Page 51 of The Artist and the Dragon

LordGriffithurgedallhis 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 Siân 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.

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