An Acquired Taste (The Valentine Society)

Chapter Thirteen

I t’s a strange experience, to feel pampered and ignored at the same time. I have leave of the beautiful estate, a closet full of dresses so luxurious, I never could have afforded them before this, and delicious food hand-delivered to my door. Plus my enormous room, the canopy bed, the claw-foot tub I use nearly every morning… it is all more than I ever could’ve wished for.

Sebastian ensures that I want for nothing. Nothing, that is, except for his company.

Sometimes, Barnabas joins me as I wander the hallways, his tail always wagging. The staff are always around, and polite. Yet there’s a gap between us that feels impossible to breach, even when I do my best to be friendly. Ellen is kind, and when we sit and have tea, it feels almost normal, but when we say our goodbyes, it’s impossible to forget that she’s heading off to scrub floors and I have nothing to do but lounge in bed all day.

For my first week at the estate, I’m more than happy to do so. I can’t remember the last time I had so much freedom to relax. I’ve been used to working long hours, keeping the apartment clean, doing everything for Declan and having no time to myself. It feels great to take long soaks in the bath and lie in bed whenever I want, and let my calloused hands and aching calves have a break.

Plus, it’s been so long since I was able to look in the mirror and focus on me and what I want. Even knowing that Sebastian won’t be at dinner, I enjoy getting ready every night. After several days of enjoying the luxury products in my bathroom, my hair falls into shiny ringlets rather than its usual mousy brown tangles, and my skin is radiant and soft. I revel in painting my face and trying on dresses just to watch myself spin in the mirror. It makes me feel beautiful, even if that beauty is only for my own eyes.

But after a while, it isn’t enough. I have all the time in the world to write, but words still evade me. The long hours start to feel empty. I have to resist the urge to talk with my sister on the phone for hours, because whenever I do, I only end up making up more lies about my fake job, which makes me feel guilty and more alone than ever.

Benjamin texts me once to check in, but it feels more formal than friendly, and it’s not like I have any official complaints about this arrangement. I try talking to Lissa, but she is the driest texter in the world and only responds a couple of times per day.

So my loneliness grows, and the feeling of freedom starts to spoil. I begin to wonder if I’m more of a doll than anything, prettied up only to be left in a closet, collecting dust. Ellen takes a tiny vial of my blood every morning, and other than that, it’s like I don’t exist to Sebastian. When Ellen replaces the rose on my nightstand on the seventh day, I realize even that romantic-seeming gesture was her all along.

It leaves me craving connection. Or is it attention? Is there a difference? I’m surprised by how little I miss Declan, but I do miss having someone . I think I missed that even when we were together, I just hadn’t realized it yet.

With nowhere else to turn, I look to social media. My contract included the fact I won’t disclose personal information about Sebastian, including the location of his estate. I can’t, anyway, since I’m still lying to my sister about my job. But I post some subtle shots: one of the mist hanging over the forest, another of my freshly pedicured toes peeking out of the bubble bath, and a slightly risqué selfie of me in my silky night-robe.

I hate the rush I get whenever Alexander likes one of my photos. My mind wanders to the chemistry I felt with him during our one dance. What would have happened if Benjamin hadn’t been there to interrupt, I wonder? And why didn’t he offer to become my patron when he seemed to like me far more than Sebastian does?

Guilt is always close on elation’s heels. It’s not Alexander’s attention I want. It’s Sebastian, who seems intent on ignoring me. I want to know the man who brought me here. I want to understand him, and why he chose me, and why he brought me all the way out here to his estate only to leave me alone in my room.

Still. I should be grateful for the luxury and the money this position affords me, even if it’s not what I imagined a valentine’s life would be like.

To stop myself from going stir-crazy—and also hoping for a chance encounter with my mysterious host—I take to exploring the estate. The house is enough of a wonder to keep me occupied for days. I spend evenings wandering the long halls and admiring the paintings on the walls.

The estate has a certain age and gravitas that fascinates me. It’s so different from the cramped apartments and modern stylings of LA. There’s so much space, and so much personality. Sometimes I stand still and shut my eyes and just listen to the house creak and groan around me as though it’s breathing. It’s eerie and enticing at the same time. Especially when the staff goes home after dinner, and it feels like the entire world is silent. Every day, I aim to discover a new room. It makes me feel like an intrepid explorer, running my fingers over the spines of old leather books and peering into ornate mirrors at my reflection.

Sometimes I catch myself fantasizing about spending the rest of my life here, occupying these halls, learning every spot where the floorboards creak and all of the best windows to gaze out at the misty grounds. I discover the “music room”—what a thing to have!—with its grand piano, the drawing room with a stone fireplace and carved mantle. Most of the house is a relic of the past, perfectly preserved; the kitchen is the only room that seems to have been modernized, and Bridget semi-jokingly banished me from it after a disastrous attempt to help with dinner.

My first few weeks at the estate blur past like this. Yet, for all my wandering, I never run into Sebastian. His absence becomes like a sore tooth, a throbbing ache that is impossible to ignore. I don’t even know which of the many bedrooms is his, or which rooms he frequents; he is just gone , with no more presence here than a ghost. Occasionally, I have the creeping sensation that I’ve entered a room that’s recently been occupied. I’ve found an abandoned teacup with a hint of red on the porcelain, a book left open on a chair. Whenever I encounter a locked door, I stand there wondering if he’s on the other side, listening to me breathe.

Sometimes, especially when I’m standing near a window, a shiver runs down my spine, and I swear I feel someone watching me. But every time I try to look out upon the dark grounds, there’s nothing to see but trees.

My frustration grows, until I reach the only logical conclusion: it’s no accident that I never manage to stumble upon Sebastian. He’s avoiding me on purpose. In his own goddamn house. But why ? He brought me here!

I know I’m not the easiest person to get along with. Yet no matter how I rack my thoughts, I can’t come up with any way that I could’ve annoyed him. Surely it wasn’t our first conversation at the Valentine’s Day Ball, or else he never would have offered patronage… and since then, I haven’t had a chance to offend him.

Instead, I am left to wander, alone in the quiet halls, wondering if I’m the one who’s been reduced to a ghost.

* * *

Finally, I decide I’ve had enough. It’s been weeks since I arrived. It’d be one thing if Sebastian were away on business, but according to the staff, he hardly ever leaves this place. Sebastian brought me here, to this isolated home; even if it was out of pity, the least he can do is look me in the face and tell me that himself. So after getting out of bed, I throw on one of my low-cut and most dramatic dresses, do my makeup and hair, and wait on the edge of my bed for Ellen to arrive.

As she walks in with breakfast and a syringe, I let her set down the tray and take my blood before asking, “Where is he?”

She pauses, eyes flickering to my neckline before jolting back up to my face. I’m certain she knows exactly what I’m asking, but as if giving me a second chance to consider it, she asks, “Who?”

I hold my head high. “Lord Sebastian, of course. I wish to speak with him.”

“I, um…” She stammers, still holding the fresh vial of my blood. I snatch it from her hand.

“I’ll bring this to him,” I say. When she still hesitates, I give her a pleading look. “I need to talk to him. I deserve a conversation with him. This is ridiculous.”

She sighs and tilts her chin down the hallway. “I believe he’s in the library. The big double doors on the right. But really, Amelia, he’s—”

“Thank you,” I say, cutting her off before she can make me doubt myself. She stiffens, and I pause, give her a small smile, and say more gently, “Thank you. Really. But this is something I need to do.”

Then I take a deep breath, shove a pastry into my mouth to bolster my courage, and march down the hallway before I can lose my nerve. I pause in front of the wooden double doors, smooth my hair and my dress, and then push them open.

At least, I try to do so. They’re heavy as hell, and I struggle to push them open inch by inch, with a little huff of effort. This is why I’ve always given up on it during my explorations, but now that I know this room is both a library and Sebastian’s secret hiding place, I’m determined. By the time I get the doors open, I am breathing hard and feeling entirely off-balance. When I look up, Sebastian is sitting in an armchair, one hand frozen halfway through the motion of turning a page, his dark eyes locked on me.

I had almost forgotten just how good-looking he is. Dressed in a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, with a book in his hands, he is devastating .

I swallow hard, attempting to moisten my suddenly dry mouth. I regret the pastry that now sits like a lump in my stomach. But before I can think of something to say, my gaze drifts from the man I came to confront to the wondrous expanse of the library around him.

There was part of me, of course, that expected this fancy-ass house to have a fancy-ass library. Still, this place is breathtaking. The walls are lined with beautiful, mahogany bookshelves that stretch from floor to ceiling. In one corner is a small spiral staircase leading to a loft with more shelves. The wall across from the entrance is made up entirely of stained-glass windows, with the curtains pulled open to allow moonlight to spill inside. Tiffany-style floor lamps add their own warm glow. The ceilings reach high above us and culminate in a dome; we must be in one of the towers I saw from outside of the house.

In the middle of this glorious room waits a round table holding a strange bronze sphere. It is surrounded by a love seat and two plush leather armchairs—one of which is occupied by Sebastian, who has now closed his book in his lap and is still staring at me.

I flush, realizing how long I’ve been gawking at the room after barging in on him. I clear my throat, press back my shoulders, and say, “Hello.”

Sebastian blinks. His fingers curl around the spine of his book. “Hello.”

I purse my lips and wait to see if he will apologize or make some explanation for the way he’s been avoiding me, but he says nothing.

“So this is where you spend your days?” I ask, gesturing to the room.

“Nights,” he corrects, and then, “but, yes.”

This pedantic bastard. Ire rises in the back of my throat, but I push it down again. I did not come here to pick a fight. That would make me look like some immature girl acting out for attention. And that is not what I’m doing. I am politely asking for attention, which is… different. Right?

Doubt stirs in my chest, but I try to ignore it. It’s too late to turn back now.

“Well,” I say, and then pause. I had a speech half-prepared in my head, but now that I’m here, it feels like too much. He’s still staring at me like I’ve committed some major faux pas. His hands have begun clutching his book so tightly, the leather cover is bending, and I am remembering that this man so clearly hates me.

How could I have forgotten? How could I have let myself think that I was wrong about that first impression? Just because he invited me here? He could have brought me here for any reason at all. Maybe he struck some secret deal with Benjamin. I don’t know.

I should’ve just asked Ellen to deliver a note instead of coming myself. At least it would make it easier to bear the inevitable rejection. I’m already bracing myself for it, and the words are sticking in my throat. But, God, walking away now would only make me look weirder for barging in like this.

“Well?” he repeats.

I clear my throat… again. Drag my eyes from his polished shoes to his just-as-dark eyes. I wish I could think of some excuse for coming here, but my mind has gone blank but for the question I came here to ask, and so I have no choice but to blurt out, “Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

He looks at me. Really looks, taking in my dress, my makeup, my hair, everything I did just to come here and ask this question. I feel ridiculous. He takes his time answering, and I wonder if he’s trying to think of the politest way to reject me or a scathing insult. My throat constricts in preparation for humiliation.

“Fine,” he says.

Fine?

I open my mouth, about to nonsensically repeat the word just to make sure I heard it right, but I snap it shut again. His attention has already returned to the book in his lap. He opens it and begins to read while I stand here awkwardly.

But he said fine . And, as much as I rack my brain for a way to interpret that negatively, I cannot find one.

“Well, okay then,” I say. He does not look up or make any indication that he realizes I’m here. So, after a moment, I gather my dress and the shreds of my dignity and leave the library with my head spinning.

…Then I walk back and hand him the forgotten vial of blood. My fingers brush his in the briefest touch before I scurry out again.

* * *

My heart sinks as I step into the dining room and find that, once again, Sebastian is missing. At least the staff is as warm as ever, everyone except for grumpy old Tobias meeting my eyes and smiling in greeting. Yet I still feel separate from them as I take my usual seat at the end of the table. Especially given that I dressed up again. I should have learned at this point, but… I wanted to look good for Sebastian.

Perhaps it’s time to admit that this is a foolish hope to nurture. He doesn’t respect me enough to make good on his agreement to be here. I can no longer pretend he has anything akin to fondness for me. I doubt he cares enough to pity me. There must be something else at play here, something I don’t understand.

As I sigh and lift my fork, the door opens. The conversation goes silent, much in the same way it did the first time I entered, but this time, the stares are not in my direction. They’re at the door opening behind me. I’m seated closest to it, so I have to swivel in my seat to face it.

Sebastian stands there, looking heart-attack-inducing in a pinstriped vest and pants. He pauses in the doorway, oddly out of place, even though this is his home. I wonder if he’s regretting his decision to come already. Then his eyes brush over the faces at the table before stopping on mine.

I smile. “Hello, Lord Sebastian.”

He steps inside, stops briefly beside my seat. “Hello, Amelia.”

To my disappointment, he then walks all the way to the opposite end of the table to take his seat. The entire length of the table and all six staff members sit between us. But still… he’s here . I feel a fragile flicker of hope bloom in my chest.

“I’m so glad you joined us,” I call across the table.

The rest of the staff echo the sentiment—except for Bridget, who looks as though on the verge of a fit.

“Lord Sebastian, I had no idea you’d be coming tonight,” she sputters, starting to rise from her seat. “I can go and prepare you a plate—”

“No, no, there’s no need.” Sebastian raises a hand, and she slowly, grudgingly lowers back down. “You know I rarely eat.”

Still, when someone passes over an unused wine glass, Sebastian doesn’t say no. He pours himself before someone else can beat him to it, and then takes out a vial from his pocket. As he adds it to his drink, he looks across the table at me and dips his chin in the slightest nod. I smile back over the rim of my glass.

With the table and staff between us, there isn’t an opportunity to converse more. Yet as Sebastian rises to leave when dessert is served, I turn to him.

“Will you join us again tomorrow?” I ask.

He pauses, glancing at me, and then at the staff who are all awaiting his answer.

“Fine,” he says, and leaves.

It’s a small step… but it’s a step.