by Megan Derr
Watching From Afar,
A pale and distant Star
*~*~*
So does it still feel good to be champion?" Cressida asked, taking a sip of champagne as she regarded him with amusement.
She really was beautiful; Pierce could well understand why so many of his friends were confused as to why he hadn't asked for her hand in marriage. Platinum hair, blue eyes, a figure that nearly every other woman in the room envied, resplendent in her white and silver dress with diamonds in her hair and at her throat…
…and her heart long ago given to a poor boy who had run away to make his fortune so that he could ask for her hand in marriage and be given it.
"Lady St. Rose," interjected his friend, Tobin. "I don't suppose you would honor me with a dance this evening?"
Cressida smiled at him and gave him her hand to be bowed over. "Of course I will dance with you, my good marquis. First, however, I must claim a dance with our champion before I lose him to the unmarried wolves in the crowd."
The men all chuckled, one accepting her glass of champagne as she presented her hand to Pierce.
Rolling his eyes, he took the offered hand and led her out to the dance floor. "How are you, poppet?"
Cressida rolled her eyes as they began to dance. "Well enough; Daddy is getting much worse about this whole marriage thing. I wish Seymour would hurry and return."
Pierce sighed and shook his head. "As do I. Hopefully nothing further will delay him and we can finally bring this all to a close."
"Let us hope Daddy does not make too much of a fuss about it." Cressida grimaced. "I would like to be a happily married woman without having to kill people in the process. Killing is vulgar and I try hard not to be vulgar."
"Merely improper," Pierce replied.
Cressida nodded. "Precisely."
Laughing and shaking his head, Pierce fell silent and simply danced. It was nice to dance with someone who was not after him or eager to hear all about his mysterious, reclusive brother or long-dead scandalous parents.
He and Cressida had been friends since he was thirteen and she eleven, when they had met at a creek that divided their family lands. Cautious conversation had turned into romping around the creek, ending eventually in a battle over who would rule it. Gideon had laughed hysterically to see him covered head to foot in mud, all the harder to hear the reason behind it.
They had been teased before as being fond of each other in a romantic sense, but they never had been—because the second day of their friendship, they had been joined by Seymour, the son of a poor baron with a reputation bad enough that even Gideon would not tolerate the man. So the mischief had begun, all those years ago.
The dance ended and Pierce bowed low over Cressida's hand as she curtsied. Into her hand he pressed the folded up letter he had received on her behalf the day before. "Where shall I take you, my lady, now that you've had your dance?"
"Better take me back to my parents," Cressida sighed, adjusting her skirts to discreetly tuck the letter away. "I should nip this in the bud before they start asking after your intentions." She looked up at him. "What are your intentions, Pierce? We always talk about me, me, me. What about you? Any lord or lady catching your eye? Did no one give you a…personal congratulation on your victory?"
Pierce rolled his eyes. "You are a lady, unwed at that, and should not be asking such base questions."
"Pish posh," Cressida retorted. "Tell me or I shall harass you relentlessly."
"Don't I know it," Pierce muttered. "Fine, I shall tell you. Later." He bowed again as they reached her parents—and a third party, one Pierce was surprised to see. He nodded in greeting. "Silver."
"Pierce." Silver St. Rose was Pierce's age and they likely would have grown up together, if not for the drama surrounding the death of Pierce's parents and the way he had seldom left the grounds of Foxwood. That and they were as different as night and day.
Pierce's life was fencing, interspersed with all manner of other athletics. Shortly, he would be leaving for the coast to spend the majority of his summer on his yacht. Silver was most likely off to yet another academy or university or what all to further his studies—which were great and varied. He gave lectures nearly as often as he attended them. Silver was to learning what Pierce was to fencing. He was also as beautiful as the rest of his family, who had always outshone the other jewels about them. He had the same platinum blond hair and blue eyes as Cressida, but the fine hair was cropped close and nonsensical, the eyes cool and reserved.
Yet another reason for their distance was the monocle Silver wore over his right eye—the result of a childhood accident on a rare day when Silver had joined them at the creek. He could still see out of the eye, but not well. Pierce wasn't certain that Silver had ever really forgiven him for the mishap.
He watched Silver a moment more, looking for some cue, some indication, some clue as to what to say, if he should say anything at all…but Silver was nothing like Cressida, whom he understood so easily. He was a mystery Pierce could not solve; he sensed Silver had no desire to be solved.
Stifling a sigh, because he always felt vaguely guilty and more than a little confused that he could befriend the sister, but not the brother, he turned back to Cressida and her parents, making polite chitchat for a few minutes before finally extracting himself. Looking out over the crowded room, Pierce gave a brief thought to the writer of his letters, wondering if he—because it was definitely a he, that much was certain—was here, maybe watching him. Oh, that thought heated his blood.
He reminded himself to behave as he approached a girl who had been sneaking him hopeful looks for a while now. So the night went, dancing with various people and occasionally snatching a chance to talk to Gideon and Artemis—once even getting into a prolonged conversation that included Prince Benedict and his lover. At last, everything began to wind down enough that he could make his escape, waving a farewell to Gideon and saying his final thanks where necessary, before slipping away with his friends to carouse their way through the bars and hells and a pleasure house or two.
It was a mere hour or so before dawn when Pierce finally dragged himself back to his room, exhausted and wrung out, but quite sated and pleased with the night. Pushing open his door, he paused to look at the floor only from sheer habit—and was astonished to see a familiar envelope lying on the floor. The lingering haze from a trifle too much drink abruptly dulled and Pierce knelt to retrieve the letter. He fumbled getting it open, nearly tripping as he focused more on the letter than on his feet. Landing awkwardly on his bed, he swore softly and righted himself, sitting with his back against the headboard. Setting the letter aside momentarily, he struggled to get his boots off, stripping down to his linen shirt while he was at it. At last comfortable, or relatively anyway, he retrieved the letter and broke the seal.
Pierce was silent as he finished reading, frowning in thought. Throughout all of the letters, he had been troubled most by the underlying sadness in them. It was more obvious in some than others, but always invariably there…this one definitely held more of it than usual. Oh, it was still full of those things he always expressed…but there was more of that terrible sadness than usual. Pierce couldn't understand it; he wasn't standoffish or strict or anything of the sort. Hell, all one needed to do was look at Gideon and Artemis—more than a few had been scandalized that an earl would take up with his brother's tutor. Never mind all the stories Gideon had told him over the years about their parents…
Why did the writer feel like he couldn't approach? Pierce read the letter again, happiness of the evening leeched away by the tangle of emotions stirred by his strange admirer. He'd tried before to deduce the man's identity several times, because surely someone who did something like this wanted, on some level, to be found out? Damn it, he didn't care who the man was—high class, middle class, low class…although he was -899kjinclined to think high class, for there was something about the penmanship, the manner of speech, and the costly vellum itself…
&nb
sp; It was stupid to fall in love with a man who hid behind amorous letters, but Pierce feared that was exactly what he'd done. The writer seemed to know him so well; more than once his letters had been filled with exactly what Pierce needed to hear—kind words, stern words, thoughtful, intimate… Pierce ached for a face to put to them, and was deathly afraid he would never solve the riddle.
Why did his admirer insist upon remaining pale and distant?
*~*~*
Oh, they are insufferable!" Cressida kicked petulantly at a nearby tree, glaring at it when that only resulted in sore toes.
Pierce sighed and buried his face in his hands. "They are truly serious about this marriage thing?"
"Yes," Cressida said with a grimace, finally moving to sit next to him on the garden bench. "They think I am dallying and flittering about and taking nothing seriously." She propped her chin in one hand and gave a long sigh. "I very nearly told them that I am already betrothed."
"You came to your senses in time?"
Cressida nodded. "I made myself take several sips of tea, and by the time I had finished, I'd recovered myself."
Pierce took her hand and squeezed it affectionately. "They will come to their senses, poppet. I still say perhaps all of this subterfuge is not entirely necessary. In the end, they want only your happiness."
"Yes, I know," Cressida sighed. "I wish we could have done without all of this nonsense, but I do not want to cause an upheaval until he is here."
He squeezed her hand once more, and then released it, reaching into his morning coat and pulling out a letter. "Here, perhaps this contains some good news."
"Oh!" Cressida brightened as she took the letter, tearing it open and reading the contents voraciously. "He's on his way home!" She looked up Pierce, eyes gleaming with tears. "As of this writing, he's getting on a ship. He'll be home in about a month."
"To judge from the date of the letter," Pierce said, taking it from her and skimming the contents, "it will be more like three weeks. Hopefully nothing delays him." He handed it back. "Good. In three weeks, you can wear that ring of yours." He tugged at one of her platinum curls. "I will keep an eye on all incoming ships and let you know the moment his arrives."
Cressida smiled and tucked the letter away in her dress, then folded her hands primly on her lap. "That is that, then. Now, Pierce; you have put off your own affairs long enough."
Pierce groaned. "I'm not telling you anything."
"Oh, that's means there's something to tell."
"I hate you."
Cressida beamed. "Tell."
"Oh, for—what does it matter? I'd say it's pretty obvious that I have nothing resembling a love life."
Cressida pursed her lips. "Which is odd, really. I know for a fact that every available person flitting about this Season would gladly accept any offer you made."
Pierce rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous."
"Honestly," Cressida replied, motioning impatiently. "You cannot be that oblivious to your own popularity, nevermind the money, and the title that will come to you eventually. Tell me why a famous fencer, the most eligible and popular bachelor around, is alone. Are you pining?" She winked. "Have you a lover as secret as mine?" The teasing smile turned into a playful pout. "Why have you not told me?"
With a longsuffering sigh, Pierce gave up. He had been longing to tell someone anyway and he'd known this would come up after they talked about Seymour. Slowly, he explained the letters he had been receiving for the past couple of years.
"Did you bring one with you?" she asked when he had finished. "You must have known that I would pester you."
"Oh, I knew, all right," He pulled out the letter that he had received after the ball two weeks ago, because he would not show her the more ardent ones even under pain of death. "I'm not showing you all of them…"
Cressida snickered, but didn't reply as she fell into reading the letter.
As she finished however, her brow furrowed, a pensive frown on her face as she finished. "Watching from afar, a pale and distant star? Pretty…"
"What's wrong?" Pierce asked cautiously, not liking the expression. "You'd better not be about to say something that will dash my hopes." He tucked the letter away.
"Not a bit," Cressida smiled. "That phrase just sounds familiar, is all."
Pierce froze, breath catching. "What? Familiar? How do you mean familiar? How do you know it?"
Cressida shrugged, looking away, that pensive frown still on her face. "I can't recall just yet." She turned back and beamed at him, reaching up to pat his cheek. "It'll come to me."
"I hope so," Pierce frowned. "I would really like to know who he is."
"Mm," Cressida hummed.
Sighing, disliking the feeling that she was withholding something—especially after he had finally broken down and told her about the letters—Pierce stood up. "I must be off; there are three gentlemen waiting to taste bitter defeat at the tip of my rapier."
"Go, then, and I hope your day is a good one. Will I see you at the Waterston ball tonight?"
Pierce grimaced. "Very likely. Gideon says that I am not allowed to avoid all this frippery."
"Frippery provides good stories to gossip about over tea the next morning, and if you are a young miss in need of a husband, frippery is a battlefield." She clapped her hands together and gave rather an evil grin. "There is a rumor going round that the Marquis of Asbury will be proposing to Celeste Caruthers tonight. My money is that he will propose to Jane McArthur instead."
Grimacing, Pierce turned and fled the garden, chased out by Cressida's taunting cackles. He returned to the palace and changed quickly into his fencing garb, taking his sword down to the dueling areas and throwing himself enthusiastically into it.
Hours later, a halt was finally called, and Pierce exchanged pleasantries and accepted compliments for the next hour or so. When the men at last all took their leave, he gathered his things and headed back to his room. Rather than the main hallways, he cut right outside the dueling area and headed in the direction of the library, intending to take the stairs just beyond it. The route was quieter, less used, and at this time of day, he was not likely to see anyone. But as he passed by the library itself, someone called his name. It wasn't a voice he heard often, but the cool, precise, clipped tone was familiar all the same. He turned slowly around and sketched a brief bow.
"Silver."
"Pierce," Silver replied, returning his bow. "I wonder if I might have a word with you, regarding my sister."
Brows going up and stifling a groan at where this might possibly lead, Pierce nevertheless nodded. "Of course. If you will give me a moment to freshen up, I will return to speak with you."
"Of course. I apologize for delaying you, but I wanted to catch you before someone else did."
"I'll be back in a moment," Pierce replied, and continued on his way, frowning. He cleaned and changed quickly, worry growing all the while. Damn it, what did Silver want? He had never inquired into Pierce and Cressida's relationship before. Indeed, he didn't even seem to care about it, one way or another. Silver was the very definition of cool and remote; he seemed made of ice at times.
Perhaps it was only Pierce's own guilt coloring his perception; he had thought so before. It was his fault that Silver's vision was half-ruined, after all, and everyone had considered it strange that Pierce got along so well with the younger sister, but not the brother who was his own age.
Bah. Maybe this conversation would result in some positive change. He doubted it, but anything was possible.
Smoothing down his velvet afternoon jacket, a simple, understated deep brown, Pierce pulled on his boots and combed through his hair one last time before finally returning to the library. Silver sat in a small alcove on the second level, a wide balcony area where people often gathered to quietly converse over tea. Pierce had seldom come here himself; books required sitting still and that wasn't something he did even remotely well. Only Artemis had ever been able to make him study with any sort of focu
s.
Silver really was handsome, but as always, he reminded Pierce more of a marble statue or austere painting. Nothing like bright, vibrant Cressida.
"Silver," he greeted, taking the seat clearly meant for him.
Closing the book he'd been reading, something in a language Pierce didn't recognize, Silver looked up at him. "Pierce. Thank you for being agreeable enough to speak with me. I apologize if I am interfering with any plans."
"Not at all," Pierce replied, helping himself to the tea tray and wishing he could have a more substantial meal. He took a sip as he sat back and motioned for Silver to continue speaking—and paused, briefly startled. He'd been expecting the standard tea blend most commonly drunk around the palace. It was good, but he much preferred a stronger blend himself. He'd know the taste and aroma of his favorite Rutherford & Stone blend anywhere.
Odd. He'd no idea Silver favored it as well.
"I am nipping a potential problem in the bud, if you will," Silver said, regarding him with that unreadable expression Pierce found so frustrating. He read people easily. It was part of the reason he got along so well in society. Silver he could not figure out and that only made it all the more awkward to be around him. "My parents seem determined to think that you and my sister are an ideal match. While I certainly see their logic, I do not agree."
Pierce's brows went up at that. "I should think by this point it is quite clear that Cressida and I are friends, with no interest in being spouses. She is a sister to me, Silver, surely you know that."
"I know nothing except that my sister has not been happy of late and my every inquiry into the reason for her discontent is met with harsh rebuff. She is being pressured by my parents to select a suitor and settle down. They seem confident that you are merely being slow in putting forth your own offer. As I said, however, although I see their logic, there are flaws in it."
"Oh?" Pierce asked. "I have already stated that I have no amorous intentions toward your sister, but do tell me these flaws."
Silver regarded him coolly, the eye behind the monocle slightly darker than the other. It was a barrier all its own, that monocle, somehow only adding to the frustrating mystery that was Silver—someone who by all rights should be his friend, and instead only vexed him.