Piper felt a bit like a peacock in the clothes Charles had bought for him, but that was not at all bad. It was quite good, really, though he lacked the level of vanity of a peacock. Still, that didn't stop him from feeling particularly elegant. He thankfully resisted the urge to preen, but then, that was because he didn't need to. He felt handsome enough in his clothes and to hell with anyone who disagreed! Charles had bought them for him, and so, Charles was the only person who had to agree with him about how he looked (and even then it was mostly because Piper wanted to look nice for him).
Although he felt like a peacock, he didn't show off like one. Instead, he let himself blend in for the most part. He didn't want to be conspicuous to the crowd at large. If he was, than they would notice his actions far more, and while he really did like attention, sometimes he didn't want it. This was one of those times. He just wanted to fit in as best he could and enjoy his time. Of course, just because he was blending in didn't mean he wanted to be completely ignored, which was why he'd asked a few of the ladies for a dance and slipped into conversations he actually could follow, though he was careful about what he said, to be safe.
Balls were slightly more exhausting than he knew or remembered, and he needed a moment away from the heat of all the other guests. Casually he picked up a glass of wine and slipped out of the room. He carried himself with purpose, even if he had none, and stopped at a door, his hand hovering over the knob a moment. What was behind the door? He'd been in enough nice houses to know the possibilities, but possibilities and realities weren't the same things, and he paused a moment to let his mind wonder over the possibilities. Slowly he wrapped his fingers around the knob, twisting it and opening the door. He glanced up and down the hall, spying no one spying on him, and then poked his head inside to see what reality the room held.
He'd found a library. Or sitting room. Something of that nature. There were shelves with books lining walls and chairs and a fireplace. It was nice, he thought, and before he realised it, he'd entered the room. He left the door slightly ajar to hear the ball and anyone approaching, and he set his glass on the mantle after a quick sip. He then walked around, letting his fingers run along the spines of the books he passed. What did they say, between their covers? What secrets did they hold. He stopped and pulled one down, opening it to examine the pages, flipping through them and running his fingers across the lines of texts like he'd seen others do, pretending he could read it. In his head, he made up a story, imagining what he thought was actually what the book said. He smiled a little, put it back, and then picked another book, taking it over to one of the chairs. He settled down, repeating the same process only slower, ears pricked for sounds outside the room.