Page 4 of Keep Her from Them

My attention drifted back over the room. So much that I lost track of what the man was saying. Then my heart thumped as another of my bodyguards neared the artwork I had so much riding on.

Somehow, Raphael Gordonson was on my team and running his serious gaze over the art.

In the car, when my nerves had me rushing to be early for the event, I’d found myself looking into his eyes. A man I hadn’t seen in the years since we’d been students at Edinburgh University. We’d never been in the same lectures, but mutual friends brought us into each other’s orbit.

I’d liked him. Then after that single, damning photo of us had slammed onto the front pages, my hope of a normal student experience evaporated. It made sense that he’d be working in protective services, but why for me? The overprotective, jumped-up…

Fingers locked on to my arm and tightened.

I started and snapped my gaze to the man leaning into my space. He gripped my wrist. Pain shot up my arm.

He curled his lip. “Tell me, princess. What’s caught your attention so intensely? Is it the nudes?”

Instantly, a figure appeared at my shoulder. In a single move, Raphael clamped the stranger’s arm and twisted to break his hold on me.

“Get your hands off her,” he snapped.

A moment later, Riss cupped my arm and swung me away. “No touching, sir,” she advised, all before I’d had a chance to even react.

Riss guided me across the room. I peeked back to where Raphael and another of my team blocked the man so he couldn’t follow.

A mixture of annoyance and outrage fizzed up my spine under my sparkling dress. “What on earth?”

“He’ll be escorted from the venue.” Riss directed me to the refreshments table. “My apologies for not intercepting. I shouldn’t have ignored his overeagerness to keep talking to you. Are you okay, ma’am?”

“Fine, but it wasn’t your fault. I should’ve moved on sooner. Did anyone see?” I rubbed the bare skin that still tingled with the unexpected contact. Red finger marks decorated my flesh.

“I think not. I’ll stay close.”

I scanned the room, relief following that Riss was right. The hosts, the gallery’s owners, were holding court with a group around them. Two assistants talked others through the works on display. Of those looking at me, which people always did, none wore concern.

Taking a breath, I forced my expression to neutral, and ever the professional, Riss stepped back, murmuring quietly to her team over her comms and leaving me to continue my role. In my family, working royals considered themselves performers when on duty like this, and the optics of every event mattered. So I’d been told.

For a moment, I was free of conversation, and I allowed myself another glance to the left side of the gallery where two women regarded that certain painting which held me in its grip. Their conversation was animated.

My breath caught.

As subtly as I could in a sequinned evening gown, I moved closer, making polite small talk with a mingling group as I went, Riss never more than a few metres away. Finally, I was in earshot.

“…reminiscent of Beaux in terms of how the light falls,” one of the women commented.

My heart pounded. I adored Cecilia Beaux. To be compared to her was a dream. The nude painting they examined was special to me, not just as a supporter of the arts, but because it wasmine.

I’d secretly arranged with a gallery assistant to enter it into the event, though under an assumed name. My painting of a couple entwined in a tryst had been the first I’d had the confidence to share.

I needed to hear more. Two gentlemen appeared in my eyeline.

“Your Royal Highness, it’s a pleasure,” the much older of the two said, clutching the arm of his companion. “We were just saying how wonderful it is to attend an event promoting such a wealth of up-and-coming artists.”

I smiled, one ear still trained on the judgement of my work. The exhibition was made up of young female artists in an industry where the vast majority of art sold was by men. “I’m honoured to be able to support such a good cause.”

He answered my question about his favourite. I couldn’t help the distraction as my brain leapt back to the women.

“Can’t say I’m a fan of the colour choices,” the second observed. “The use of light is admirable and the technique adequate, but the artist,” she squinted at the label, “EC Hunt, would do well to spend more time at the easel and less trying to imitate others.”

Ouch.

“You’re right, it’s copycat and weak in the attempt,” the first woman agreed. She beckoned over another couple.

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