by Megan Derr
The silence that fell as he paused was the most painfully loud thing Kirian had ever heard or endured. This day had only lacked his being told he was a complete failure to make it the worst day ever; well, now that was addressed. Splendid.
"What I want is to see my two finest students obtain the success they deserve. With that in mind, I devised the marriage scheme," Grayson said, and pulled out a sheaf of papers that he had until then kept in his desk. It took only a glance to see it was much like the papers Kirian had seen Terrell reading over for the past month—a wedding contract. The bloody fucking nerve of the man! "Marry for, oh, I suggest a period of three years?" Grayson said it so casually, but he wasn't fooling anyway—the bastard had obviously been scheming this for quite some time. But why? "That will take you through the rest of school and the Literary Tour, and after that you can do as you like."
It was Thiering who said, "This is absurd. There are countless better ways we can improve our standing with the board. An impulsive marriage is a bit beyond the pale, I should think."
"On the contrary," Grayson countered. "It would show a surprising amount of impulsiveness and hot feeling from someone notoriously cold and indifferent. It would show a startling amount of commitment and devotion from someone hot-tempered and inconstant. If that is not sufficient reason, then I will put it to you even more plainly: do this or the board will see you as unfit, no matter what I say in your defense. Lord Thiering, you are so indifferent to life, you do not live it. Mr. Leffew, you are too busy burning down everything around you. Do this or I will hold you back until I believe you have matured enough to move on. I will not see two such fine men ruin their own lives. Is that plain enough for you?"
Kirian felt sick to his stomach. He didn't want to be married to anyone under circumstances like this—damn it, was it really too much to ask that he just wanted someone to love him? Was that really so stupid and trite a want? Bitterness clawed at him, hate making his blood run cold as he forced out the words, "Yes, sir."
"I do not understand why you are doing this," Thiering said quietly. "It is not your place, even as our advisor, to treat us so and force our hands in so important a matter."
"What do you care, frosted over as you are? It will only help your career and that is all that matters to you." Grayson pushed the papers across the desk. "I will tell you why I am doing this: because you are two of the finest students in the school, but will never amount to anything since you refuse to budge from the courses you have set. Do you not think it strange that you two have never properly met? You are my shining stars, and yet you are strangers to one another. You spend more time ignoring the world, or fighting it, than being part of it. I want to see you both succeed. If I have to be unorthodox about it, then I will." He stood, ending the matter and dismissing them. "Go home. You have the night to think about it. If you are smart, as I know you both can occasionally be, you will agree. As I doubt either of you has anyone you care to inform, I believe we will see everything done at the end of the week. Do dress appropriately for it, gentlemen."
Standing, Kirian fled the room, shaking all the way back through the halls to the front doors. Outside, he stormed down the steps—but the sound of someone calling his name drew him up short. "What?" he snarled, whipping around to glare furiously at Thiering, more than willing to strike at whatever target presented itself.
Thiering only stared implacably back, unreadable and unaffected. It drew Kirian up short, to be presented with so cool a manner. Even Mr. Practical showed emotion, showed he cared even as he was insisting upon 'practical this' and 'logical that'. Thiering, however…
Thiering, Kirian was suddenly forced to recall, wrote letters that were the exact opposite of frigid to Frederick Cloud. "What?" he repeated, temper moderated slightly.
"I wondered if you wanted to see if we could not devise a way out of this predicament," Thiering said levelly.
"There is no way out of it," Kirian replied. Not true, and the knowledge was choking him. All he had to do was admit he was Frederick Cloud and show proof of that—not hard—and Grayson would let him off the hook and the devil take them all.
He did not want that. His stupid book of poetry had been a lark, something he had only done to try and make a bit of extra money. Terrell was the one who had explained how it 'only made sense' and 'was worth a try' and had assured him constantly that his stupid poems and his damned sketches were not at all a complete wash. It was only because Terrell thought lying impractical that Kirian had believed him.
Then his damned book had become so ridiculously popular he couldn't stand it. He'd given up going to the weekly poetry readings because all they seemed to do anymore was read his poems and then debate them endlessly—and they never read them correctly—and he really did not like being famous at all. Was it stupid to want to be liked for being Kirian and not for goddamned bloody Frederick?
How, precisely, had he wound up hating himself so much? It made his head throb.
"My father will not tolerate our family name being—"
Kirian, who had half-turned away to resume returning to his room, whipped back around again and demanded, "What? Being besmirched by attaching yourself to me? By marrying me? Oh, yes, the mighty Dukedom will crumble if the youngest bloody son marries someone as lowly as me! To hell with you, then!" He resisted the urge to break that pretty little nose only because he was simply too tired to bother.
Storming down the steps, Kirian charged back down the stone path that wove through the trees and shrubs decorating the western portion of the campus in great quantity. He jerked in surprise and anger as someone grabbed his arm and yanked, half-turning, half-tumbling around, only to crash against Thiering. Looking up, staring through the strands of hair which had come loose from the ribbon binding them, he met Thiering's icy gaze unflinching.
"If you had given me a chance to finish what I was saying," Thiering said coolly, "I was going to say that my father would not tolerate our family name being besmirched by what amounts to little more than blackmail. Neither of us deserves to be treated so crassly."
"Oh." Kirian felt stupid, which only irritated him further. "I do not think it matters. We are being successfully blackmailed." He jerked away from the grip Thiering still had on him, but did not break their gaze. It was too dark out here for him to properly see Thiering—but he could feel him and smell him. So close, Thiering did not seem to radiate cold. Quite the opposite, in fact. He smelled warm, too—like apples and cinnamon, a hint of clove. Not what Kirian would have expected; it was rather nice.
"If you think your family will get you out of it, then by all means go and plead your case to them," Kirian continued. "It makes no never mind to me." Gods, family. He cringed to think of the letter he would be getting from his aunt—not that he worried about them finally taking away his school funding. He didn't care about the money; he never had. All that he wanted from his parents, he possessed. He hated the awful things his aunt and uncle said to him, and mostly because they could not say them to his parents.
Suddenly, he was too tired and worn out to deal with it. He didn't care. It was probably practical for him to take a good marriage where he could find it—he was certain his aunt and uncle would continue to tolerate him if he was married to the fourth son of a Duke. Terrell would tell him it was a sound match. No one else would care, except Thiering's family, who would hate him on sight, if not well before.
"Take me away, take me away," he muttered, rubbing at his temples, wishing someone would take him away. Maybe then he could at last finish the poem to which those words belonged and be done with his second volume. "Do send round a note, when you have spoken to your father." He turned away and stalked off.
Once finally safe in his room, Kirian stripped down to his shirtsleeves and poured a shot of whiskey. Tossing it straight back, he poured another and tossed that back as well. Pouring a third, he wandered over to the little chair and ottoman by his bedroom's one window, looking down into the shadowy garden below.
He picked up his whiskey again and took a sip, then a second one before setting it aside again. Bending over the paper, he huffed irritably when hair and ribbon tumbled over his shoulder, getting in his way. Jerking the dangling ribbon out, he cast it aside and shoved his hair to fall over the other shoulder. Then he bent over the poem, absently worrying his bottom lip as he worked, writing and scratching out, muttering and cursing and finally tossing it all aside in disgust. It was never going to work, and he should be grateful—perhaps stupid Frederick Cloud would fade away and stop plaguing him.
Kirian loved his work, he really did…he just hadn't expected to become famous for it and to be stuck in the mess he had made of the whole damned thing. Damn it, he was tired of thinking about it. Couldn't his mind switch off for just a little while?
Resigned to the fact that no, it could not, Kirian rose to fetch his sketchbook and a better pencil for drawing, then reclaimed his seat and took another couple sips of whiskey. Thus fortified, he began idly to sketch. A couple of minutes in, he realized he was sketching Thiering.
Well, why not? The man was on his mind, for obvious reasons. Thiering was nothing like his letters to Frederick Cloud, but he supposed it must be easy to show a degree of warmth to a man he would never meet. How would Thiering react if he knew he was being blackmailed into marrying the poet and artist he so admired? Would he be a trifle more willing? Would he promptly hate Frederick Cloud for actually being Kirian Leffew? The thought twisted in his stomach and he gave up that line of thought before he depressed himself further.
Sighing, Kirian continued to work, unable not to be meticulous and careful in what he did, working steadily to capture on paper that first glimpse as he'd stepped into Grayson's office, that pretty profile of a frozen face. He was just pondering whether it was worth it to get out his inks and make a proper job of it when there came a knock at the door. Who the devil would be bothering him at this hour? Probably someone for Terrell, although he could not think who had ever bothered Terrell so late and did not know he had gone home for the week.
Irritated, Kirian climbed to his feet, shoving his hair from his face as he left his bedroom and crossed the sitting room to yank the door open. He blinked. "Yes?"
"May I come in?" Thiering asked, his expression and tone of voice giving nothing away.
Kirian nodded and stepped back, permitting Thiering to pass. The apples and cinnamon scent washed over him again, that hint of clove teasing. He shook his head to clear it, and then realized that had been a mistake, given how much whiskey he'd had on an empty stomach.
Realizing he had no idea of the time, Kirian glanced at the clock over the mantel, eyes widening in surprise. He glanced back at Thiering. "What in the world are you doing here at two in the morning? How did you even know I'd be up?"
"I didn't," Thiering replied. "I came by to leave a note and saw you sitting in the window."
Kirian flushed, ducking his head to hide it, furious that he would be so disconcerted—and by what? The image of Thiering standing outside staring up at him through the window? There was nothing about which to be disconcerted, yet he felt his cheeks heat all the more.
"My father has said he has no interest in solving my problems for me," Thiering said, as cool as ever. "If we are to find ourselves a way out of this mess, it is solely up to us. I am sorry."
"For what?" Kirian asked, surprised. "I admit I am surprised your father would tolerate you being married to me, but that is hardly your fault." He was, in fact, completely astonished. The story of Kirian's parents and their scandalous elopement was still talked about, and more than a few people would have little to nothing to do with him except to provoke a duel. He did not know much, but he knew Thiering's family should not be so uncaring about Thiering being made to marry him.
As to that, though, hadn't Terrell mentioned some sort of scandal in Thiering's past? Surely it had not been so bad as all that, to the point they felt clear to abandon him to his advisor's manipulations? Kirian would have to ask Terrell more about it when he returned, even though he positively cringed to think about telling Terrell of this latest mess.
Thiering shrugged, only asking, "I do not suppose you have come upon a solution to get us out of this mess?"
Kirian shook his head, stifling an irritated sigh. "No, I have not. I think we are stuck, much as it chafes me to admit it." Married, and to a frozen stranger who thawed only in letters to a man he thought he did not know ... He truly hated Frederick, Kirian thought sourly. As surely as he hated anyone, he hated his other self.
Turning away from those irritating thoughts, Kirian glanced again at Thiering, who had fallen into a moody silence, staring at the rugs as though he feared they might rise up and smother him. For some reason, Kirian fought a sudden urge to fetch paper and pencil and sketch that gloomy but so pretty countenance. Icy demeanor notwithstanding, Thiering was beautiful and it was the sort of beauty that would convert well to pencil, ink, watercolor, and oil. Kirian seldom dabbled in art to that degree, much preferring to keep to pencil and ink, but he was suddenly tempted.
If only Thiering would thaw, their temporary marriage might not be entirely unbearable. If he acted more like those letters… "Perhaps we should just go along with it," Kirian abruptly said, before wondering what the hell was wrong with him. He loathed arranged marriage, he loathed being blackmailed—he loathed the entire situation.
Clearly he had overindulged in whiskey.
Thiering looked at him as though he had gone mad. "You were ready to clock Grayson a good one only a few hours ago and now suddenly you want to cooperate?"
"We've both admitted that, short of your father's interference, there is nothing we can do to get out of it. Grayson does not issue idle threats; if we do not go along with it then we will find ourselves in dire academic straits and neither of us wants that."
Emotions he could not quite follow flickered across Thiering's face, but Kirian thought he caught snatches of pain, longing—loneliness. Like Thiering thought the Literary Tour the path to something more. Or perhaps Kirian really did need to leave off the whiskey for a bit. Thiering was right. Just a few hours ago—hell just a few minutes ago—he had been against it. Why was he suddenly going all soft and sentimental? Because Thiering had a pretty face? Ridiculous.
But curiosity—to that Kirian had to reluctantly admit. He wanted to see the warmth he read in the letters to Frederick. He wanted to see, suddenly, if Thiering hid things beneath his veneer the same as Kirian did. They would be married, they would be in close proximity; maybe he could convince Thiering to like Kirian just as much as he liked Frederick.
As ever, Kirian's curiosity, his impulsiveness, was going to get him into trouble. A marriage by blackmail could only lead to disaster. But he either did something to its full extent or nothing at all, and he knew that. He had poured everything he had into Frederick Cloud, and while that name might have currently been the bane of his existence, it was also his greatest joy. If he was going to be forced into this damnable marriage with the coldest man he had ever met, then he was going to make an honest effort at being married. He would not do it by half, for that would make it a living hell, and it was already going to be difficult enough.
Kirian stood up abruptly, heart thudding in his chest and pounding in his ears as he wondered yet again what the hell was wrong with him that he would turn about so rapidly—so out of nowhere. But every way he played the situation, it came down to the same basic facts: there was no way out of it that would not do more harm than good to the both of them. If he admitted he was Frederick Cloud, he would be free and clear—but that would leave Thier
ing suffering and he did not want to admit he was Frederick Cloud, anyway. So they would have to marry. With that fact established, he could endure and make the best of it; after all, he did not want to be more miserable than was strictly necessary for the next few years. He'd had enough of that and he wasn't going to willfully pile still more misery upon himself. People might say he liked to heap trouble on his own head, but that wasn't true.
In his room, Kirian opened his jewelry case and pulled out the only two rings in it, other than his signet. He ran his thumb over the rings—plain bands, free of any adornment, because after his father had refused his fiancé and run away with Kirian's mother, they had been too poor for fancy rings. Years later, when they'd had real money again, they still had never replaced the plain bands with something finer.
Was it wrong to use these rings for this farcical marriage? But Kirian didn't want to wear some empty, meaningless bauble on his finger. He was eccentric for his thoughts on marriage, he knew that, +but he didn't care. His marriage would never be what he wanted, but if he was going to do it, then damn it, he would do the best he could.
Turning around with the rings in hand, he strode back to the doorway—and froze, startled by Thiering. Alone, with no reason to keep his guard up, Thiering was anything but frozen. Instead, he stared at the sketch on the wall by Frederick Cloud, fondness and longing and wistfulness naked on his face.
Kirian had never been jealous of Frederick before. He hated his other self, the entire debacle—but it was stupid to be jealous of himself. Yet now he stood feeling that very thing. He wanted to know why Thiering looked that way when thinking of Frederick and why no one ever thought maybe Kirian deserved a look like that.
Damn it, he would make Thiering forget about bloody Frederick Cloud. He drew back a few steps, and then approached the door more noisily, leaving the bedroom and rejoining a now cool-looking Thiering in the sitting room. Moving to the sideboard, he poured them each a small measure of brandy, then handed one glass to Thiering before displaying the rings. "I think we are in this, like it or not, my lord. This is all I have for betrothal rings; if we wear them, that will stir gossip over the next days until the actual wedding. I can procure adequate rings by that time and everyone will say I am exactly like my parents."