Page 15 of The Artist and the Dragon

“What do you think of this lovely artwork, ladies?” Lord Griffith asked them, gesturing to the piece near which they stood.

Malik didn’t need to look at the little nameplate to know that it was one of Bronwyn’s. It had her style of smooth brush stokes that undulated just enough to make the portrait feel alive. If one stared at it, the grassy field through which the sheep wandered almost appeared to move as though caressed by a gentle breeze. It was calming. Perfect.

The shorter and slightly younger-looking of the girls turned toward the painting, her brown curls bouncing. Her features scrunched dramatically as she stared at it. “A little boring for my taste.”

Malik saw the moment the words landed. Bronwyn flinched and glanced sharply away. Her throat bobbed.

Damn it all. That wouldn’t do.

Malik strode purposefully toward the group, his companions left behind. “Well, I think it’s one of the most stunning in the gallery,” he announced for all to hear.

The two girls gasped and whirled toward him, their eyes going wide. Even Bronwyn’s head snapped toward him. Myriad emotions chased each other across her features, but he couldn’t discern a single one for certain before she regained control and settled back into careful blankness. The hint of color on her cheeks said enough, though, and that, she could not hide. Malik grinned more easily than he had all night, especially as the girls dropped into deep curtseys.

“Prince Alastair.” Lord Griffith bowed. “What a pleasure.” Damn if the man didn’t seem sincere.

“Lord Griffith.” He nodded toward him in acknowledgement.

“It is nice to meet another admirer of Miss Kinsley’s work.”

“Miss Kinsley.” The girls seemed to gasp in unison, finally realizing the error of their appraisal. They looked to one another, then Bronwyn and her companions, before giving another bow and hurrying away.

Malik glanced from Griffith to Bronwyn, tilting his head ever so slightly in question. “It is indeed, though I wasn’t aware you were so familiar with her art.”

“I am becoming acquainted,” he corrected. “Quite a shame that such wonderful pieces have not been displayed sooner. It’s a wonder her art is not on the walls of every noble drawing room in the capital.”

Oh, the man laid it on thick. Not to be outdone, Malik replied, “This piece was part of the set for the performance ofThumbelinathis spring. I believe a few others of her works are here as well, are they not?”

Bronwyn glared at him with a tightlipped look that said she’d love to give him a piece of her mind, and, oh, how he wanted it. But to his surprise, she rather demurely replied, “They are.” She shifted her attention to Griffith, her expression smoothing out into something pleasant. “It was actually Wynnifred Prosser who suggested the pieces for the gallery.”

“Ah, I should have known she’d have an eye for great art.” He beamed at Bronwyn, and she seemed to soak it up.

The look they shared stabbed Malik like a knife between the ribs. Some clever response was nearly at the tip of his tongue when a gentle hand touched his arm, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Mr. Yarwood, Lady Siân, nice to see you both again,” Lord Griffith said, still glowing with mirth.

As they exchanged pleasantries, Malik could almost feel the tangible weight of Bronwyn’s regard as she took in the hand on his arm, the woman at his side. Her lips thinned once more.

Is that jealousy?He yearned to ask, to tease her. She’d snap at him, likely confirming his thoughts. Goddess above, why couldn’t it be her on his arm this night?

Except, he knew why.

And she… Whether she did or didn’t, the result was the same. He had become a demon in her eyes. An irritant to be rid of.

A gratingly high-toned bell rang through the hall. Malik tracked its source to a liveried butler. As the crowd quieted in response to the sound, he announced, “Please join us in the main hall for the unveiling of Master Walrick’s stunning rendition of His Majesty, King Tristram!”

Malik nearly snorted. As if they could all fit in the main hall. People seemed determined to try, though, as they began shuffling that way.

Lord Griffith offered his arm. “Shall we?”

Bronwyn’s smile and accompanying “Please” had Malik’s teeth grinding.

Only belatedly did he remember his company and do the same for his companion.

One advantage of being a royal was that people went out of their way to be pleasant and accommodating, a fact Malik took advantage of by securing an advantageous spot to view the portrait unveiling. Lord Griffith and Bronwyn stood not far away, with others offering them their spaces and encouraging them to draw nearer to the open half-circle around the portrait. Only a few people occupied that narrow space: Master Walrick, who stood tall and proud, his pale white hair a sharp contrast to his formal black evening coat; two footmen holding either side of the cloth draped over the massive painting; and the gallery chairman, who resembled the master’s more portly twin, though they were of no relation that Malik knew.

A short announcement was made by the chairman—a thank-you or everyone attending, as well as an expression of pride at how many artists were displayed and the amount of works already sold that evening. The man tried to make a few unfortunate jokes that Malik pretended amused him, though much of the crowd did not. Poor man.

Finally, it was time to unveil the painting.

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