Malik. “There may be an engagement in the near future at this rate.”

He felt like he’d been punched. An engagement? No way. They hadn’t even spent that much time together.

But … couples had become engaged for far less.

“It’s the year for royal weddings, don’t you think?” She beamed at him, trying and failing to look innocent in her suggestion.

A weak laugh left him. “I suppose we’ll see.”

Bronwyn wouldn’t be marrying anyone, not with her sister still cursed. She was determined to do whatever it took to fit into society in the hopes some crumb, some tidbit might reveal the remaining dragons. But she wouldn’t take it so far as an engagement, would she? Although, such an event would get her a never-ending string of invitations and attention…

Fuck. He clenched and unclenched his fingers.

She might just do it.