Page 52 of The Artist and the Dragon

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 Siân 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?

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