Page 53 of The Artist and the Dragon

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 Siân 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 Siân 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.

Siân’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.Justus.”

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.

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