“Princess Cornelia. Miss Cross.” He nods to each of us, and we both curtsy, mine deeper because protocol demands it. “I hope I’m not interrupting what looked like an intriguing conversation.”
“Not at all, Your Highness.” Cornelia transforms instantly, warmth flooding her voice as she angles her body toward him. “Miss Cross was admiring the portraits, and I was offering some guidance on royal traditions.”
Louis studies me, and I see the slight flare of his nostrils. “Was she being disrespectful toward you?”
Cornelia’s smile freezes.
“Oh, no, Your Highness. Absolutely not.” I hold his gaze, and I can tell he doesn’t believe me for a second. “Princess Cornelia wasperfectlygracious. Exactly how I’d expected her to be.”
He knows I’m lying, but he lets it go. The look he gives Cornelia is cold.
“My mother was asking about you,” he tells her. “Something about the garden party arrangements. Please meet her.”
“Of course.” She beams at him. “I’ll find her right away.”
“Thank you,” Louis offers.
She curtsies again, shoots me afuck youlook, then rushes out of the gallery. Louis watches her go, and when the click of her heels fades, and we’re alone, his shoulders loosen.
“She was being a bitch,” he says. “I could tell.”
“She was being a princess.”
“There is no difference.”
He turns to face me, and I see how tired he looks.
“You’re exhausted,” I say to him.
“Fuck, I am,” he whispers, grinning. Standing in front of me is the version of him I adore, not the one who performs for crowds. “You’ve been studying the paintings.”
“They’re everywhere once you know how to look.” I gesture toward the final portrait. “I think they rekindled.”
Louis shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
I shrug. “Then maybe I’m a hopeless romantic. But there are signs that point to them banging again after her husband died.”
Louis stares up at a painting that I was studying before I was interrupted. “If that’s true, they only had seven years together before she passed away.” He moves closer, nearly touching me.
“There’s something else,” I say, lowering my voice. “He hid her in other paintings too. Mostly landscapes. Tiny figures no one would notice unless they were looking. I found seven of them.”
Louis turns to face me. “Seven?”
“It’s an Easter egg. The trail ends at a wall in the queen’s sitting room.” I meet his eyes. “There’s a missing painting, Louis. Whatever Henri left at the end of that trail, someone moved it.”
“What if it’s not the end of the trail, but a purposeful dead end?” he asks.
“Exactly. Who knows how many paintings there are like that?”
He’s quiet for a moment, processing. “I think you’re onto something. I’ll look into it.”
I’m suddenly aware of every breath he takes and how his eyes flick to my mouth for a second before coming back up. His fingers trace across my knuckles, and butterflies flutter inside me. The gallery shrinks to nothing, and all the air in the room evaporates.
I should step away, but his finger slides between two of mine and hooks them. It’s the smallest connection, but my entire body responds. Heat spreads up my arm and settles low in my belly.
“Louis,” I whisper.
But he doesn’t let go, and his thumb strokes across my wrist, finding my pulse. I wonder if he can feel how fast it’s racing.
