despite the ball being in full swing, finley had fled to the quiet greenery of the conservatory. socializing in the ton was a sport he had no intention of training for. to the other lords and ladies, he was an oddity - an american orphan who spent his nights penning ghost stories that scandalized the locals. they gave him wide births, treating his presence as though the macabre from his pages might rub off on them.
he spun the crystal glass in his hand, watching the ice swirl, when the rustle of heavy silk broke the quiet of the glasshouse. head turned, spotting angelique, a diplomat’s daughter who carried herself with a polished composure, something miles removed from the giggling debutantes suffocating the ballroom floor. ‘careful,’ fin called out softly, hoping not to startle her. ‘step too far into the shadows and people might think you’re associating with the resident monster writer . . . your father’s political career might never receover,’ he took a slow sip to cover his grin. @pauvreange.
