Page 21

Bronwyn

L ord Griffith urged all his guests to make their way into the drawing room. He had Bronwyn’s gift tucked carefully under one arm—she’d made sure to tell him not to tip or shake it, just in case. Apparently, he planned to open it in front of everyone, which, while good for the purpose of finding out if anyone present was a wielder of dark magic, would be entirely mortifying in the moment.

A sick, twisting feeling started in her stomach the moment he suggested it, but there was no time to insist otherwise before he was already calling out to his friends and directing them to the nearby room.

Perhaps she should have come early. Then she could have avoided inevitably being the center of attention when Lord Griffith opened her gift. But she’d feared he might tuck it away somewhere and she wouldn’t have the opportunity to truly see if any of the guests were potential suspects. He might still after he opened it, but with so many people arrived already, especially now they were crammed together in the hallway toward the drawing room, the chances that Malik’s spell might work were better.

That prospect also gave her pause, though. Part of her wanted the painting to turn black, wanted to know they’d made some progress toward freeing her sister from that terrible curse. But it would be a lie to say she wasn’t a bit afraid as well. What if the spell reacted and someone noticed? Perhaps she could play it off as an artistic trick, but that wasn’t guaranteed. And if a dragon were among them…

A shiver raced across her skin. It was entirely possible, and that thought was exhilarating and horrifying all at once.

Bronwyn recognized quite a few of Lord Griffith’s house guests, though she tried and failed to recall all their names and titles. Some were easy, though. Charlotte rushed forward and wrapped Bronwyn in a familiar hug. Her friend had dressed in all her finery that night—silk, jewels, even golden combs in her hair. Such displays of wealth still gave Bronwyn pause. They always might; after all, she had experienced poverty. Even when coming from someone like Miss Davies, wealth, and the waste of it, weighed on her like an ill-fitting hat she couldn’t wait to be rid of. The Davies had earned their money, not inherited it as with pretty much everyone else in the room, but still, the thought grated: she might have been like that once, if Mother had not died and their life had not taken such a different course.

Still, at least Charlotte’s temperament was more to her taste than some of the other women’s. Though she’d tensed when the woman hurried over with a delighted squeal, the hug was tolerable. Not as awkward as she’d feared. Rather, she almost liked it. Charlotte’s brother was there, too, looking completely healthy despite the burns he received at the race. Unfortunately, Lord Osric was in attendance as well. She’d managed to avoid him in the short time she’d been in the house, but the moment Lord Griffith looked away, Osric’s regard hit her, as sudden as the splash of muddy water from a carriage wheel and just as disgusting.

That was nothing, though, compared to the moment Malik walked into the drawing room. All the finery of the gaudy furnishings paled at the sight of him. Air flew her lungs as if her corset strings had been suddenly tightened. He looked dead at her, and every thought emptied from her head … all save for their encounter at the opera house a few days prior. She could still feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek, the touch of his lips to her neck.

Of course I’m jealous of him.

Then Bronwyn’s attention slid to his side, to the woman on his arm, and everything twisted inside out and upside down. Lady Sian fawned at him as if he were the Goddess herself, and Malik… He tore his gaze from Bronwyn to stare down at her, a broad smile breaking out across his face.

When they’d met over tea in the castle, Malik had mentioned trying to get close to the Yarwoods for information, but surely, he’d done that by now. If it was information he wanted, shouldn’t he be courting many women, not just one? And then there was what Mr. Yarwood had said. He’d warned her away from Malik.

Was there more at play than she dared consider?

“Bronwyn?”

The whisper of her name cut through her thoughts. She turned her head to find Lord Griffith much closer than she remembered.

He tilted his head, brow pinching even as his lips quirked up in one corner. “Are you quite all right?” His fingers flexed lightly on her upper arm. She couldn’t even say when he’d grabbed it.

She blinked up at him, forcing away her thoughts and doing her best to smile reassuringly. “Quite.”

“Good.” He helped her down onto the short sofa next to him, an ornate piece of polished dark wood with deep green cushions and gold filigree accents. Their bodies nearly pressed together, and his nearness was enough to make her flush. It was as much a sign to those around them as anything, one that surely would not go unnoticed. Nor would her gift, which sat in his lap.

“Miss Kinsley has brought me a gift!” Griffith announced to the room, snaring the last few people’s attentions. Excited murmurs ran through those nearby; a few even stepped or scooted closer.

The weight of so much attention was suffocating, but Bronwyn still managed to say, “It’s nothing, really, but I do hope you like it, Lord Griffith.”

He touched her hand and whispered, “Phillip.”

“Phillip,” she echoed.

His hand retreated, and then louder, for the rest of the room, he replied, “Anything from you is a treasure.”

Now she really did blush.

Phillip pulled the ribbon, and it slid from the box. A heartbeat later, the top was off. And he froze, staring transfixed.

Bronwyn pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and held her breath, waiting for something, anything.

A few others voiced their impatience. One man made to step behind them and look over Phillip’s shoulder.

Just when she was ready to leap to her feet and flee the room, Phillip looked over at her and smiled. “You painted this, didn’t you?” His eyes turned glassy.

Surely, those weren’t tears he held back?

“Another masterpiece,” he said, his voice finding strength. “I am honored. Truly.”

He lifted the small oval frame from the box, turned it toward the others, and held it aloft. The reflection of the moon upon the water was still as white as the two swans swimming near it.

Numerous appreciative comments filled the air. “So lovely,” one woman Bronwyn did not know crooned. “May I have a closer look?”

“Only if you promise to be careful with my new treasure,” Phillip replied, somewhere between a tease and a reprimand.

And just like that, the painting was handed off, and others shuffled in to look at it. If someone who used dark magic was here, and if the spell worked as they expected, the painting should reveal it. It was a good thing she’d showed up late after all.

“I’ll have to find a fitting place for it,” Phillip remarked to Bronwyn, as if she might supply an answer.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if it finds its way to his bedside table,” Mr. Davies said before laughing at his own comment.

A few other men joined in, and Bronwyn found herself barely holding back a snap of indignance at the not-so-subtle message in the words. She’d been so, so careful with her words and actions, trying to fit in among these people when, really, she’d probably find more comfort in a bawdy tavern. Somewhere with people who didn’t expect their women to be pleasant and demure all the time, where she could truly say what was on her mind.

“Ignore them.” Phillip laid a hand on her leg. He pulled it away just as quickly, but he certainly caught her attention—the sudden touch had her nearly jumping out her skin. “I’ll find a suitable place for it. I do wish my mother were here to see it, though.”

“Does she have a talent for decorating?” Bronwyn hazarded a guess. She had yet to meet the woman, though she’d half expected to tonight, given that they were attending a gathering in his home. Honestly, she’d been almost as nervous about that as delivering the painting.

“Ah, well, yes, but I simply wish I could show it to her. She’s more content in the countryside these days. Has been since my father’s unfortunate passing.”

How well Bronwyn understood that. Perhaps she’d have more in common with the woman than she expected. Her brow pinched as her imaginings jumped ahead to a future where Philip would introduce her to his mother, as if she were his intended or some such thing. He was a kind man. Interesting and not as haughty as many nobles, perhaps because he’d not always been one, yet another thing they had in common. But she wasn’t seriously considering marrying him, was she? Her attachment to him was simply a ruse; the real thing would be a distraction.

A mess of panic welled up in her chest, and, for some reason she couldn’t exactly explain, she looked for Malik. Though he stood in close conversation with Lady Sian and another couple, his attention kept flitting across the room—at the painting.

Right. That’s where her attention should be.

“Perhaps I’ll bring it with me when I visit Thorngrove Hall,” Phillip continued.

“You’re going soon?” Bronwyn asked. “Hopefully, not too soon.” If he left for the countryside, she’d be forced to find a new way into society, and save for perhaps accompanying Charlotte, most of those avenues held little appeal.

“Not too soon,” he agreed.

With his full attention on her, it was terribly hard to glance at the painting without appearing suspicious, but it had already passed numerous hands. Someone needed to get a good look at it, and it was doubtful Malik could see much from his perspective across the large drawing room, especially with so many people crowded around.

“Oh,” Bronwyn exclaimed. “There is something on the painting I meant to point out to you.”

As she hoped, Phillip hopped to his feet. “Who has my painting?” he called jovially.

A young woman in burgundy brought it over with a smile for the host and a barely disguised scowl for Bronwyn. Bronwyn barely held back a huff of laughter. Any man worth his salt would see through such antics. In fact, Phillip’s “Thank you” seemed quite stiff.

“Your painting, my lady.” He turned it toward her.

The moonlight was still bright white. It should have been a relief, in a way, but her stomach dropped. No change. No dark magic. Which meant no solution for her sister’s curse. No progress. A wasted evening, and time was growing short.

She forced a smile so she wouldn’t scream in frustration. “I—I simply wanted to show you these swans and the lake, here. I based it on a little pond near where I grew up that always seemed to have some swans in the summer months.”

“It must have been such a lovely place to be a child.”

Bronwyn smiled sadly. “It was.”

“Then I’ll treasure this all the more for the memories you put into it.” He glanced around. “In fact, I think it’s time I put it out of reach, so no one gets any funny ideas and takes it home with them.”

“Oh, that’s all ri—” But he’d already turned and headed toward the fireplace, likely planning to set it on the mantel piece. Visible, yes, but not anywhere people would likely gather on this warm night, when the fireplace was cold and empty as a forgotten cellar.

Damn it all.

In the lord’s momentary absence, Bronwyn was swarmed by a gaggle of women who couldn’t stop commenting on the gift she’d brought and inquiring none-too-subtly about her and Phillip’s relationship. Thankfully, Charlotte was among them and skillfully batted away the questions with more grace than Bronwyn could muster. It was all she could do not to tell the women to mind their own business.

The occupants of the room had divided themselves without being told, the men gathering on the far side where servants had brought in tables for cards, and the women lingering near the cluster of chairs on the other side.

It was almost tolerable. Then the women started asking about her sister. Was she expecting? Did the queen have any upcoming parties she was planning? How was the wedding moon?

Each one grated on her last nerve until she snapped, “Do you have nothing better to talk about?”

The women in their little cluster fell quiet. One girl’s little lace fan stopped mid-wave. The one who’d asked literally clutched at her necklace. “What could be more important than news of our king and queen?”

Charlotte laughed heartily and rested a hand on Bronwyn’s shoulder. “Our poor Miss Kinsley gets interrogated wherever she goes. It can be quite tiresome to always be asked about one’s relations.”

Thank the Goddess they didn’t know the truth of her sister’s condition, but all the talk about her as if she were a happy bride on her wedding moon was almost too much to bear. Charlotte tightened her grip in a show of support, the movement causing her ostentatious ruby ring to glitter in the light.

“Miss Kinsley isn’t the only one with a connection to the royal family.” Lady Sian slid into their circle, her chin raised a little higher than was natural.

All attention shifted to her. Bronwyn should have been thankful for it, but the bitterness on her tongue only grew more intense.

“Oh?” Charlotte didn’t miss a beat, waggling her eyebrows at the other woman. “Should we be addressing you as Princess, then?”

The title Bronwyn didn’t want. The one she hated. So why did she suddenly want to snatch it away and claim it for herself?

From Charlotte’s tone it was meant as a joke, but Sian smiled, tilting her head this way and that as if to make sure that the light caught on all her jewels. “We’ll have to see, now won’t we?”

“You expect a proposal?” the woman with the fan asked in a loud whisper.

Sian’s grin only grew. “He asked about coming to my family estate. About a meeting with my father.”

But their relationship was a ruse. A fake. A ploy to get information. Wasn’t it?

Bronwyn’s heart felt like it was trying to crawl through her ribs. She looked across the room, searching for Malik. He chatted and laughed with a group of men, paying her no mind at all.

“And we have the royal box for the upcoming debut of the new opera. Just us.”

She was going to be sick. Right there on the plush carpet.

“Excuse me,” Bronwyn whispered.

“Bronwyn—” Charlotte reached for her, but she shook her head.

“I just need the facilities. I’ll only be a moment.”

Bronwyn was out the door and in the hallway before she could think otherwise, her racing pulse and wild thoughts drowning out everything as she pulled in one breath after another.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there before a footman appeared directly in front of her. “Can I help you, miss?”

When she finally looked at him, she got the impression he’d asked more than once. “Apologies. Is there a water closet nearby?”

“Of course, miss. Around the corner. First door on the left.”

“Thank you.” She hurried off in that direction, past portraits of people dressed too well to be Griffith ancestors.

As she made to round the corner, someone else exited the drawing room. She halted just long enough to take notice of who it was. Her heart leapt into her throat, and she hurried around the corner, hoping he hadn’t spotted her.

She grabbed the door handle to the water closet and twisted, but the damnable thing didn’t budge. Maybe it was in use. Either way, it wasn’t an option. Hurriedly, she looked around, spied an open door to a dark room down the hall, and ducked inside.

It took an agonizing moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. When they did, she regarded the small study in which she hid. Bookshelves lined one wall, stuffed to the brim with tomes of varying sizes. A neat desk stood facing her on the other side of the room, the two uncomfortable-looking chairs in front of it a sharp contrast to the high-backed, cushioned one behind it. A window had been opened, letting in the evening breeze and a thick beam of moonlight.

At least it was empty.

She let out a sigh and wandered toward one of the twin chairs. The ornate swirls making up the back would undoubtedly dig into one’s spine if one sat for too long, but she only needed a moment to collect herself. Well, maybe more than a moment.

Her fingertips had just touched the back of the chair when a shadow passed in front of the light from the hall. A voice stopped her cold. “Bronwyn.”

It was no more than a whisper, but she knew him immediately. She always did.

Her heart lodged itself in her throat, and for once, she found herself speechless in front of Malik.

“What are you doing?”

Bronwyn retreated toward the bookshelves. Foolish. There was nowhere to go, not without sprinting past him or climbing out the window.

“I saw you leave suddenly, and I was worried,” he added.

Whatever had leashed her voice loosed, and she said in a harsh whisper, “You weren’t paying attention to us. You were talking with some of the men. Laughing with them.”

He prowled closer, his gaze intent. “I’m always paying attention to you.”

Air lodged in her chest as she backed into the bookcase, startling as some of the books shifted. A door clicked open in the hall. They both looked toward the sound. It shut a moment later. Presumably, whoever occupied the water closet had left. Too bad they’d done it a minute too late.

Malik turned back to her, showing no sign that he planned to leave her alone.

“Shouldn’t you be paying attention to someone else?” Bronwyn asked. “Your future fiancée, perhaps?”

“Fiancée?” He reared back and blinked. “You’re one to talk when Lord Griffith was just talking about taking you to Thorngrove Hall to visit his mother, I presume? And he hinted at needing to pay a visit to your family at the castle before then as well.” If one could snarl through a whisper, he did. “Any thought on why that could be?”

Goddess above. Bronwyn swallowed thickly. Phillip couldn’t really mean to ask for her hand, could he?

“ I didn’t invite him anywhere.” Bronwyn spread her arms wide. “And what about you? Asking to meet with Lady Sian’s father!” she hissed.

“Only to test his loyalties.” Malik was close now, so close she could feel his warmth jumping the space between them.

“Right,” Bronwyn scoffed. “It’s certainly not to request his daughter’s hand, as she suspects. She told everyone tonight that she expects an engagement.”

“She—” His lips pulled back in the beginning of a snarl before settling in a grim line.

“So, if you plan to marry her, you have no business traipsing after me,” Bronwyn snapped. “I’m not some little woman in need of coddling.”

Malik planted a hand on either side of her head, trapping her against the bookcase. He leaned in until his face was inches from hers, but she stiffened her spine, refusing to back down. “Let me make this very clear, Princess . There is only one person I am interested in, and she needs no coddling, no looking after. But while there is air in my lungs, I will protect her all the same.”

The determined look in his emerald-green eyes was meant to make her—anyone—cower. But she would not. Never. She stared right back at him, unblinking. “Then go look after her.”

The sound that tore from his throat was something between a growl and grumble. Malik closed his cage, resting his forearms against the bookshelf and forcing her to crush herself back against the uneven surface lest their fronts press together. “Bloody fool.” He closed his eyes, his forehead nearly touching hers as he hung his head. “Don’t you know? Can’t you tell?”

He couldn’t mean… Her lips parted. Her legs wobbled. Only the heel of her palm braced on the edge of a shelf kept her upright.

“It’s you, Bronwyn.” Malik opened his eyes and stared at her as he spoke. He cupped her cheek, and a shiver raced down her spine. “It’s always been you.”

“But—but…” She stuttered, refusing to believe it. “But you don’t care about me. You all but ignored me. For months!” She snapped her mouth closed, instantly regretting her raised voice.

However, Malik didn’t seem to notice or care. “I did,” he admitted. “I had to, to do what must be done.”

“What—” she started, shaking her head.

“If I knew you returned my feelings, I would never be able to stay away from you. And everyone in this bloody kingdom would know it. They would know where my heart lies. I would never be able to pretend to be the self-assured prince of pleasures they’d known and come to expect. I may have plenty of practice acting thanks to my father, but to fake that?” He tsked. “I’m not that good. I know I’m not. Already, I can barely think whenever you’re in the room. You snare my attention more than a blazing fire, and when you have not captured my attention, you consume my thoughts. If you were mine…” His hand slid down until his fingers curled lightly around her throat, his thumb resting over her windpipe and making every beat of her racing pulse thump harder.

Her heart swelled painfully against her ribs. Night could have switched to day and she would not have noticed for how lost she was in his eyes, in the truth he poured out between them.

Bronwyn swallowed, feeling his fingers flex in response. “If I was yours?”

“Goddess, Bronwyn.” His thumb rubbed distracting circles on her skin. “Tell me you feel at least an ounce of what I do. Tell me you ache, too.”

There was only one thing to say to him. “I hope you’re a better actor than you think you are.” And then she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled him down to her, and kissed him.