Chapter 14 #2
“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.
“I’ve been thinking about you all morning. I couldn’t focus on a single thing anyone said at breakfast.”
His grip tightens, and I feel it everywhere.
“I need you.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I warn.
He’s almost smiling now, that smirk that drives me wild. His touch on my wrist is almost too much. “I can’t get you out of my mind.”
“Do you want to?” My fingers brush against his.
“Hell no.” He lifts our joined fingers and studies them like they’re worth memorizing. “This is the most I’ve touched you in days, and it’s nowhere close to enough.”
“Will it ever be?” The question slips out before I can stop it, and his eyes darken to that navy shade I’m starting to recognize as his grip on my hand tightens.
“Never.” His voice drops lower. “If you keep looking at me like that …”
I lick my lips. “Then you’ll what?”
His jaw flexes. “You’re making it very fucking hard to be a gentleman.”
I chuckle, and he steps closer until there’s almost no space between us. Heat radiates off his body while I trace the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw with my eyes.
“I keep thinking about the other night. Your mouth and—”
Footsteps echo from the corridor.
He drops my hand and steps away so fast that the loss of contact is immediately felt. His prince mask slides into place as his spine straightens and his expression goes neutral and pleasant.
“Good luck with your painting, Miss Cross,” he says loud enough for anyone listening to hear. “I look forward to seeing it.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
He walks away without looking back. I stand there with my hand tingling and my pulse racing as the ghost of his touch still burns my skin. That conversation and simple touch have my body vibrating.
We can’t get lost in the moment. Delphine told me to be more careful.
In the distance, I hear a group of women laughing, and I imagine it’s because he’s returned to entertain them. Right now, I need to get out of the palace and escape this.
The walk back to my cottage takes me through the gardens full of roses, past the man-made waterfalls and trickling creek. As I take the stone path, my mind is already in the studio, mixing colors. The image of him in the tower that night builds in my mind.
The first portrait I started is almost finished. It’s great work that captures something relatable, that shows a softer side of who he is underneath the crown. The judges will look at it and see skill and technique, but I don’t think it’s enough.
I pull the drop cloth from my supply stack and spread it across the worn wooden floor beneath my second easel.
A larger canvas I’ve been saving goes on it.
This one will make a statement. I run my hand over the linen that’s stretched tight across the wooden frame and primed white.
I position it to catch the afternoon light from the window, then drag my side table closer and arrange my palette.
The image comes clear in my mind as I pick up my pencil and sketch a fast draft of Louis sitting in front of a chessboard.
I lay down enough pencil to set the composition and map where everything goes with the chessboard in the center.
I will paint him how I saw him that night—sitting in front of me with the king held between his fingers, teasing me.
I add the fireplace beside him with a few quick strokes.
Once I have enough to work from, I trade the pencil for a brush.
The background comes with thin washes of burnt sienna, layered wet to build warmth. I work fast, letting instinct guide me without overthinking. The flames take shape next—darker at the edges and bright where the heat is hottest, caught mid-dance.
His face comes next, and I take my time, knowing this is where the painting will live or die.
I work on the structure of his perfect cheekbones and understand why some have called him Prince Charming.
I follow it with the line of his jaw and the slight shadow of stubble he gets by evening when he stops caring about appearances.
Without thinking, I grab my laptop and study a few of my reference photos to capture how his hair falls across his forehead once he gives up fixing it.
It’s darker at the roots and lighter where the sun has touched it.
His mouth takes me the longest with that slight curve at the corner, not quite a smile, but close, like he’s keeping a secret. The fullness of his lower lip makes me linger a little too long.
His eyes are the hardest. It’s a particular shade of blue that changes with the light and his moods. I try to capture the way he focused on me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. Beneath the control is hunger.
I step back and look at what I’ve built. The underpainting is rough, but most foundations are. It could be one of the rawest things I’ve painted because it’s a moment in my life when everything changed. Since that night, I haven’t been the same.
Under the chessboard, barely visible in the shadows, I add a folded piece of paper. Our notes, the thing that brought us together again.
Most will miss it, but Louis won’t. The judges—and anyone who looks at this painting for the next hundred years—will see a crown prince, handsome and composed, enjoying a game.
I glance over at the painting on the other easel, seeing him in golden light in the conservatory. In this one, he’s in darkness. Both paintings will be entered, and I will title them Day and Night—although, in both, I’ve captured the real man beneath the crown.
What I’m doing is dangerous. Anyone who studies it will know this wasn’t painted from a distance by a stranger. Painting our secrets exhilarates me, and honestly, I understand Henri maybe more than anyone else.
He waited a lifetime for his true love.
As I continue painting, I wonder if I’d do the same for Louis, if I’d choose that fate. The answer is yes, and I think he knows that.