Page 40 of Royally Matched
I don’t want to dwell on the answer.
“Mr. Beatson, allow me to introduce you to Lord Strozzi. He’s a friend of mine,” I say, and the two men shake hands as the crowd around us buzzes, like an excited hive full of bees.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Strozzi,” Mr. Beatson says.
People continue to yell questions at me, vying for my attention. But as a member of the royal family, I don’t often pass comment on anything in public, other than through the official channels. So, I studiously ignore everyone, and instead concentrate on moving up the steps into the gallery, and away from this intense scrutiny.
I suppose I just got a small taste of what it’s been like to be my brother, Alex, all this time.
Once the door thankfully swings closed behind us, Enzo says, “Is it always that much of a circus?”
“Not for me, no. That sort of behavior is usuallyreserved for my brother. Everyone loves him.” The insinuation is that not everyone loves me, of course, although if he notices, he doesn’t pass comment.
“You should send a communication to the press, telling them you shouldn’t be treated this way. You are HRH, Princess Sofia, not some actress, looking for notoriety,” he tells me in a low tone so only I can hear.
“It won’t make any difference, in fact, it would probably make things worse.”
“It’s only right,” he sniffs. “You are due the respect of your rank and these people need to know that.”
“Really, Enzo, don’t let it bother you.”
He lifts his brows but says nothing more.
Someone clears their throat behind us, and we turn to see Mr. Beatson with a group of others, all dressed head to toe in black.
“Mr. Beatson, I do apologize,” I say. “All of this attention is all very… new and unexpected.”
“There seems to be quite some speculation in the press following the recent ball held in your honor, ma’am,” he replies, his gaze jumping to Enzo as though to question whether he’s about to be announced as my fiancé right here and now.
“And we all know the media is never wrong,” I reply smoothly.
“Quite.” He turns to Enzo. “Are you an art lover, Lord Strozzi?”
“Only for work created before the advent of the Impressionists,” he replies.
“You don’t like the Impressionists?” Mr. Beatson asks.
“You do know the term ‘impression’ derived from an insult to the art movement, critics calling them impressions because they regarded them as unfinished? Anything after they took over is a waste of time, in my opinion,” he says.
Did he really just write off the entire modern movement as a waste of time? One hundred and fifty years of art?
Mr. Beatson regards him in surprise as I question why I ever thought it would be a good idea to bring him here with me.
I spring into action. “I suppose it’s wonderful then that many of the artworks in your collection are dated prior to the Impressionist movement. Isn’t that right, Mr. Beatson?” I say.
“Err, yes,” he replies, clearly thrown.
“Ah, proper art,” Enzo replies, and I gawk at him in disbelief.
Before I have the chance to say another word—likekeep your opinions to yourself, for instance—Mr. Beatson says, “Allow me to introduce you to Jacinta Clayton, ma’am, one of the country’s up and coming portrait artists.” He gestures at one of the people dressed in black, a slim woman who is probably only five to ten years older than me.
There’s no way she painted any of the portraits prior to the 1870s.
“Ms. Clayton,” I say, extending my hand and offering her a warm smile. “Of course, I know your work. You’re a very talented artist, and it’s an absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” she says with a curtsy before she flicks her gaze to Enzo.
“Do you have a new piece here at the gallery?” I ask before Enzo offers any more of his firm opinions on art made following my great-great-great grandparents’ time.