“You.” The word slipped from Blythe before her mind could catch up with her mouth. She had to clutch her skirts to keep her hands from shaking. “You’re Prince Aris?”
She couldn’t be certain whether he recognized her, for the prince made only a low grunt beneath his breath and stepped toward the painting. His face was expressionless as he inspected it. “What do you think of her?”
So jarred was she by the question that Blythe turned and followed his gaze to the painting, giving her mind a moment to process the fact that it would be in her best interest to excuse herself before she said something she’d regret. She sucked in every foul word burning her tongue; she knew she’d already made a piss-poor first impression by practically shoving herself into the man and condemning him at Thorn Grove. Just as she knew that someone like him could change the fate of her family with a single word.
“She is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” Blythe answered truthfully, steadying her temper.
The man grunted again but didn’t turn away. “Is that all?”
So that he wouldn’t see her annoyance, Blythe stepped in front of the prince as she tried to look at the painting not as a consumer impressed with it on the surface but as an artist.
“She is gentle,” Blythe said, “but sad. There is a weight to her smile, and creases near her eyes that make her seem older than she appears. She has much love for wherever this place is, though she’s very tired. Perhaps from standing too long in a frigid pond that smells like duck droppings and dead fish?”
When she drew back, a sly grin on her face, Blythe found that the prince was no longer staring at the painting but at her. She’d hoped that he’d have at least a smidgen of humor somewhere beneath his rigid demeanor, yet his expression remained surly. He kept his hands behind his back, and with even more of a bite, said, “You are the girl who threw herself at me like a wild boar.”
Blythe had to press her lips together to keep from saying the first thing that came to mind; calling him a bitter and resentful brute who had potentially ruined her life would only get her so far. Still, she couldn’t help biting back. “And you are the man who publicly condemned my father to prison with no proof.”
He clicked his tongue, and Blythe hated that she couldn’t for the life of her decipher the vague look on his face. Boredom? Intrigue?
“Your father was the one to give Lord Wakefield that drink, was he not?” The way he phrased the question made it sound so enragingly simple that Blythe clenched her skirts tighter.
“My father would never have killed Lord Wakefield. He was wrongly accused.”
“Was he now?” Aris brushed a hand over his cravat as if smoothing away an invisible speck of dust. “Then answer the question. Did your father give Lord Wakefield the drink that killed him, or didn’t he?”
Blythe had been born into this life of high society. She had spent years playing by its rules and learning that wordplay was no less dangerous than wielding a sword. Even so, it was Signa who was better at this dance of wits, or elegantly twisting out of a situation she did not wish to be in.
Blythe had inherited too much of her father’s temperament and was getting far worse about managing her annoyance with every year she grew older. She had such little patience for the game that she drew a breath from her nose and exhaled it through her mouth so that she did not say anything foul. Not because he didn’t deserve it but because she needed him. Unfortunately.
“My father is an innocent man.” Her words were sharper, daring him to challenge her.
Aris’s vague expression gave way to the smallest hint of a smirk. “If that’s the case, then I’m certain justice will prevail. It sounds like your father will be a free man in no time.”
He certainly would be if Blythe had anything to say about it. The prince’s comment sounded so much like something Byron would say, however, that she had to stop herself from making a face.
“It would appear, sir,” Blythe began, trying her best to imitate her cousin’s forced niceties, “that you give yourself too little credit. A man of your title must be aware of how much sway you have over society.”
Aris gloated a little at this, and if Blythe didn’t hate him already, she certainly would have then.
Already, Blythe had lost her mother, and her brother had fled Thorn Grove without a word. If someone wanted to take her father away, they would have to pry him from her cold, dead fingers. As pompous as this prince was, he was quite possibly her father’s best hope. She just had to play her cards right.
“Do forgive me for my outburst the other night, Your Highness.” Her smile was so forced and pinched that her eyes creased. “Understandably, I am not accustomed to death, let alone a murder within my own home. Though I do wonder why you attended the ball that night dressed as a commoner? I had no idea you were a prince.”
Aris regarded her shrewdly, and Blythe got the sense that he was weighing whether she was worth his time. To her surprise, he leaned toward her. “I plan to remain in this town for some time, and I wanted to meet its people without all the pretenses.”
“And where is it you hail from?” She took a step back. “I must admit, I knew nothing of this palace’s existence. It’s so beautiful that it seems a shame to tuck it away for all this time. The art alone is enough to open a museum.”
“You enjoy the art?” He seemed pleased by this, and Blythe locked onto that crumb at once.
“I find most of it to be phenomenal. Are you a collector?”
He opened his mouth to speak, snapped it shut, then repeated this pattern once more and asked, “‘Most of it’?”
Blythe’s heart spiked with dread, but before she could offer any excuse to save herself, Aris waved a dismissive hand and said, “I’m a consumer of art in all forms. Paintings, music, books, sculptures—everything but poetry. I’ve never cared for poetry. Too pretentious.”
Too pretentious, said the prince while wandering the halls of his enormous, gilded palace. Blythe forced herself to find something else to focus on before she could laugh at the absurdity.
“And what about her?” She motioned to the towering painting of the woman. “It’s the same woman I saw in the courtyard, isn’t it? She’s lovely.”
“She is.” The blazing light in Aris’s eyes dimmed. “And she’s the most priceless artifact in this palace.”
“She’s certainly the largest.” Blythe tipped her head back. She couldn’t imagine how long it must have taken someone to paint such a magnificent piece. It was at least three times her height and twice as wide, taking up the entire expanse of a wall. “Given that she’s so priceless, it’s fortunate that you don’t need to worry about someone sneaking off with the portrait. It would require a small army to move.”
“At least,” he agreed, the severity of his tone easing some. “Though I doubt anyone would attempt to steal from Wisteria if they wish to keep their head.”
As he stared at the painting once more, Blythe took note of the oddness of his eyes. They reminded her of Signa’s, only his were an even richer shade of gold. Perhaps the color was genetic. Not that she’d seen any other members of his royal family to know. She hadn’t the faintest clue what they might look like or even who else there was. If she was to use this man, then she first needed to find out more about him. And if not him, then perhaps there was a queen who would listen to her plead her father’s case.
“Why are you out prowling the halls rather than enjoying the ball?” Blythe asked, trying to draw his attention away from the painting. “You’re the host. Shouldn’t you be busy getting harassed by every mama and affluent businessman by now?”
He scrunched his nose, and for a split second Aris looked boyish enough to appear almost approachable. “I suppose they’ll be looking for me, won’t they? It is the season, after all.”