Page 24 of An Acquired Taste

Chapter Thirteen

It’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 onmeand 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 anyofficialcomplaints 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 havingsomeone. 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 informationabout 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 aslightlyrisqué 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 likean 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 justgone, 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. Butwhy? 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 anyway 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 beenweekssince 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. Ideservea 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—”

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