Page 9 of A Taste for the Peculiar

She can’t hide her surprise, brain tripping over itself like she’s been pushed onstage without a script. She clutches her reticule in hopes that she might squeeze some semblance of a sentence out of it. “My lord!”

She sounds more shocked than she means to. The dark-haired man smiles uncertainly, his body angled awkwardly as he waits for her to proceed. Oh, she’s doing this all wrong. She fumbles into a curtsy that he returns with a small bow, and she tries to remember his name from their brief introduction. “Lord Lockhart!” she recalls. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“I hoped you would think so, Miss Ellison. It’s been quite some time since we’ve spoken, and I knew that must be remedied.” Avirin isn’t sure what would inspire that, until he leans the slightest bit closer. “I hoped I might persuade you to dance with me. Your waltz the other evening has been the talk of the town.”

She narrows her eyes. It’s no surprise Lord Lockhart has not approached her previously. Despite how high society looks down on Lord Riften, it’s clear his interest in Avirin has piqued the rest of their curiosity. Perhaps her plan is working after all.

She smiles to herself. “Yes, well, Lord Riften is quite the partner.”

Bewildered, Lord Lockhart blinks.

Avirin blinks back. It feels like she’s trying to right the wildly-spinning wheel of a ship, thrown off course by what she believed to be an innocuous comment. Clearly Lord Riften was the noteworthy part of her dance. What else would the town be discussing? Yet Lord Lockhart seems offended by the acknowledgment. Is she not allowed to say what they’re both thinking? Are these things only acceptable to mention covertly?

A headache forms behind her eyes. She needs to focus. She needs to flirt. She flutters her fan and remembers Lord Riften’s instructions. Appear entertained. Stroke his ego. Let your man do most of the talking. “I’ve heard you’re quite the dancer, too, Lord Lockhart,” she lies. “Which step is your favorite?”

Mercifully, Lord Lockhart takes the bait. He mentions plenty of other ladies as his partners, yet Avirin does not have the energy to point out the hypocrisy. It is dreadfully difficult to pretend to be intrigued, especially when Lord Lockhart barely notices her expressions. Her mother always complains that Avirin’s resting face tells the world she is bored or angry, but Lord Lockhart takes no such umbrage, droning on for a good half hour before Avirin excuses herself.

Out of Lord Lockhart’s orbit, she can finally breathe. She takes a lap around the edge of the room, painfully aware of the absence of Lord Riften. Surely they will be here tonight. Surely their lessons will continue. But the longer she looks, the more certain she is that the lord is nowhere to be seen.

Her chest tightens. She shouldn’t be surprised; Lord Riften has never been a consistent fixture at these parties, and she hates that she has set her hopes so high.

She lingers near the ballroom doors, downing a glass of ratafia before something catches her eye. Near the manor’s entryway, a moth wing flutters before it disappears down one of the dark corridors.

Avirin’s eyes dart back into the ballroom. It’s boorish to wander someone else’s estate alone, yet the crowd seems sufficiently distracted by dance and drink. Their host is spinning a wild tale in the far corner, and Avirin’s mother has struck up a conversation with a viscount.

A thrill spreads through Avirin, and she slips out through the double doors toward a distant wing of the house.

There is little light to go by. Surely an effort to keep the guests focused in one room, but at the end of the hallway, candlelight spills through a crack in one of the doors. Avirin’s heart thrums. She hazards a glance behind her, but no one is there. No one has noticed her slipping away. With a steadying breath, she creeps down the length of the corridor and presses the door open with one gloved hand.

Shelves of books line the walls of the study, surrounding a large wooden desk at the center. Lord Riften leans against it, picking at a plate of fruit and idly scanning the documents on the desk. Though he wears pants and trousers like most men, his neck and ears and hands are covered in jewelry. When Avirin steps inside, he meets her gaze with pride. “You found me.”

“You might have mentioned you’d be traipsing around somewhere you shouldn’t be.” An incredulous thought occurs to Avirin, and she knows she shouldn’t ask, but she can’t help herself. “Were you not invited to tonight’s event?”

“Technically, no.” Lord Riften’s eyes glint. “Clever girl.”

The praise makes Avirin’s palms sweat. Distractedly, she digs into her bag. “I have your payment.”

Lord Riften lifts their hand. “I won’t take your money any longer.”

“But we agreed —”

“That was before I knew that you need these lessons to survive, not for some simple curiosity. I will not let you pay me for that, as long as you promise to be a good student and pay very close attention.” Their teeth flash when they smile, but their gaze softens. “We ‘peculiars’ have to look out for each other, don’t we?”

She opens her mouth to reply, but there’s a sound in the hallway, and she hurriedly presses the door shut behind her. Her heartbeat thuds in her ears. The true nature of what they’re doing sinks in. She shouldn’t be here. If they’re caught, she will have no escape from the gossip columns. She will have no future —

Lord Riften squeezes past her, turning the key in the lock and cutting the two of them off from the outside world. His voice is gentle in the small space between them. “If anyone comes looking, that will stall them. I’ll make my escape out the window. All they’ll find is a curious woman perusing the books.”

Avirin releases her grip on the door handle. “Thank you.”

Lord Riften moves back to the shelves, hands braced behind his back as he scans the titles. “We should establish your story before we’re under duress.” He leans back to look at her over his shoulder. “Which of these books would interest you?”

The question surprises her. No one asks about what she reads. At these parties, the men never stop talking, always rehashing something Avirin read in her father’s study long ago. When the men finally do take a breath, Avirin can only mention needlework or pianoforte without earning an odd look. It hardly matters anyway; whatever brief contribution Avirin makes suddenly reminds the men of something else they want to say, and they carry on again.

“I’m not sure. I’ve never been very good at art, or music, or dancing. Terribly unattractive, I know.” Her eyes rove the book spines. “The only creative venture I seem to have any talent for is reading poetry. Otherwise, I prefer mathematics and grammar. Subjects with less interpretation. With rules.” She spots a familiar title, and a memory tugs on a distant corner of her mind. “I used to pretend that, one day, I would be the only girl accepted into university. I tried to study alongside my father working at his desk, but he always shooed me out. He gave me a few worn-out books to keep me occupied, at least. So I packed them into my valise and carried them across the house.” Her lips drift up in a smile. “I’d study for hours, imagining the boys teasing me so that I had to prove myself. I’d create fake exams —”

Stop blathering! Her mother’s voice hisses in her head. You know you’re prettier with your mouth shut.

Avirin clamps her lips together. “I apologize. It’s such a dull topic to prattle on about.”