A Rivalry of Hearts, page 10
There are some pointed differences between this signing and the last, and they are all for the better. For one, it’s quieter, and our guests seem to have better manners. No one loiters around our tables after getting their books signed, chatting loudly and crowding the walkways. Instead, our guests politely leave to enjoy the rest of their day or peruse the shelves of the library. They keep their voices at library-appropriate volumes, even when squealing over William or catching up on old times. And, best of all, I have the pleasure of meeting three times as many readers as I did at Flight of Fancy. It seems word has spread that I’ve finally made it to the tour. I’m moved by the genuine interactions I have with those who truly love my books.
What I am not at all moved by is my table placement. I thought it would be better to be seated across from William as opposed to beside him, but with our tables facing each other from opposite ends of the dais, he’s constantly in my line of sight. He takes every opportunity to smirk at me, especially when his lines are impressively long. I meet his haughty looks with a sneer, an exaggerated smile, or by pushing the bridge of my spectacles with a subtle display of my middle finger. I’m not sure if middle fingers are a rude custom in Faerwyvae, but it’s the effort that counts.
I don’t know why he’s smirking at me after our conversation in the romance section. His popularity only confirms that I was right in refusing to let him dissolve our bargain. I should be the one smirking.
By the end of the signing, I’ve all but forgotten about William. I’m floating on air, lifted by the love of my readers, my tired wrist a tribute to all the books I signed and all the smiles I inspired. I wish I could bottle this feeling up and keep it forever. It would get me through the hardest days. Though I suppose the next best thing would be…living here. Securing that three-book contract as well as citizenship. A full immersion in the setting I’m writing in. Opportunities for more interactions with my fans. And what I wouldn’t give to see a production of The Governess and the Rake in person.
“Another great signing, my friends,” Monty says, once William and I have finished packing our leftover books in the crates. Now that the signing has ended and the sun has begun to set, casting the atrium in an even warmer honeyed glow, the library is almost empty.
“It was such a lovely signing,” Jolene says, clutching both William’s and my books to her chest. She tried to linger at William’s table for as long as she could, but when his line extended to the fountain at the center of the atrium, Daphne barked at her to move along. Thank heavens for Daphne’s crowd control. Monty spent most of his time on a smoke break. After Jolene left William’s table, she settled in at mine, finally letting me sign her copy of The Governess and the Fae. Then she insisted on serving as my assistant—not that I needed one with my nonexistent line—after which she proceeded to try to catch William’s eye.
The hour she was at my table was the one where I received the least number of smirks from him. I’m honestly surprised he hasn’t been entertaining Jolene’s infatuation. He can’t be oblivious to it. Compared to all the men and women he dazzles with that seductive grin and flirtatious banter, he treats Jolene with mere politeness. I can’t imagine he dislikes her. She’s young and sweet and gorgeous and everything men normally want in a woman.
For some reason, I feel rather smug about his lack of interest in her.
“We have two choices for how to spend our last evening in the Solar Court,” Monty says, pulling me from my thoughts. “The responsible choice is we dine in the cafeteria, retire to our rooms for the remainder of the evening, and then reconvene for our departure in the morning. Or there’s the fun choice. We get changed, we eat, we rest, and then go to a party at Somerton House.”
“I vote for sleep,” Daphne says at once. She’s perched on one of the crates, her beady little eyes looking quite heavy. It makes me wonder if pine martens are nocturnal. If so, it might be challenging to keep a diurnal schedule. Maybe that’s why she naps so often.
Jolene claps her hands together at her chest. “A party sounds lovely. This will be my last night with you, after all. I take the train back home tomorrow.” She casts a hopeful look at William.
He, however, doesn’t humor her silent request, instead giving Monty a wry look. “I know what kinds of parties happen at Somerton House.”
“Then you’ll know it’s the perfect landscape to potentially make progress in your bet.” He waggles his brows and gives me a questioning shrug. “What do you say, Miss Danforth?”
I’ve been so elated about today’s signing that I haven’t thought about the bet in hours. My lungs tighten, either in anxiety or excitement. This could be my first opportunity to begin the research I’ve resolved to do. My first opportunity to earn a point against William. While I can’t be certain he didn’t earn one last night, Jolene’s frustration when she returned to our dorm just before midnight was a promising sign that he didn’t. Apparently, she strolled the hall outside his room for two whole hours and he never once came out. Only Monty left their shared room, and he informed her that William had retired early.
My gaze flashes to my opponent. His eyes widen and he gives a subtle shake of his head. He’s obviously trying to warn me to reject Monty’s proposal, but it might as well be bait. If he doesn’t want me to go to this party, then I definitely want to.
“You’re right, Jolene,” I say, lifting my chin. “A party does sound lovely.”
Somerton House is a large private residence in the city, nestled between other grand manors that line the street, just a few blocks away from the university. We pass through the front gate and approach the door. Strains of muffled music—a familiar opera—emanate from inside.
I exchange an excited look with Jolene, whose arm is linked through mine. I’ve never been to a house party before, only a few public balls and the occasional garden party at my family home. Even in college, I refrained from much socializing and spent my waking hours either studying or writing. I’m not even sure Bretton Ladies College had an active nightlife considering how strictly our activities and curfews were enforced.
Monty takes a drag from his cigarillo and raps the hinged door knocker upon its brass plate. Daphne stayed behind, so we’re just a party of four. I shudder, but it’s more from anticipation than cold. Night has fallen, but the air remains warm. Not stifling like it was when we first arrived at the station, but warm enough that I’ve changed out of my long-sleeved dress to a silk evening gown with lace cap sleeves, a loose unstructured waist, and a low square neckline. It’s one of the most modern and fashionable gowns I own, its style influenced by the lighter, gauzier fae fashions that have become more prevalent, even in Bretton.
Meanwhile, Jolene wears a scarlet ballgown that makes me wonder if I’m underdressed. On the other hand, William and Monty are outfitted in similar casual slacks and open-collar shirts like they wore when we arrived in the Solar Court, so perhaps it’s me and Jolene who are overdressed. After all, the two males seem far keener on what Somerton House is all about.
A butler opens the front door. He and Monty exchange a few whispered words, and the butler bows for us to enter. The opera I heard from outside is even louder now, and as we make our way down the hall and into the main foyer, I discover the source. A female fae with glittering golden skin and bronze iridescent hair stands at the center of the room, her impressive soprano filling the air with a haunting melody of love and loss. My first instinct is to shrink back, fearing we’ve disrupted her performance with our sudden arrival, but a glance around the room banishes my worries. While many stand and watch the vocalist, there are several others who chat in groups, paying the singer very little heed. Still others lounge on chairs, divans, or against the wall, notebooks and graphite in hand as they sketch the female. Smoke fills the air, as does the scent of liquor. This is nothing like the elegant house party I imagined, with a formal dinner, dancing, and separate rooms for the men and women to congregate. Here everyone mingles freely and the atmosphere is unrestrained.
When William said he knew what kinds of parties happen here, perhaps this is what he meant. He didn’t think my delicate human sensibilities could handle such frivolity.
“William Haywood, is that really you?” A human male with a bushy mustache, a pipe, and neatly combed black hair strides to us from across the room. He looks to be about ten years my senior and is dressed in nothing more than a burgundy silk robe. He claps William on the shoulder and speaks through the pipe between his lips. “I heard you were in town but never thought I’d see you at Somerton House any time soon. Are these your friends?”
The man appraises me and Jolene with appreciative looks, then turns his attention to Monty. He removes the pipe from his mouth and sniffs the air. Then, arching a brow at Monty’s cigarillo, he reaches into the breast pocket of his robe and extracts a small lavender-scented sachet. With a wink, he hands it to Monty. “Try Moonpetal. Much more relaxing.”
Monty’s eyes brighten. “Cheers to that.” Without waiting for a formal introduction, he wanders off, a skip in his step.
William rolls his eyes, but the man doesn’t seem at all offended. “Grayson, that was Monty, Junior Publicist at Fletcher-Wilson, my publisher. This is Miss Edwina Danforth, fellow author, and her friend, Miss Jolene Vaughn. Miss Danforth, Miss Vaughn, this is Grayson Somerton, our host and my former mentor.”
“In poetry?” Jolene asks, her expression alight with interest.
Mr. Somerton frowns. “No, in acting. I hosted many performances here and William was one of our brightest stars.” To William he says, “I was surprised to hear you made a name for yourself on the page rather than the stage.”
William’s throat bobs, then a lopsided grin curves his lips. “What is a blank page if not another kind of stage?”
Mr. Somerton takes a puff from his pipe, giving him a meager smile yet making no further comment. He turns to me and Jolene. “Since this is your first time at Somerton House, allow me to acquaint you. Here, in the foyer, is what we call the music hall. The parlor to the left is set with easels. The study hosts my finest liquor. In the library you’ll find a makeshift stage for spoken-word performances. Upstairs in the south wing, you’ll find rooms dedicated to pottery, painting, pianoforte, harp. In the north wing—”
“They’re not going to the north wing,” William cuts in.
I glance between William and Mr. Somerton. “Why? What’s in the north wing?”
Mr. Somerton busies himself with his pipe and refuses to meet my gaze.
William looks me straight in the eyes. “Do not go to the north wing. I’m warning you.”
How has he yet to learn? Telling me not to do something is the surest way to get me to do it. I curtsy for Mr. Somerton. “Thank you for being such a gracious host. I look forward to enjoying your lovely home.”
He gives a deep nod and I tug Jolene with me toward a wide curving staircase.
“Where are you going?” William’s tone is edged with warning.
I cast a coy look over my shoulder. “To the north wing, of course.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WILLIAM
It’s not my responsibility to save Edwina from herself. If she seeks the mortification that awaits her in the north wing, that’s her prerogative. Who am I to stop her? Yet even as I think it, my legs twitch, begging me to move, my chest burning with annoyance at every step she takes up the stairs. No sooner than she reaches the landing do I charge after her, abandoning Grayson in the middle of his sentence. Not that I was listening to him anyway.
“Miss Danforth,” I call out, but the crowd of partygoers is denser here, with guests weaving from room to room or chatting idly in the halls. I call her name again, and this time, she pulls up short. She’s probably more startled that I called her by her proper name and not Weenie, but I’m not about to shout the latter in the middle of a house party.
She puts her hands on her hips. “Willy, why are you following me?”
Her question catches me off guard, for it forces me to truly consider the answer. Why the hell am I following her? I can’t convince myself this is an act of sabotage, for what she’ll find in the north wing won’t aid in making progress toward our bet. Not immediately, at least. While I could convince myself this is just another instinct of brotherly protection, something I’d do for my sister, there’s nothing brotherly about my feelings where Edwina is concerned. All she ever does is vex me. She’s a nuisance.
So what is it? The fact that she’s human, and I know humans to be fragile creatures? Their lifespans are short, their bodies prone to ailments I’ll never have to suffer.
The latter strikes a hollow pit in my chest. Yes, I know about human frailty all too well.
Maybe that’s all this is.
I sink back into my role of William the Poet and lower my voice for only her to hear. “I’m giving you one last chance to heed my wisdom, Weenie Poo.”
Her nostrils flare at the newest nickname. “If you wanted me to heed anything, then you wouldn’t have called me that.”
She’s right, but I couldn’t resist. William the Poet loves riling her up. It’s become the highlight of this role.
“Furthermore,” she says, “if you wanted to dampen my curiosity over the north wing, you would have offered to serve as my personal escort. Then I wouldn’t have been even remotely interested.”
“Fine,” I say through my teeth. “I will escort you. Shall we?”
“Such a gentleman,” Jolene says, reminding me of her presence. She’s been standing beside Edwina all the while, her longing gaze locked on me, but I barely noticed her. When Edwina’s around, it’s hard to concentrate on anything else. That’s how annoying she is.
“Your offer is too late,” Edwina says. “I’m still going.”
She turns and starts off down the hall. Jolene glances from her friend to me before asking, “Shall we?”
“You stay here.” As soon as the words leave my lips, I know my tone was too harsh. Jolene looks like a scolded puppy. I suppose my heart should be moved at the sight, but it’s more set on catching up to Edwina. Forcing my most dazzling smile, I face Jolene. “The north wing isn’t a proper place for you or Miss Danforth. I’ll escort her to sate her curiosity and see to her safe return.”
“I would like to come too.”
I hang my head in an exaggerated motion before meeting her eyes once more. “I can bear to allow Edwina to enter such an unsavory place but not you. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. Trust me, Miss Vaughn. I will return and we can finally have some time to talk, just the two of us.”
She visibly swoons, rocking back on her heels. “You mean it?”
“I do. Now, stay in the south wing and I’ll return for you.”
“You’ll return for me,” she echoes, voice breathless. She tips her face toward me, her eyes on my lips, her own parted expectantly.
I step back and give a consoling pat on her shoulder before racing after Edwina.
Getting rid of Miss Vaughn wasted far more time than I hoped, so by the time I catch up to Edwina, she has already turned down the hall leading to the north wing.
She turns at the sound of my footsteps, rolling her eyes when she sees me. “I already told you. Your offer as an escort came too late. I’m going with or without you.”
“With me,” I say, “whether you like it or not. At least this way, I’ll be there to drag out your limp and mortified form when you faint.”
“Why would I faint? Oh.” She halts in place and whirls fully to face me. “Are there spiders? Is the north wing an insect habitat?”
The terror on her face has me stifling a laugh. If only I could confirm her fears, then she’d abandon her curiosity at once. Yet, now that we’re alone, I find myself slipping out of my role again. I can’t lie unless I’m deeply immersed in my William the Poet persona. Besides, if my falsehood failed to sway her and she decided to see the north wing anyway, she’d discover my ability to lie. I’d like to keep that a secret from as many as possible.
“There are no spiders,” I finally say.
She sighs with relief and resumes walking. “Spiders are the one creature I cannot suffer to live.”
“Oh? So there’s one creature you despise more than me?”
“Only one,” she says with a solemn nod.
We reach a pair of white doors with gold handles. Two human butlers dressed in all-white suits flank them. Wordlessly, they hand us each a glass vial and open the doors.
“What’s this?” Edwina whispers, shaking the vial.
“I’ll tell you once we’re inside,” I say, tucking my vial into my trouser pocket. We cross the threshold and the butlers shut the doors behind us. Dread settles deep into my bones as we enter a dimly lit hallway, the air thick with the heady scent of incense. Muffled sounds emanate from farther ahead and my muscles clench. I’m already desperate to bolt back the way we came. Memories from the one and only time I’ve been to the north wing surface in my mind, but I try to force them away. This isn’t about me. This is about Edwina. She shouldn’t be here alone. The sooner she sees what this place is all about, the sooner we can leave.
The sounds grow louder and more distinct with every step, and soon the hallway opens to a wide circular room. The walls are set with several large alcoves containing different pieces of furniture—a divan here, a set of chairs there, a swing in another. Naked bodies writhe in each alcove, a living display of art. More furnishings are set throughout the room where guests can create art of their own. Moans and grunts and sighs mingle to produce a rather unsettling orchestra of public pleasure.
