Page 2 of A Taste for the Peculiar

Avirin’s smile tightens. Are the words genuine or mockery? She knows she does not suit the bright colors that are in fashion — not like the snowy Miss Sargent. Avirin tries to decipher the other woman’s face, but every time Avirin believes she’s landed on the proper read, Miss Sargent’s features melt or freeze in some new way.

A clock ticks in the back of Avirin’s mind. Say something. You have to say something. It’s better to be polite, isn’t it? To take Miss Sargent’s words in good faith? Avirin inclines her head. “How kind of you to say!”

Miss Sargent’s smirk deepens, and Avirin tries not to squirm. Wrong answer. She isn’t sure what the right one would have been, but mercifully, Miss Sargent has already turned back to the group. “We were just discussing Lord Windham’s chances in the cockfighting ring this weekend.”

“Oh?” Avirin teases. “Will he be competing himself?”

Her joke falls flat. Lord Windham raises a brow, and Miss Sargent’s nose wrinkles. “Of course not. He’s —” She waves her hand, as if Avirin isn’t worth the reply, before she turns a cheeky grin toward Lord Windham. “He bled very freely to gamble on this prized rooster of his.”

One of the other men clears his throat. “The same one that scratched up his face last week?”

Avirin laughs too quickly. The other guests falter, glancing uncertainly at one another until Avirin mutters an excuse and hurries away.

Heavens, she can never get it right. Did no one else find humor in that? A few scratches are the least of what Lord Windham deserves for such a sadistic sport, but perhaps Avirin is not allowed to laugh at his misfortune. Perhaps she is too foreign to the group, too unfamiliar, too strange. She tugs at the neckline of her dress. How is she supposed to know? How does anyone think at these parties? The ballroom is stiflingly hot and unbearably crowded.

I bet I could empty it quickly.

Her body clenches, as if someone might hear her thoughts. She steals a glance in one of the grand mirrors. Same brown eyes as always. She exhales her relief, but her pupils give a threatening shiver. It would be easy for them to spread, to overtake her eyes until they become lifeless pools of black. Avirin steels herself. As long as she focuses, she can wrangle them into submission. She refuses anything else.

She knows how this succubus curse happens. Impure amorous congress. Making the beast with two backs. But no matter how people whisper, the rumors can’t be true; the closest she’s gotten to spoiling her virtue involved only her hands and bedroom pillows.

Could that be what caused this? She chews her lip and turns away from the mirror, like her reflection might show more than she bargained for. Is this punishment for the liberties she’s taken with her own body? Is this her penance for letting her mind run wild, picturing a man’s bare hand skimming up the column of her neck?

There is no one to ask, of course. Even she knows such a question would send half the ton into an early grave, and there are certainly no succubi among fashionable society — at least, no women. When the gossip rags buzz with suspicion, the targeted women disappear while the men wear the moniker with a smirk. They never aim to correct what reinforces their lascivious reputations.

Perhaps that’s where Avirin should turn for a husband. A man of vices might be easier to attract, but they would be hard to convince into marriage. That is difficult enough for Avirin already. She is under no false impression; she was never a diamond of the first water, and three seasons in, she is more akin to an apple rotting on the ground.

She tries to be desirable, to follow the rules and remain inside the lines, but she doesn’t know how to play the games of the beau monde. She cannot hide the resting scowl of her expression. She bites her tongue to keep from repeating melodious phrases. She is antsy for a conversation that does more than scratch the surface.

Marriage does not interest her, but it should. It should concern her, at the very least. For all her indifference, marriage is not simply her best option; it might well be her only one.

Her fingers curl around her fan. Her parents grew tired of her eccentricities long ago, and she has no siblings or close friends. There is no one else she can rely on, and becoming a spinster would draw attention to the fact that something is wrong with her.

But the thought of tying herself to the first person who her mother convinces turns Avirin’s stomach. Her husband will likely insist she abandon her scholarly pursuits. She will have to produce children — of that, she is certain, yet the thought breaks her out in a cold sweat. She will be forced to become the woman of the house, performing all of the social graces she already struggles with.

And with a husband…will she show him what she truly is, or will she spend her days in hiding? If he discovers it, will he recoil, or cast her aside, or worse? Will she live her life in constant fear, waiting for the other shoe to drop?

Avirin blinks and realizes she’s been staring. Her errant gaze has landed on a group who whispers and stares in her direction. She tears her eyes away, fanning the flush creeping up her neck. Her palms grow dewy beneath her gloves, and she tugs at the upper band as if her arm is being strangled. This room is hot, and the music is loud, and one of her fine hairs is clinging to the curve of her jaw.

A pang spreads low in her stomach. She is starving, too, but not for food. This curse has brought with it a new ache that stirs between her legs, spreading through her wild and wanton. It reminds her of the night she heard sordid sounds rising from a rocking carriage, and she did not turn her ear away.

No doubt these sinful desires are to blame for what she has become. She shoves the hunger down and tries to push the urge away. She’ll have to feed herself later in the safety of her room, tracing her fingers over her body and imagining someone else above her. Someone with a wicked smile, who tugs and teases, who holds her down and takes their sweet time with her.

Those sordid fantasies keep the hunger at bay, but they are never enough to satisfy it. The demand always returns, and she has not yet found a way to keep her thirst quenched.

Perhaps a husband truly is the only way to survive this.

The ball carries on around her. Dancers pass in a whirl of pastels that make her head swim. She needs fresh air. Lifting her skirts, she pushes out into the garden and raises her head to breathe, but the band of her dress digs into her ribs when her chest expands. Behind her, the violins begin to sound like a swarm of bees. She rips off both her gloves, quickening her pace and focusing on the breeze against her skin.

Only once the din of the ball fades does she slow. She rests her hand against the cool stone of the gazebo at the edge of the garden. Out here, the night is dark and almost untouched by the rest of the party, a reprieve in the otherwise brimming world.

Laughter spills from behind one of the hedges. It sounds like water in a stream, refreshing and lazy. She peers around a large vase. By the pond, a trio has gathered. Two of them wear servant’s clothing, but they look relaxed, not bowing their heads or making themselves small.

The third person is more curious. Avirin sees the faerie from behind, but he is dressed for the party inside, draped in a dark ensemble that complements his wings. He rolls up one sleeve, tapping a decorated snuff box onto the back of his hand.

Avirin hates the way her body responds to that, his lithe fingers flowing through motions without concern or unease. She can’t imagine it. How nice it must be to move through the world without a care. She’s almost envious of this stranger, until the faerie turns, and Avirin catches a glimpse of black ink peeking out from beneath his sleeve.

TWO