Page 3 of A Taste for the Peculiar

Avirin

Of course it’s Lord Riften. Avirin has heard the stories about him — them — passing through the beau monde like wind through the reeds. He stole the title from his cousin, the late Lord Kyrven. His house in the city is overrun with undesirables. He squanders his fortune with a covey of harlots!

The scandal sheets can’t get enough; there’s a special corner of their prints reserved just for speculation about the recalcitrant lord. Do his gloves hide a string of tattoos? Was he seen leaving a brothel in nothing more than a chemise? Is it true the visiting prince penned him a love letter and never received a reply?

Though the ton can’t keep Lord Riften’s name off their lips, they rarely use his proper title. The words they choose are far more descriptive. Rake. Bounder. Shockingly loose in the haft, and too ripe and ready by half. Yet while high society giggles about the faerie, their eyes follow him everywhere, as if they desire to be him. To be with him. Perhaps both at once.

The most vicious rumors claim Lord Riften was once a courtesan himself, though no one would dare verify it. Not when it would require “respectable” gentlemen to admit where they spend their time, and with such a queer companion.

And he is an odd one, Lord Riften — or is it Lady? Avirin’s head tilts. Truth be told, she isn’t sure how to refer to him, because any container bends out of shape as soon as he enters it. The lord has never remained inside the gendered lines society has established, leaving him a menagerie of contradictions. His pollen-yellow skin glows beneath the black ensemble that has no ties to mourning. His fragile moth wings flutter with shapes and colors that read like warnings. Strands of honey blond hair dust the delicate arches of his eyebrows above the sharp line of his jaw. His hands are stained from colorful paints, and his tobacco smells different from everyone else’s —

“Do you require aid, my lady? Or are you simply taking in the view?”

Avirin startles behind the vase. Lord Riften’s antennae twitch, hatched eyes following her with a smirk that could send a demon running scared.

A demon like me, Avirin’s forced to remind herself.

Lord Riften’s comrades must have dispersed while Avirin stared, but he seems unbothered by the change. He looks as comfortable alone as he did in the company of others. Curious, indeed.

Lord Riften’s brow lifts. It takes a moment for her to remember their question, but they do not look impatient; they look intrigued.

Her mouth twists. She doesn’t know what overtakes her. Perhaps it is the curse after all, but a plan swells like a half-baked loaf inside her. She calls across the space. “Do you dance?”

Lord Riften runs their tongue over their bottom lip. “Only when a tempting armful asks me.”

Her fingers tighten around her gloves. This is foolish. This is some other joke she doesn’t understand, an opportunity for him to hold something above her head and watch her fail to grasp it. But the heat that flares through her is not the shame and frustration she’s used to; this one is fluttery and sticky. It makes her dizzy. It makes her feel like she wants her to reach out and grab what he offers. “Will you dance? With me?”

Amusement flits across his face. He tucks his snuff box away and begins to move toward her. His stride is slow and unhurried, forcing her to be aware of the space closing between them. Her gaze darts to the exposed length of his forearm, tracking the black ink driven into his skin before she tears her eyes away.

Lord Riften comes to a stop before her. She barely has to lift her chin to meet their face, but something about their presence makes her feel strangely, deliciously small. He bows. “Lead on, my lady.”

Avirin’s jaw clenches. Their voice is light and pleasant, but she senses a dark undercurrent, like a stream where she cannot see the bottom. Where she needs to watch her footing. She turns to make her way back to the party, but the journey feels longer with Lord Riften hovering beside her and watching from the corner of his eye.

Once they reach the main hall, she realizes they’ve been walking in silence. She should have been making conversation. It’s what he surely expected. She chides herself, but the scolding is short-lived when they’re plunged back into the crowd.

The party is raucous with gossip and laughter, voices slurred by dipping rather deep into the orgeat. It’s easy enough for the two of them to slip into the waltz. Avirin extends her hand, and Lord Riften blinks mildly at her bare skin until she fumbles her gloves back on. His gloves are already back in place, much like the shirt sleeves that now cover any hint of tattoos.

Unsurprisingly, Lord Riften is a talented dancer. There is a certain lightness to him, despite the fact that Avirin bumps into him more than once. She can’t stop herself from scanning the room, sweat beading on her skin when she sees Miss Sargent and Lord Windham staring. Avirin should have known better; she might be able to blend into the wallpaper, but Lord Riften is practically a beacon for attention. But he was invited here. That must mean he is an acceptable dance partner, correct?

Avirin tenses. She knocks into Lord Riften again, and this time, he braces an arm around her waist and leans in close. “Why don’t I do the dancing, and you do the talking?”

Embarrassment creeps up her neck. She hates to falter, especially in the midst of such a crowd, but Lord Riften guides her body like he understands it. He leads her through the steps, applying gentle pressure to her waist until she moves on muscle memory.

“Now,” they begin, “what spurred this invitation to dance, my lady?”

“Miss Ellison,” Avirin corrects. “My mother is the Lady. I’m just Miss.”

“And do you have a first name, Just Miss?”

“Avirin.”

A molten smile drips across Lord Riften’s lips. “Lady Avirin.”

Her fingers tighten in his. It sounds positively forbidden when Lord Riften says it, a disregard for the rules of decorum that she’s spent so long trying to learn. She swallows and finds her voice again. “I require your assistance, my lord.”

“Why? Is your dress done up too tightly?” As they turn together, his breath warms her ear. “Do you need to loosen a few of your buttons?”

She bites down on a shiver. Being this close to anyone is unnerving, but Lord Riften bewilders her in completely new ways. He is flustering and unsettling, but not like the rest of the beau monde. His taunting does not discourage her; it disarms her, and Avirin doesn’t know what to make of that. She huffs. “I get the sense that you mean to vex me.”