BLYTHE

BLYTHE KNEW WHEN SHE WASN’T WANTED. MOSTLY BECAUSE IT was an

entirely different experience than the ripe smiles and too-cheerful voices that she was accustomed to. All around her were faces she’d known her entire life, yet not a single person asked how she or her family were faring.

But to be concerned about it would be silly, for being the subject of gossip always had an expiration date and the vultures would move on the moment the next scandal reared its ugly head. And when they decided to welcome her again—when they tried to get on her good side and exchange gossip like it was gold—ha! She would eat them alive. Because Blythe Hawthorne was not nearly as forgiving as her cousin, and she had no desire to be.

She was glad, though, that Signa had agreed to stay at Thorn Grove. Even if she was acting stranger by the day—which was saying a lot, given Signa’s perpetual oddness—Blythe wasn’t certain how she’d manage without her. Selfish though it was, she hoped that Signa would remain with her at Thorn Grove forever, for so long as she had one person on her side, Blythe refused to give a rat’s ass about what anyone else thought. Her feelings about society were akin to her father’s: It was there whenever someone was in need of entertainment, and while it was important to at least make an effort to keep one’s name from the scandal sheets, it mattered little in the grand scheme. So long as she had money and status, the vultures would return to shove their greedy little beaks into her pockets soon enough.

And that was a fine way of things. Blythe didn’t need pity, nor did she need anyone’s protection. For too long she’d been treated like some fragile heirloom meant to sit on a shelf, too precious to be taken out into the world. But she was no delicate artifact, nor the soft doll that her family seemed to think her.

Perhaps that was why when Blythe bit, she bit hard. She was small and still frail from sickness, and because of her blond hair, fair skin, and lips as pink and pretty as a rose, people often dismissed the cleverness of her mind or her ability to handle herself. But high society had been her domain since birth, and she more than knew how to navigate it in whatever way she saw fit. She just… could never quite get herself to care.

Seeing that Signa was distracted—and having realized the prince was not yet in attendance—Blythe had made her escape from the amber ballroom and the whispers. Wisteria Gardens was far brighter than Thorn Grove, and Blythe found herself unable to look away, mesmerized by its boldness. It was lavish, and perhaps even a little gaudy with its extravagance, but everywhere she turned there was something magnificent to catch her eye. Intricate busts carved from marble. Rich oil paintings made from the brightest cobalt and a gold so striking that she could only imagine how much each would cost an eager collector. There was no theme to any of it; every picture and every statue was thoroughly different from all others.

The voices behind her faded as she followed the art down an endless hallway, passing delicate sculptures of butterflies and pottery so ancient it looked as though it belonged to another time. She stopped at the end of the hall, beneath a towering painting of a woman so beautiful that Blythe lost her breath. Like the figure in the courtyard fountain, the woman stood waist-deep in a pond filled with lotus flowers. She tenderly cupped one and stared down at it with such fondness that Blythe felt compelled to step forward to investigate further.

The woman’s hair was pale as snow and fell to her hips in elegant waves, the ends of it sweeping into the pond. She wore a thin white gown that billowed in the water, the fabric so sheer that her figure beneath it skimmed the edge of visibility. Foxes crept in the grass behind her, their golden eyes watching through towering ferns. The image felt like a moment captured in time, so real that Blythe kept waiting for the woman to look up.

Kept waiting to see whether her eyes were brown or blue or green… “They’re silver.”

Blythe nearly tripped into the portrait at the voice behind her—brisk, deep, and decidedly masculine. She turned at once, and, given the man’s height, the first thing she noticed was not his face but that he wore a coat of ivory and gold, with fitted trousers to match. From the quality and color of the material alone, Blythe understood at once whom she was speaking with and dropped into a practiced curtsy.

“Your Highness.” She dipped her head, heart in her throat. For while she may have found society and all its customs to be silly, she could behave long enough to impress a prince.

“You were trying to look at her eyes, weren’t you?” the prince asked. “They’re silver.”

Ever so slowly Blythe straightened, eyes trailing up and over the beautiful stitching of his coat, then toward a ruffled white cravat that climbed so high on his neck it appeared to be strangling him. And then she looked even higher, to his face, and her breath caught.

Two familiar amber eyes looked past her to the painting, sparing no concern for Blythe, whose mouth had fallen slack. The man before her was the very one she’d cursed in her bedroom several nights prior. The same one she’d planned to give a piece of her mind the next time she saw him. The man who had condemned her father was the very same prince she was meant to charm, yet the thought of sparing him a single kind word made Blythe want to cut off her own tongue.

“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.”

“Is that not why you’ve invited us? To find yourself a princess to carry on such a proud lineage?”

“I don’t recall inviting you at all.” There was a tic in his jaw as he watched her, and it took everything in Blythe not to show her embarrassment. He truly had avoided inviting her, then. She supposed it was only to be expected, given all that had happened with the Hawthornes, but it hurt more than she cared to admit to be scorned so thoroughly.

“I apologize if my presence offends you,” she said with every ounce of bitterness she had to spare. “I was recently sick and confined to my bed for some time. Now that I am well again, the excitement of seeing my cousin’s invitation got the better of me.”

Had she been looking up, Blythe might have noticed the heat in his stare. She might have seen the millions of gossamer threads that surrounded them. There were even some attached to her, and Fate studied them with great interest.

“You,” he said at last, “are the girl who defied death.”

Blythe stilled at the odd phrasing. She didn’t need to ask how he knew that; this whole town reeked of gossip. Still, it was jarring to hear it said aloud, and she didn’t care to give that time of her life any more attention. “I am a woman,” she corrected. “But yes, I very likely should have died several times over. It is a miracle that I did not.”

“A miracle indeed.” She wondered whether she was imagining that Aris’s voice had cooled significantly, or that he seemed to have taken a renewed interest in her. “I am glad that you came, Miss…”

“Hawthorne,” she said. “My name is—” “Blythe!”

Blythe spun toward the urgent voice that called to her from across the hall. Signa’s skin was flushed and her curls disheveled as though she’d been running. Rather than look at her cousin, however, Signa had her eyes trained on the prince. Blythe tried to gather Signa’s attention and warn her

that this man was the one they’d been searching for. This was whom they needed to impress. Yet her cousin didn’t once turn toward her. It took Blythe drawing a step closer to realize that Signa’s eyes were even stranger than usual, wide with alarm.

“Blythe,” Signa repeated with the gentleness of an ox, “we should get back to the ball. Byron’s bound to notice your absence.”

Once again Blythe tried to send her cousin a message with her eyes, but if Signa understood it, she paid it no mind as Aris slid past Blythe and closed the gap between them. “Ah, Miss Farrow,” he said. Blythe could have sworn his voice was lighter, a sudden pep in his step that had not been there seconds before. “I was hoping you’d come.”

Signa inched closer, nearly knocking into one of the strange sculptures. Her eyes never strayed from Aris. She was behaving like a skittish fawn staring down the barrel of a rifle.

“My cousin and I were just heading in to enjoy the ball,” she said, sidestepping and grabbing hold of her cousin’s arm with such vigor that Blythe winced. “Our uncle will be looking for us.”

“Signa, behave yourself.” Blythe kept her words low, spitting them through a smile. “This is the prince.” She’d hoped that the news would relax Signa. That she’d stand up straight and stop behaving so boorishly. But it seemed that Blythe would have to be twice the lady to compensate for Signa, who didn’t so much as flinch.

“Miss Farrow is right.” Blythe smiled with each word, her heart hammering. For her father’s sake, she needed to make a good impression. “Someone might get the wrong idea if they caught us out here alone. We’d be happy to have an escort back to the ballroom, however. I find myself in need of a partner for my first dance.”

“I don’t think that’s a good—” Signa lurched forward just as Prince Aris offered his arm. His eyes glinted as gold as the gilded panels around them.

“Of course, Miss Hawthorne.” He smiled as Blythe slid her hand over his forearm. “I would be delighted.”