Page 14 of The Artist and the Dragon

Inevitably, conversation flowed back to the last time they were together, the night of the king and queen’s wedding feast. “They really don’t know who did it?” Lady Siân asked, surprising him. A ploy to gather information from him or genuine curiosity? He wasn’t sure.

“Not that I’m aware of, though I’m not always informed of such matters,” he replied as they stared at a wintery landscape. Or, rather, he stared. His companion spent considerably more time focused on him than on the art.

“You know, one of our dear friends, Mr. Davies, was injured in the accident. A piece of glass left a nasty slice on his hand, poor fellow. He wasn’t even that close, but he must have been terribly unlucky. He does seem rather prone to injury, doesn’t he, brother?”

Mr. Yarwood gave a murmur of assent before sipping at his drink. “Perhaps brighter topics, Siân. Or perhaps we could all venture to the gardens?” He glanced from his sister to Malik. “My dear sister is fond of dancing.”

“Oh? I wish I’d known. We could have danced at the wedding feast. We’ll be sure to tonight, though there’s a whole wing we’ve yet to see.” And that’s where Bronwyn’s paintings must be, since he hadn’t found them yet. As much as he yearned to view her work again—and perhaps purchase some of it for himself if it went unsold—the thought unsettled, too, though he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because it stirred memories of the artist?

Playing the spy and outing dragons barely unsettled him these days, but viewing a painting made him deeply uncomfortable. Ridiculous.

“More paintings, Your Highness?” Lady Siân’s question held the edge of a brittle laugh.

“Oh, I think so.” The grin stretched across his face wasn’t even forced.

Mr. Yarwood seemed to share his sister’s distaste and took a long swig of his drink.

“A royal, here?” The passing remark snared every fiber of Malik’s attention. He swung around to stare at the two women who conversed in excited tones nearby. For once, though, they paid him no mind. It was strange not to be the object of attention.

“Yes! She’s so rarely out in society. No one has made any progress with her,” the taller woman said. Or perhapsgirlwould be a more fitting description. Both were on the youngest fringe of proper society.

There could only be two women they discussed, and he had his bets on which one it was.

“Do you think we should try?” The girl practically bounced as she spoke. “Would she take notice of us?”

The taller one looped her arm through her friend’s. “Oh, Mama would be so proud if we could.” Sisters, then, most likely. Their appearance was similar enough.

The girls aimed for the far wing, the one he’d yet to visit.

Malik turned back to the Yarwood siblings, who conversed together quietly. Offering an arm to Lady Siân, he said, “Shall we go see that last wing and then venture to the gardens?”

She broke away from her brother with a broad grin. “Yes. Let’s.”

As crowded as the gallery was that evening, finding Bronwyn in the throng of people was the easy part. She was a magnet, drawing them all in, probably much to her own displeasure if he knew her at all.

Malik’s lips drew thin as he caught sight of who she stood with—Lord Griffith, the young man from the wedding feast. Malik gritted his teeth as he considered the man’s enviable charm, good looks, and easy way. Moreso, he detested the way that Bronwyn clung to his side like he was her shield, though he had to admit the man was doing a damnable good job at that, too. While others certainly flocked toward them, they kept a respectful distance, not cloistering around them but standing near enough to observe—and likely overhear—their conversations. The perfect little society leeches.

“Miss Kinsley is here,” Mr. Yarwood observed as they stopped in front of the first painting. He stared her way with obvious interest, perking up for that more than he had anything else this evening. “Did you know she’d be in attendance?”

“I did not,” Malik replied. It was as much a surprise to him as the other gentleman.

“You two are not close?” He quirked one brow. “Even living in the castle?”

Malik rubbed at his jaw as he dared another glance toward Bronwyn, though other patrons blocked all sight of her. “No. I’m not often there. I prefer to keep my own residence.”

He’d always valued his privacy. At first, it had been a tactic to get away from his father, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t relish having a place all his own, where he could simply be himself. No rigors of society. No one asking after him at every moment. No being waited on like a child unable to care for himself. Visiting Drystan in Teneboure had been part of Malik’s duties to his father, but he’d looked forward to it as well. Not because of Drystan. Not then, anyway. His cousin had thought him as much a villain as his father, and Malik had thought the same of him in return. But it was another escape. Another chance for peace and quiet.

Yes, part of him longed for events like this. For the hum of excitement, conversation, and general liveliness of society. But afterward, he always found himself drained and in need of recovery. His apartments provided that.

“A pity,” Mr. Yarwood remarked with another longing look at Bronwyn that made Malik’s blood boil. “And I’m surprised. I thought a prince would quite enjoy the luxuries of castle life.”

“I do like to be surprising.” Malik’s grin held an edge, but other man didn’t even flinch.

They made their way from one painting to another while Malik navigated them ever closer to Bronwyn and Lord Griffith, who made their way slowly through the gallery with a herd of citizens in their wake. The press of bodies became thick as Malik neared, and several subjects tried to engage them along the way. His one defense was showering Lady Siân with his attention. It would only spark more rumors about them, especially since they’d been together all night, but it could not be helped.

Finally, they neared his target. Much of the crowd had backed off. Not far, only enough to get a good view of two members of the royal household nearing one another. No doubt being present for this moment would elevate them in the eyes of their peers and fuel weeks worth of discussion over tea or whiskey.

That is, all had backed off except the two girls from earlier. They had certainly found their courage, speaking excitedly with Bronwyn and Lord Griffith. Well, mostly Lord Griffith. Bronwyn stood still as a statue, her face carefully blank, but he didn’t miss her fist tight at her side. Despite his jealousy of the young lord, Malik wanted to thank Griffith for engaging the two ladies and saving Bronwyn from the burden of their chatter.

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