Free Bright Young Things by Anna Godbersen Page B

Then all of him relaxed. It was possible, but doubtful, that Cordelia fully absorbed the lesson of this moment—that when girls use the brightness of their eyes or the softness of their skin, they have an uncommon advantage in getting what they want. Being cleverer than most, she might have counted herself lucky, but it is a lesson that few women truly appreciate until their looks begin to go.
    “I see now. Sorry, miss.”
    “Where‧s the kitchen?” Cordelia went on breathily, before he could think better of letting her inside.
    He inclined his head, indicating a door beyond the stairs, away from the murmuring. A different kind of noise emanated from the kitchen—the low curses of servants, the rushing of water, the clattering of plates. Cordelia headed in that direction, but when she saw that the guard‧s back was turned, she slipped through another doorway, darting into a series of rooms that must have lined the hall where she had just been apprehended. She passed through an enormous dining room with drawn aubergine drapes and a long, mighty table from which knights of old might have supped, and then through a vast, empty ballroom with a waxed floor and a white grand piano, its lone piece of furniture. The curtains were drawn there, too, but they were of a filmy cloth, and she could see through them to a great stone verandah, another series of stairs, and lawns stretching out to trees for what seemed like miles.
    Her feet fell lightly. Breath was almost impossible. She had known from the papers that Darius Grey was rich, but this house and all its objects were beyond anything she could have imagined. Everything was big and everything shone. Here she was, at last. Sneaking through the house, it was true, invisible and silent—but most definitely here.
    After the ballroom came a library, with the same dark wood that paneled the hallway, and built-in shelves crammed with every kind of book. Ferns curled from the corners, and the sofas were well stuffed and worn, and she wished for a moment that her aunt Ida could witness just for a second what a collection of books was kept by the man the old lady believed so rough and bad. On the low, squat table at the center of the room, a gold-rimmed glass contained a few melting chips of ice and the dregs of an amber liquid. Someone had been there recently—they might come back. Her heart beat a little faster when she realized she could not stay here very long, either.
    Finally, she stepped back into the hall. At the opposite end from the kitchen she could now see the source of light chatter and clinking glasses—the doors were ajar, and she glimpsed the silhouettes of ladies and gentlemen. Behind them great windows framed a sky striated with magenta and gold and every color in between.
    Cordelia stepped into the room, which had a heavy, sweet smell—of lilies, perhaps, or else the women there were wearing a great deal of perfume. If this was the case, it would not be their only point of excess, for the ladies wore a truly defiant amount of lipstick and those who smoked did so out of cigarette holders that appeared implausibly long. Cordelia felt as though she were sitting at the back of a darkened theater, watching a beautifully choreographed scene projected large just for her.
    But that illusion did not last very long.
    “Who let this girl in?”
    Everything in the room grew louder and then entirely quiet. Then she saw, through the assembled bodies, a face she recognized: It was the boy with the cruel brown eyes, the one who had made fun of Letty last night at Seventh Heaven.
    “Who let her in?” he repeated, striding aggressively in her direction.
    Now all the faces in the room turned to her—and what a catalogue of amusement and surprise and chagrin and curiosity they wore. On the ladies, the makeup exaggerated whatever it was the sight of this plainly dressed girl, carrying a suitcase and old coat, stirred in them. She knew she would make herself ludicrous if she told