My eyes rove over the still-life paintings but my focus is narrowed on his proximity, the heat of his nearness. It reminds me too much of what happened this morning.
“I trust you slept well,” he says, voice still lowered to a whisper.
I stiffen. “Indeed, I—” My words catch in my throat. I didn’t sleep well at all, so I can’t say I did. “No, I didn’t get much sleep.”
“A shame.” He steps beside me, his shoulder nearly brushing mine. If I leaned only a fraction of an inch, my bare arm would caress the fabric of his jacket.
I remain perfectly still.
His face turns toward mine and I feel his gaze scalding my profile. “At least you had the comfort of pleasant dreams.”
My heart climbs to my throat. I meet his eyes and find the taunting smile playing over his lips, the dark gleam in his eyes.
Glittering hell. That wasn’t a fantasy this morning. It washim.
He leans in closer and whispers, “I hope you were able to finish.” Then he strides away to another art display, leaving me burning yet again. This time not with rebellion. Instead, it’s a place where anger meets desire.
Clenching my jaw, I move in the opposite direction, toward Angela. We continue our turn about the room, assessing the art, though I barely pay attention to any of it. It’s impossible with the feel of Thorne’s incessant gaze on me, distracting me from everything else. He remains on the opposite side of the room, moving when I do, orbiting me and the empty space between us, never closing the distance. He may be avoiding me after our brief chat, but he never fails to meet my eyes when I glance at him over my shoulder.
I almost forget Monty’s presence entirely until he says, “This is thoroughly boring.” I find him lounging in a chair beside a pedestal displaying a blue-and-white vase. He slumps in his seat, one leg thrown over the arm of the chair.
“This was your idea,” Thorne says.
“The location, perhaps, but we aren’t playing anything.”
Thorne shoots Monty a meaningful look. “Maybe no one wants to play with you anymore.”
He straightens in his chair. “That’s no fun. Well, I can fix that. This calls for a private chat with the princess and Thorne. Sister, dear, will you give us some privacy? The kitty cat too.”
Dread forms in my stomach. What does this private chat entail? Is it part of today’s game? Or…does he perhaps want to discuss what happened last night?
Angela’s shoulders sink. “I suppose, but I can’t speak for Minka. She’s the princess’ lady’s maid. Surely she can’t leave her lady unchaperoned.”
Minka turns in Angela’s arms to give me a questioning look.
I glance from Thorne to Monty and back again. If this really is about last night, I suppose I can hear Monty out. Maybe the idiot will have the decency to apologize. Not that it would change anything between us.
“It’s all right,” I say to Minka. “I’ll speak alone with Mr. Phillips and Mr. Blackwood.”
“Very well.” Minka leaps out of Angela’s arms, shifting into her seelie form by the time she lands on her feet. She rises on two legs, smoothing out the ruffles on her black-and-white dress. “I’ll make tea. It’s going to be very,verygood tea, so you better be finished with this private conversation by the time I return. Come, you can help me.” She says the last part to a wide-eyed Angela, who seems enthralled at having seen her shift.
I suppress a grin. It seems Minka’s feline sass is invading her persona in seelie form too. But my momentary amusement fades as soon as I’m left alone with Monty and Thorne. The two men face me. Thorne’s expression holds the same wariness I feel inside.
Monty stands and puts his hands on his hips. “Let’s play the next game, shall we?”
“Game?” I echo.
“Yes,” he says, eyes twinkling with mischief. “It’s time to play the kissing game.”
35
BRIONY
“Kissing game?” Thorne and I say in unison.
“The most important game of all,” Monty says. “I must know whether my future bride is an adequate kisser. Otherwise, you might end up kissing like…like that.” He points to one of the largest oil paintings gracing the nearest wall. Angela and I didn’t linger over that section of the gallery when we made our rounds, as the paintings were rather dark in subject matter—scenes of war, brutal hunts, and depictions of monsters. But now I assess the piece in question and find a terrifying winged creature with bulging eyes devouring a human body.
I slide my gaze back to Monty, a glare burning on my face. “I’m not kissing you.”
