Chapter Text
Spring
“Listen, I understand that you are tired, but we must consider the matter seriously, James. Our sons require greater exposure.”
The declaration was punctuated by the sharp clatter of silverware striking porcelain, and Jeremy, who had been contemplating his eggs with the solemnity of a man half-asleep, lifted his head with a quiet, long-suffering sigh from the far end of the table. He watched his father, Adi Rhemann, gesticulate with the unrestrained fervor of one already convinced of his own correctness, while Papa regarded him from the opposite side with an expression of practiced patience. James’s head rested lightly upon his hand, his posture one of feigned indifference; yet the faint glimmer in his eyes betrayed the amusement he always took in provoking his husband’s most dramatic moods.
Jeremy, unwilling to involve himself in what promised to be a familiar and fruitless debate, turned his attention elsewhere. He stifled a yawn against his shoulder, blinking away the tears that gathered stubbornly at the corners of his eyes, and reached forward for a scone in the hope that breakfast might yet offer him some small comfort. His fingers had barely brushed the pastry when it vanished, taken decisively by Andrew, whose reflexes were as quick as his appetite was unapologetic.
Jeremy fixed him with a glare that might have shamed a lesser offender; Andrew, however, merely blinked in response and swallowed half the scone in a single, triumphant mouthful. With another resigned sigh, Jeremy reached instead for the last remaining scone, which wobbled precariously on the silver plate. He spread it carefully with cream and blueberry jam, only to have it snatched from his hand at the very moment he leaned forward to take a bite.
This time, his glare was directed at Aaron, who received it with a smirk and an unmistakable air of satisfaction. A small dab of cream clung to the bridge of Aaron’s nose as he bit into the stolen prize, unrepentant and entirely pleased with himself.
“What of the cattle, darling?” Papa asked mildly, attempting to redirect the morning’s conversation toward something more practical.
“Emily has already assured me she will see to them early today,” Adi replied, just as the kitchen door opened to admit Emily herself. She entered with a broad smile and a basket of fresh fruit balanced comfortably beneath her arm. At the sight of her, Adi brightened at once, in a manner not unlike their cows when presented with fresh wheat. “Have you not, dear?”
Emily nodded as she placed the basket at the center of the table, and Jeremy, still nursing his irritation, promptly seized an apple with an audible huff. Emily rubbed her hands together, her grin widening—an expression Jeremy had long learned could signify one of two things: either she had enjoyed a pleasant encounter with a handsome stranger that morning, or she was in possession of gossip certain to delight his father.
“If I may,” she began, clearly savoring the attention, “there’s talk around town of an expected appearance at tonight’s ball by the Moreaus and their acquaintances.”
Father was on his feet at once, rising so abruptly that his table mat slid halfway onto the floor. “What!” he exclaimed, his voice ringing through the room.
Papa closed his eyes briefly and pressed his fingers to his forehead. “Please,” he murmured with weary affection, “be careful, Adi.”
Jeremy hastily pushed his plate forward to prevent it from meeting the same fate as the table mat, just as the remaining crumbs of scone tumbled into Aaron’s lap. Aaron cursed, Jeremy laughed despite himself, and within moments the they were engaged in a brief but spirited exchange of shoves, which ended only when Adi appeared behind them and placed a firm hand on each of their shoulders.
Emily, delighted to have secured the full attention of the room, waited until peace was restored before talking once more. “Lord Jean Moreau and his brother, Mr. Neil Josten, are said to be accompanied by a friend of the name Kevin Day,” Emily continued, clearly enjoying the gravity of her own announcement. “His exact standing is not yet fully known, as he travels from the south of Ireland, but it is widely believed he possesses a fortune comparable to that of the brothers.”
“And that is?” Adi demanded at once. His hand that had found its way to Jeremy’s shoulder now gripped it with such fervor that any circulation remaining there was surely in peril; if Aaron’s swiftly reddening cheeks were any indication, Jeremy suspected the same fate befell him.
“Fifteen thousand a year for Lord Moreau,” Emily replied, unperturbed, “and seven thousand a year for his brother.”
“Oh, praise the Lord!” Adi cried, clasping his hands together in delight.
Jeremy watched Andrew hastily disguise a snicker behind a cough, while Aaron’s jaw fell open in undisguised astonishment. As for Jeremy himself, he could only stare at Emily, eyes widened at the ease with which such staggering figures had been delivered, as though they were no more remarkable than the weather.
He cleared his throat and leaned subtly toward Aaron. “Ireland?” he whispered.
“And possibly seven thousand a year?” Aaron murmured back, equal parts disbelief and intrigue.
“If he’s fleeing the land with that kind of income,” Andrew remarked dryly from across the table, “then there must be something very wrong with him.”
Jeremy hid a smile behind his coffee cup just as Adi turned sharply upon Andrew with a sharp rebuke, though the lecture was mercifully brief. The true battle lay elsewhere, and Andrew was swiftly forgotten as their father redirected his full attention toward Papa, placing both hands upon James’s shoulders and shaking him with earnest insistence.
“James,” he implored, “they must attend this ball. This could change their lives.”
Jeremy knew better than to indulge fully in such hopeful proclamations. Three adopted sons, all retaining their original surnames despite having been raised with unwavering devotion by the Rhemanns, did little to inspire indulgence in a society that prized bloodlines above affection. Some chose to ignore the distinction and addressed them as Rhemann regardless—a liberty Jeremy accepted easily enough, wearing both names with quiet pride despite never having known his birth parents. The twins felt much the same, though society’s insistence that adopted children retain their former names often struck Jeremy as a subtle means of reminding them they were never quite meant to belong.
That, combined with their age, did them no favors. Jeremy, at twenty-two, was the eldest; the twins had turned twenty the previous autumn. They were approaching what many unkind tongues described as the dangerous years, those in which youth was no longer a novelty and unmarried sons began to attract concern rather than interest. Matters were not improved by Andrew and Aaron’s distinct lack of enthusiasm for feigned sweetness or easy charm. Jeremy fared marginally better in that regard, though his open warmth was often dismissed as insincerity, or worse, annoying chattiness.
Yet if there was one triumph their fathers claimed with undeniable pride, it was the manner in which all three sons had grown into adulthood. Compliments were frequent and often embarrassingly enthusiastic: admiration for clear skin, strong frames, and striking features, despite the fact that each bore a different build entirely.
Jeremy himself was the leanest, content to leave the heavier labor to the twins while he tended the garden alongside their Papa. Andrew and Aaron thrived among the cattle and horses, returning from the fields flushed and invigorated, while Jeremy preferred quieter pursuits like reading by the fire, assisting James in the garden, or practicing the piano. On occasion, Aaron would join him with a violin, its shrill sounds echoing through the house as Andrew mocked them both from the doorway.
Between them, the Rhemann sons embodied a curious blend of literary inclination, artistic temperament, physical vigor, and undeniable charm. Unfortunately for their prospects, these virtues were accompanied by an excess of years, a tendency toward disorder, a sharp wit that did not always know restraint, and the distinction of adoption. Society, finding the combination inconvenient, was hardly surprised that none of the three had yet secured a match.
“What do you think, Jeremy?” Papa asked.
Jeremy lifted his shoulders slightly and offered a small, measured smile. Aaron, for all his teasing, was much like him, an incurable romantic concealed beneath practiced composure. Jeremy recalled the nights he had read aloud to him, lingering over dramatic declarations of love and stolen glances, while Aaron laughed and mocked the dialogue even as his eyes betrayed a yearning Jeremy knew all too well: the quiet ache of wanting something believed unattainable.
Andrew, by contrast, seemed content in his solitude, self-contained, steady, and genuinely untroubled by the prospect of remaining alone. Still, Jeremy could not help but think there might exist someone capable of drawing from him the same ease he displayed among his animals, someone who might care for him even when he insisted he required nothing at all.
Clearing his throat, Jeremy said simply, “It’s the Dermotts’ ball, Papa. It will always be a yes from me.”
James studied his sons for a moment longer, then gave a single, decisive nod. “Very well, then.”
The verdict was immediately met with jubilant cheers from Adi and Emily, who had somehow managed to remain in the room, loud enough to make Andrew grimace and shoot a glare over his shoulder.
Aaron sighed deeply, while Andrew stuffed his mouth with a pastry he had clearly smuggled in from the kitchen. Jeremy watched them all with fond resignation, hoping quietly that something good might yet come of the evening ahead.
The Dermott estate was a magnificent thing in its beauty, situated in the gentle reaches of Cambridgeshire, its lands stretching generously outward and encircled by gardens of such scale that they seemed almost an estate unto themselves. Laila had once told Jeremy that her great-great-grandfather had designed the house entirely from sketches inspired by temples he had seen in Greece. Possessed of an almost fanatical devotion to the ancient world, the man had spared no expense: every room was vast and echoing, adorned with towering marble statues that lent the house an air of grandeur.
Laila’s favorite was a depiction of Dionysus, god of wine and celebration, placed boldly at the very center of the ballroom in which they now stood. It was Jeremy’s favorite as well, for it was the statue most closely associated with the mischief of their childhood—the one he remembered best from the many afternoons spent decorating, dressing, and otherwise vandalizing the sculptures in fits of youthful invention.
Mr. Dermott, a close family friend, was as near to an uncle as Jeremy and his brothers had ever known. They had spent nearly half their childhood within these very walls, racing through the corridors with reckless freedom. The twins’ first ill-advised experience with strong drinks had ended in the stables, where they addressed the horses as though expecting replies, until Aaron, drunk enough to forget both balance and dignity, had toppled from his mount and landed squarely in a heap of horse manure. Laila had laughed until she cried, and they had all ended the night huddled together in one of the marble baths, scrubbing at a mortified Aaron. It remained one of the few occasions Jeremy could recall Andrew smiling, and one that Andrew later marked by sketching the moment himself, taping the drawing to the headboard of Aaron’s bed on their birthday.
After that night, Aaron insisted with great seriousness that wine, rather than whiskey, be the their chosen drink. Thus began the tradition of birthdays spent gathered in the grand ballroom, laughing until senseless and flushed with wine, while Laila made drunken declarations of devotion to the statue of Dionysus.
Now, Jeremy struggled to suppress his laughter as Laila waggled her thick eyebrows at him from behind the statue’s legs while they completed the final turns of the dance, the music swelling toward its climax. She had clearly indulged in several glasses already—no doubt a preemptive measure against her own nerves, for this evening marked her third encounter with the young woman who had been courting her across the past three balls: the eldest daughter of the Alvarez family, whose fortune far exceeded the Rhemanns’, though they were decidedly more restrained than the Dermotts’.
The dance concluded in a triumphant flourish of violins, and the room settled into orderly lines as applause rose toward the orchestra on the second floor. The clapping had barely ceased when two heavy thuds shook the floor, echoing the deep beat of the drums that had accompanied the music moments before.
Jeremy turned with the rest of the room toward the entrance, where a group of ten stood clustered together, perfectly framed between the parted lines of dancers. Laila’s head guard cleared his throat with deliberate force, striking his baton twice against the floor before announcing, in a voice that carried to every corner of the ballroom:
“Lord Jean Moreau and Mr. Neil Josten of Derbyshire. Accompanied by Mr. Kevin Day of Kildare, Ireland. Guests of the Alvarez family of Bedfordshire.”
Jeremy inhaled sharply, the sound barely audible, as his gaze scanned the clustered figures one by one. A hush fell, the group began to walk, and at once it became unmistakably clear which gentleman among the newcomers was the eldest, and the wealthiest.
He was of a commanding stature, tall to the point of excess, towering above nearly everyone present, certainly more than half a foot above Jeremy himself. His dark hair fell in loose curls, catching the chandelier light so that it shone faintly blue-black, and his thick brows were drawn into a natural frown. His eyes, deep-set and hooded, were almond-shaped and faintly feline in their cast, yet it was their color that stood out: a pale, unyielding gray Jeremy had never seen before, too light to be mistaken for blue and far colder than any shade he might have named.
His lips were lightly tinted and held in a firm line, his jaw sharply defined as he advanced into the room with unhurried confidence. A strong, prominent nose completed the impression—crooked at the bridge, bearing the unmistakable mark of an old injury, the faint trace of a scar stretching across his cheekbones. It had the look of something broken long ago and never quite healed.
As the group drew nearer, Moreau, who until that moment had kept his gaze fixed squarely ahead, shifted his eyes aside.
They met Jeremy’s.
The effect was immediate and wholly involuntary. Jeremy stilled as though struck in place, his hands twitching faintly at his sides. The exchange lasted scarcely a heartbeat, so brief it might have passed unnoticed by all but the most attentive, before Moreau looked away and continued forward without pause.
It was only then that Jeremy realized the line of dancers was bowing. A sharp jolt of awareness went through him, and he dipped his head a fraction too late, following the motion of those beside him with stiff precision, his pulse still hammering in his ears. Jeremy turned wide-eyed to Laila, who had clearly witnessed it herself. She pressed her lips together, barely containing her satisfaction.
Even moments later, Jeremy found himself unable to shake the sensation of it. Something about the quiet intensity of the glance lingered, made him unsettled, curious. He and Laila retreated behind a marble pillar as the musicians struck up another tune.
“I was not entirely convinced they would truly attend,” Laila whispered. “It is remarkable how little alike the brothers appear. Had I been asked, I would have assumed Mr. Day the younger Moreau.”
Jeremy had not been close enough to properly observe the others, though what he had seen sufficed. Neil Josten was unmistakable, a redhead with piercing blue eyes, icy in their brilliance yet wholly distinct from his brother’s colder gaze. Kevin Day, by contrast, possessed a softer beauty: emerald-green eyes and a smile that charmed about anybody, the only one of the three whose appearance did not unsettle as much as it attracted.
“They made quite an impression,” Jeremy murmured.
Laila snorted quietly into her wine, and Jeremy laughed under his breath in response. He was preparing to say more when two low voices drifted from the opposite side of the pillar, snapping his mouth shut at once. Laila’s eyes widened, and Jeremy lifted a single finger in warning.
“How many enchanting people can be gathered into a single room,” said a voice Jeremy did not recognize.
Before he could wonder further, the accented reply left no doubt.
“It is your first ball, Kevin,” came the measured response. “I cannot say I am anything but unmoved by the observation.”
“Well, you cannot claim I am mistaken. There are those who stand out of course, even if I don’t see your eyes stray to anybody. The eldest of the Rhemanns, for instance, is quite a beauty, is he not?”
Jeremy concealed his grin behind his hand, though it grew in spite of him as Laila pressed her finger insistently into his side, her own smile unmistakably delighted.
“You are far too liberal with your praise,” came the reply, cool and dismissive. “You bestow such compliments even on gray walls; they lose all meaning with your repetition.”
Jeremy’s amusement faltered. He was not a vain man—he did not depend upon admiration to be assured of his own worth—but there was something in the careless dismissal, delivered with such practiced indifference, that stirred an unwelcome twist in his chest. Laila’s smile faded as well, settling into a displeased tightness that troubled him more than his own wounded pride. Without a word, he took her hand and guided her toward the dance floor as the crowd surged forward for the next set.
They were obliged to pass close by the two gentlemen stationed near the pillar. Jeremy lifted his chin just as a pair of gray eyes fixed upon him. They did not widen in surprise; the only indication of reaction lay in the tightening of the man’s jaw as Jeremy’s expression hardened in return.
He did not have the chance to move further down the room with Laila, as Kevin Day’s voice rang again.
“Oh, Ms. Dermott! Would you join in me in this next dance?” Mr. Day called, stepping forward with an easy smile.
Laila hesitated only a moment. As hostess, refusal was scarcely an option. Day’s gaze flicked pointedly to their joined hands, and Jeremy released her at once, clasping his own hands neatly before him.
“Of course, Mr. Day,” Laila replied, her composure flawless.
There was a brief pause as Day offered his arm and Laila accepted it gracefully. She glanced once at Jeremy before turning to Moreau with a polite smile.
“Do you not dance, my lord?”
Moreau’s eyes shifted briefly toward Jeremy before he shook his head. “I prefer not to.”
This, by any reasonable measure, could not be described as anything short of rude. To decline an agreeable dance when only a single partner stood before him was an occurrence so uncommon as to border on an insult; and when joined with his earlier remark, it stirred in Jeremy an anger he had experienced only on the rarest occasions.
Before he could restrain himself, the words escaped him. “Is that not a boring way to live?”
Gray eyes snapped back to him, genuine surprise breaking through their composure before settling once more into that familiar frown.
“There are other means of enjoying a ball,” Moreau replied coolly, his gaze unwavering.
Jeremy narrowed his eyes. “Pray tell.”
“Observing,” Moreau said, his tone faintly bored. “Conversing. Appreciating the orchestra. Making new acquaintances.”
Jeremy inclined his head slightly. “And offering unkind judgments of strangers, perhaps.”
This time, Moreau’s surprise was unmistakable, but Jeremy had exhausted both his patience and restraint. Conscious of Laila’s and Kevin Day’s attention pressing upon him, he turned toward them, bowed politely, and extended the same courtesy to Moreau before withdrawing at once.
He moved swiftly toward the farthest corner of the room, jaw clenched, pulse unsteady. As the music for the next dance swelled through the ballroom, Jeremy closed his eyes and drew in a steadying breath, determined to preserve his composure for the remainder of the evening.
He found himself in Andrew’s company nearly an hour later. The two stood in quiet companionship, each nursing a glass of wine as they observed the scene unfolding before them: Aaron, unmistakably delighted, being spun about the floor by a no less attentive Mr. Day. It was their second dance in a row together that night—three dances within little more than an hour—a frequency that left little doubt as to where Mr. Day’s interests lay. Should anyone have required further proof, the gentle smile upon his face and the respectful placement of his hand at Aaron’s waist during the bow would have settled the matter at once.
Jeremy watched the exchange with a small smile, more than happy to see that one of them was having a good night.
Andrew snorted softly into his wine. “Perhaps it is fitting you were deemed unattractive by the wealthiest man in the room. Is this not precisely the sort of humiliation your tragic novels delight in?”
Jeremy sighed, regretting, once again, that he had confided in his brother at all. This marked the third occasion Andrew had raised the subject, though it was perhaps a mercy that Laila was no longer at his side to join in the amusement. She was presently engaged in animated conversation on the dance floor with Catalina Alvarez, her attention so wholly captured that she spared not a glance in their direction.
“As though the men in those books could be compared to that,” Jeremy muttered, inclining his chin toward the opposite side of the room.
Jean Moreau stood there in quiet conversation with his younger brother, and Jeremy knew he was lying to himself even as the thought formed. Moreau might as well have stepped straight from the pages of a novel—damnably handsome, composed with an ease that commanded attention without effort. It would have been far kinder to Jeremy’s pride had the man been even passably plain, but he was the precise opposite, and keenly aware of it.
The crowd proved as much. Eyes followed him openly, admiration barely disguised, as his commanding height and effortless confidence paired with a face that was almost haunting in its beauty. Conversations stalled around him, guests scrambling for the smallest chance at his attention, as though merely standing near Jean Moreau were an honor in itself.
Jeremy had never witnessed so many hopeful parents approach a single gentleman in so short a span of time, nor so many polite refusals delivered with such apparent charm. Whatever reply Moreau offered them was clearly far gentler than the one Jeremy himself had received, for each family departed smiling faintly, murmuring together as they withdrew. Jeremy caught himself watching the movement of Moreau’s jaw as he spoke, only to be jolted back to himself when Andrew drove a sharp elbow into his side.
Jeremy hissed. Andrew merely scoffed. “You might at least have the decency to appear offended.”
Jeremy sniffed softly, his gaze returning to the dance floor where Aaron laughed freely in Kevin Day’s company. “I hate him,” he said at last.
Andrew sighed and took a measured drink of his wine before replying, “You are beginning to sound like me. Forgive me, brother, but there can only be one thoroughly disagreeable person in this family, and that position is already filled.”
Jeremy rolled his eyes and cast a sideways glance at the shorter blond beside him before looking once more across the room. His attention lingered briefly on the two brothers standing apart from the dancers. When his eyes met a sharp, icy blue gaze, he hummed thoughtfully. “The younger brother keeps looking at you.”
Andrew hummed in return, unimpressed. “How dull.”
Jeremy watched as Neil Josten murmured something to his elder brother before stepping away. Jean Moreau remained behind, observing him go. Mr. Josten approached them directly and stopped before Andrew, extending a hand and inclining his head in a polite bow.
“May I request the next dance, Mr. Minyard?”
He held the position with admirable patience while Andrew regarded both his face and his offered hand with unmistakable disinterest. Jeremy observed the exchange only from the corner of his eye, his attention drawn instead to Moreau, who watched the scene with focused interest. For a fleeting moment, their eyes met. Jeremy felt an unwelcome shiver trace its way down his spine, which he countered by steadying his gaze and tightening his expression. Moreau responded with a faint frown.
The silent staring contest was broken by Andrew’s calm reply.
“No, thank you, Mr. Josten.”
Jeremy turned just in time to see his brother move away, the suddenness of it sending a ripple of murmurs through the nearby crowd. He watched the familiar sweep of blond hair vanish through the front doors before hastily turning to Neil Josten, who remained where he stood, his expression unreadable.
“I do apologize,” Jeremy said quickly, offering a brief bow. “He has been unwell since earlier. Please excuse us.”
With that, he followed Andrew.
He found him leaning against a pillar near the entrance, his face betraying no particular feeling about the encounter. Jeremy joined him without comment, resting his shoulder lightly against the stone. After a moment, Andrew shifted closer, allowing their shoulders to press fully together—a quiet, familiar comfort. Jeremy breathed out slowly.
Andrew’s gaze was fixed on the courtyard beyond, where horses snorted and hooves struck the ground as a carriage departed. Jeremy looked instead to the sky, lifting his arm to gesture toward the moon and tracing the faint outlines of nearby constellations. Andrew followed the movement with his eyes, nodding once or twice, offering no commentary.
They stood until a voice, breathless and bright, interrupted them.
“Do you know how long I have been searching for the both of you?”
Jeremy turned to find Aaron approaching, his cheeks flushed and his eyes alight. He had come to rest on Andrew’s other side, bracing a hand against the pillar.
“Oh, forgive us,” Jeremy said lightly. “We did not wish to interrupt your very enthusiastic dancing.”
Aaron swatted at his shoulder over Andrew’s head, his expression darkening. Jeremy laughed and puckered his lips, making an exaggerated kissing sound in mock affection, which earned him another, harder shove.
“And you,” Aaron said, turning to Andrew, “kindly mock me so we can move past this.”
Andrew merely shook his head and reached up to rub roughly at Aaron’s hair. Aaron protested loudly, swearing under his breath as he tried and failed to escape.
Jeremy watched them for a moment longer, warmth settling softly in his chest, before lifting his gaze once more to the moon and letting his eyes fall closed. His brothers’ familiar bickering drifted around him, oddly reassuring, and he thought that whatever else the night might yet hold, this was enough to carry him through it.