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Chapter Text

'm afraid none of these are worth the paper they're printed on, Louis,” Mr. Duran said, brandishing the copies of the deeds. He was a stout man in his mid-fifties, with a kindly plump face and wiry grey hairs on his temple. Louis was usually very fond of him, but not so much at this very moment. “They are all obsolete,” Mr. Duran continued, “having either already been cashed out or resold by your father.”

Louis had found the deeds among his father’s things, as he had tried to sort through the mountain of paperwork his father had left behind. It was three months already since his father’s passing, but the family affairs were very much still in disarray and Louis was failing miserably to make any headway with it. Today’s visit to his father's banker had been his last hope, and it was proving to be an utter disaster.

“But surely with the income from the estate accruing for all these years,” Louis protested weakly, “And all of Papa’s other investments, there has to be—”

“The estate can hardly generate enough income to allow you and the family to live comfortably. Not to mention that your father had taken out substantial loans against the land, and the house itself. It is a miracle that you were able to retain the property in its entirety.”

When he saw the look of dismay on Louis’s face, Mr. Duran’s tone gentled. “I’m sorry Louis, but I cannot find any assets from your father beyond the estate and the meagre contents of his bank account.”

“What of the girls’ dowry?” Louis asked. His voice tremblied as he felt his panic rising. “They were to have five thousand pounds each.”

“I’m afraid that will no longer be a possibility. Based on the income from the Pointe du Lac estate, the most they can hope for is a hundred pounds each. That is assuming of course, that you can manage to cover all the other outstanding debts your father left behind—the wages for the workers, the expense for new crop...”

“My father never informed me of any of this.”

“Yes, so I gather.” Mr. Duran patted his hand in a comforting gesture that only made Louis feel worse. “I truly am sorry, Louis. But the facts are as I’ve stated them to you.”

“So how much is left?” Louis asked after a moment of tense silence.

“Well, I have paid off the funeral expenses and settled all other outstanding accounts your father had with us. And I will, of course, be waving my own fee...”

“Mr. Duran, there is no need—”

“There is every need,” the old man insisted gently. “You will have in your possession somewhere in the region of five hundred pounds. That is, on top of whatever income the estate can generate this coming year.”

Louis could feel himself close to tears, which he knew would be most unbecoming, and the final straw to crown off all the humiliation he was already enduring. How would he possibly explain this to the girls? That their prospects were now significantly reduced due to their own father’s selfishness. How would he explain it to Paul, who was so set on entering the church soon, that Louis could no longer provide him sufficient money to do so? And how would he explain it to his mother? How would he tell her that her husband had betrayed her and that the comfortable lifestyle she was accustomed to would have to come to an abrupt end?

Louis had known his father was prone to gambling, and that he was fond of investing in dubious schemes that often proved to be nothing but smoke and mirrors. But he had never suspected the full extent of it. He felt as if his entire world was crumbling around him—as if the life he had been living until now was nothing but a childish fantasy.

“Thank you, Mr. Duran,” he said, gathering himself enough to give the man a firm handshake.

“I'm sorry I could not be more help,” the old man said, standing up shakily to walk Louis to the door.

“What are you going to do?” Jonah asked an hour later, sitting up in the narrow bed to look down at Louis’s face. His hair was beautifully mussed out of its usual careful comb, and in the dim candlelight, his big brown eyes looked so guileless, filled with nothing but concern and sympathy.

The small inn room was quiet, save for the occasional faint drunken conversations rising from the taproom below. Louis looked at the flickering candle on the bedside table, which was now burnt down to a stump. This was another facet of his life that was abruptly coming to an end. Jonah was leaving in the morning to join the militia, and for all Louis knew, this would be the last of their weekly encounters.

“I'm not certain there is much I can do,” Louis said, letting out a tired sigh. “Maybe I could sell whatever part of the estate that's not entailed, but…I don’t know if even that would be sufficient.”

Jonah leaned closer to place a light kiss on Louis’s bare shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said in a gentle voice. “My daddy was a good-for-nothing drunk who left me and Mama penniless the moment he found something younger and prettier to screw. I know what it’s like to be disappointed by the man who raised you.”

Louis nodded. He knew that his childhood friend understood his predicament better than anyone else could. When they were boys, Jonah had always escaped to Pointe du Lac when his own home became unbearable. Louis’s parents had always welcomed him in without question, and a plate had always been set for him at their table. Jonah had stayed with the du Lacs, sometimes for weeks at a time, sharing in Louis and Paul’s lessons and wearing Louis’s clothes when the ones he’d come with were too torn and dirty to be salvaged.

On those sweltering summer nights, they would stay up late, pressed close together in Louis’s bed despite the heat, a cool linen sheet over their heads as they talked in hushed voices of their grand plans. They spoke of seeing the world, of travelling to all the odd-sounding places that Louis had read on his father’s atlas map and whose names he had dutifully memorized; Prague, Bucharest, Varna, Silistra, Ploesti…

Eventually, Jonah’s mother would come to fetch him, her head bent down in shame as she apologized to Mrs. Du Lac for the inconvenience, a veil on her face to conceal her latest bruises.

Louis pulled Jonah down for a kiss. It was a little desperate, all tongue and teeth and tinged with sadness. “Do you know yet where you will be stationed?” he asked.

“We are marching to the camp in Newcastle in the morning,” Jonah said cheerfully. “And from there, we sail to France in a fortnight.

“Are you not the least bit worried about going over there?”

“Some nights, yes,” Jonah admitted after a moment’s pause. “But for the first few months, we are mostly going to be in the rear, managing supply lines and such. And the rest of the squad are like me, humble lads from modest families, looking to make their way into the world.

"I’m happy for you,” Louis said, and he found that he meant it unreservedly. Jonah had not had an easy life. If anyone deserved their share of happiness, it was surely him. And Louis was glad that at least one of them would get to live out their childhood dream.

“It’s not too late for you to come you know,” Jonah said, his tone teasing but his big brown eyes hopeful. “The pay is quite honourable, and the general is a very sensible man. Doesn’t care much what your family name is or where you come from, just that you can hold a rifle upright.”

Louis gave him a strained smile and remained silent. He would have loved nothing more than to go with Jonah, maybe even enlist like Jonah had suggested so many times. But as the eldest son, Louis’s life had always been set at Pointe du Lac. And now, with his entire family dependent on him, Louis was trapped more than ever.

He kissed Jonah again instead, and he wrapped his arms around Jonah’s waist to flip him back down onto the lumpy straw mattress, cupping his hard hard cock with a mischievous grin. He wanted to enjoy their last fleeting moments together for as long as he could. He wanted to feel good and just for a short time, to forget the constant anguish and dread he’d been drowning in since his father’s passing.

Chapter Text

he sun was low in the sky when Louis finally reached home. It was well past dinner time, and Mama would be cross with him. But these days, that was nothing unusual. Since his father’s passing, she had shifted all her ire at the world onto Louis, as if he were somehow the root cause of all their misfortune. Learning of their financial ruin would only serve to anger her further.

As he looked up at the looming façade of the house, the run-down state of it suddenly dawned on him. The once elegant iron fence was now weathered and rusted in several places, and even in the waning evening light, he could see that the tall fluted columns desperately needed a fresh coat of paint. His eyes lingered on the wisteria vines that had torn through the shutters of the second-floor windows, working their tendrils right into the whitewashed brick of the walls.

Sadly, this was an expense that would have to wait. This week alone, Louis had already had to pay half a crown to the chimney man to do something about the smoke that billowed through the main parlour whenever the fireplace was lit, and then another two shillings to the glazier to repair a window in the upstairs library that a falling branch had shattered during the latest rainstorm. They had already been struggling to keep afloat, and now it was made worse by the knowledge that there was nothing to fall back onto.

Still, he ought to do something about the house; perhaps enlist a few day labourers for an afternoon and make some of the simpler repairs himself. It would not do for the neighbours to think the du Lacs could no longer afford to maintain their estate. Their good family name was their last bargaining chip; the only chance for the girls to secure husbands of consequence, the only thing preventing Louis from being laughed out of every gentleman’s club he entered.

He went off to the back of the house, and he climbed over the fence using a low-hanging branch of the ancient, moss-covered oak—a reckless trick that he had perfected as a child. He landed gracefully in the courtyard, frightening the flock of geese that scampered in a series of loud clucks.

Betsy was retrieving the dry linens from the clothesline, and Louis gave her a small wave as he passed.

His heart ached as he remembered that he would probably have to let some of the house staff go to save on expenses. Betsy had been with them since before Louis was born. She had raised him far more than his mother and father ever did. His heart broke at the thought of ever having to part with her.

Louis made his way into the house, mindful to remove his dusty boots before stepping inside. He walked silently past the drawing room, expecting to find everyone already retired for the night. He was surprised to see his sisters and cousin still up, sitting on the sofa with his mother. They were in the midst of an animated conversation, and his mother seemed to be in unusually high spirits.

“Ah, Louis you’re here,” she said when she saw him and the coldness with which she usually addressed him was entirely absent. “That’s very good. Come quickly, we have heard the most wonderful news.”

Louis shuffled into the room, opening his arms to Claudia who bounded forward to embrace him.

“Lou, you’ll never guess what has happened,” she launched off in an excited voice, her green eyes wide. “The old Mr. Morton’s Estate has finally been sold. Mama heard it from Lady Williams when she called on us for tea this afternoon.”

“It appears we are to have fancy new neighbours, come all the way down from the city,” Louis’s cousin Lily said sardonically, fanning herself with theatrical gestures.

It earned her a hard look from Mrs. Du Lac, but Claudia giggled, and even Grace had to try and disguise her laughter with a cough.

“Well then,” Mrs. Du Lac asked impatiently as Louis sank into a nearby chair, with Claudia perched on his lap. “Do you not wish to know who has taken it?"

“Seeing as you seem determined to tell me, Mama, I doubt I have any choice in the matter."

Mrs. du Lac levelled him an irritated look, but this was invitation enough for her to tell her tale. “Well, Lady Williams says it was purchased by a Mr. Frenière, a young man of great fortune.”

“Five thousand a year!” Claudia chimed in, which made Grace and Lily laugh and reply in unison, “Five thousand a year!” in a surprisingly good imitation of Lady William’s voice.

Mrs. Du Lac ignored their antics and continued, undeterred. “Lady Williams says he came down on Monday for a visit—”

“In a large four-horse carriage,” Claudia whispered.

“And he was so taken with the place that he signed the deed on the spot. He intends to move in right away. Some of his servants are at the house as we speak, preparing it for his arrival.”

Louis listened to all of this skeptically, as he did with all the thrice relayed neighbourhood gossip. The Morton estate had been vacant for quite some time now. The previous owner had passed away from old age, and his only living descendant, having no desire to settle so far from the city, had opted to sell the property instead. If the rumour was indeed true, then Louis was glad it had found a new owner, if only for the promise of more varied company in the county.

“Good for Mr. Morton I supposed,” Louis said. “And for this Mr. Frenière as well.”

“Apparently the gentleman’s father made his fortune selling copper.” His mother’s face pinched slightly as she said it, as though the prospect of one earning one’s money through trade was a shameful one. “But they are a very respectable and well-connected family. He even has some French ancestry on his mother’s side.”

Louis did not even wonder how Lady Williams had come to know all this. The Dowager Viscountess, whose late husband had had the good sense of dying early, and whose children had all married and moved away, now occupied her time by acquainting herself with the business of any and every person in the county, no matter how trivial.

“You forget the most important part, Mama,” Claudia said. “He is single!”

Mrs. Du Lac nodded, a glint in her eyes. “That is correct dear. And he will be accompanied by his sister, who is reportedly a charming and well-bred young woman with a very sizeable dowry.”

Louis sighed. He could already see where this was going. “I’m glad for our neighbours Mama,” he said. “But I don’t see how their fortune possibly affects us.”

“My dear son, how can you be so tiresome! You know he must marry one of the girls of course—”

“Oh! I was not aware that was the gentleman’s design in settling here,” Louis quipped “You should have led with that.”

"It may not be the gentleman’s main reason, but it is a universally known truth that a single man with such a large fortune must be in want of a wife."

Louis sighed. He could not believe they were discussing neighbourhood gossip and triviality when they had far more pressing concerns.

“—you must go to him at once Louis,” his mother droned on. “For we may not visit if you do not, as you very well know. And there will be plenty of other families with unmarried daughters vying for his attention, Sir John and Lady Fenwick are determined to go as soon as he arrives, Lady Williams told me as much.”

“Oh yes, you must Lou!” Claudia echoed, pulling Louis’s sleeve and looking up at him with big pleading eyes that would have melted the hardest of hearts.

“Or perhaps Lady Fenwick could introduce us,” Grace tried to reason.

“I doubt Lady Fenwick would ever do any such thing, my dear,” Mrs. du Lac replied in a bitter tone. “She has an unmarried niece of her own and she is a selfish, hypocritical woman. I have no opinion of her.”

Before Grace—whose gentle heart could not abide to hear any ill sentiment uttered against anyone—could reply, Louis spoke up to put an end to the entire conversation.

“I too have some news to share with you Mama,” he said. “May I speak with you privately?”

There was no point in further delaying the inevitable.

His mother gave him a frustrated look but conceded to send the girls to bed and followed Louis to his father’s study. My study now, Louis thought bitterly as he shut the door behind them.

“I went to see Mr. Duran this afternoon,” he said with no other preamble. “I'm afraid I have some grave news, Mama.”

“Oh, never mind that,” his mother dismissed. “You must introduce yourself to Mr. Frenière as soon as he arrives, Louis. The sooner you can befriend the man, the better.”

Louis was about to protest, but suddenly the reason for his mother’s lack of interest in his announcement occurred to him. He gazed at her in disbelief as she calmly sat in the leather chair in front of his father’s mahogany desk, and smoothed down her skirts with impassive gestures.

“You knew!” he said in a furious whisper.

Mrs. du Lac sighed, fixing him with a cold look. “Of course I knew, Louis. Do you think me a fool?” But there was a certain evasiveness in her eyes as she said this. “I never concerned myself with the particulars, but I knew enough. I knew that your father could not keep a penny in his pocket if there was a drink or a card game to be had. I knew of the faulty schemes into which he sunk our entire fortune… and then the girls' dowries. I knew of his dalliances too, of all his mistresses and kept women. Yes, I knew! For years I prayed myself old, begging God for answers—”

She paused for a moment, seemingly overcome by emotion, her chest heaving beneath her black taffeta gown. But then she composed herself, pulling out her kerchief to wipe the corners of her eyes. “But he was my husband, the father of my children. And so, I remained silent. Even when he began selling my family heirlooms to finance his schemes and upkeep his women. I stayed silent, even when Claudia was dropped on our doorstep after her harlot of a mother died of consumption. I took her in, raised her as my own, loved her—”

Louis cut her off, his mind reeling. “What are you saying, Mama? You and Father always told us Claudia was the daughter of a distant cousin.”

It changed nothing for Louis of course. He had loved Claudia as a sister from the moment she came into their lives. But it was still quite a shock to know the true nature of her origins — to know that his parents had been lying to him for his entire life.

“Does Claudia know?” he asked in a whisper.

“I suppose she suspects it. But I do not know how much she remembers of her former life. She was only a child when your father brought her to us.”

Louis’s memory of Claudia’s arrival at their home was hazy. He had been only sixteen himself at the time, and Claudia had been five years old. The only distinct thing he remembered was the terror in her eyes, far too vast for one so young. He remembered wondering what she must have witnessed to put it there. Now Claudia was sixteen herself, nearly a woman grown, and so far removed from the scrawny little girl in rags she had been then.

“That is what life is Louis,” his mother said, sounding so weary, “a series of sacrifices and hard choices. Something you would do well to learn.”

Louis wanted to scream at her, to tell her that all he had ever done his entire life was sacrifice. He wanted to tell her that he had given up on ever living out any life of his own because his family’s happiness came first. But what good would that accomplish?

“The fact remains that we have very little left Mama,” he said. “We must think about cutting back on expenses—”

“That is why we must secure this match. That is why Grace must marry Mr. Frenière.”

“That is not your decision to make,” Louis said, his anger rising. “I will not auction off my sisters to the highest bidder simply because you wish to maintain your comforts.”

Before his father’s passing, Louis would have never dared speak to his mother in this manner. But he was tired, and there were only so many blows one could endure in a single day.

His mother observed him silently for a long moment. “Very well,” she said. “The eldest Miss Frenière is said to have quite a sizeable dowry and is very accomplished—”

“Oh, so you would have me whore myself out instead? I wonder, why do you never ask Paul for any such concessions?”

“Do not use such vulgar language in my presence,” his mother said in a dangerous whisper. “Paul is a fragile boy, as you very well know. And unlike you, he is already set on a very respectable career. Father Mathias says he is making tremendous progress and will be ready to take his vows this year.”

“The fact remains that your Miss. Frenière would have a better chance at matrimony with Paul. I’m in no need of a wife at present. With three sisters, and a mother to care for, I think I have a more than sufficient number of women in my life.”

His mother scoffed bitterly at the quip. She stood up, somehow managing to look down at Louis despite being several inches shorter. “Well, perhaps with the Macon boy gone, it is time for you to put aside your childish games Louis. You are almost twenty-seven years old; people will soon begin to ask questions." She turned to leave, and paused at the door, her hand hovering over the handle.

“I have already spoken with Grace. She is a sensible girl and she understands what a chance this is for us all. All I ask of you is that you do your duty as the head of this family and that you not ruin this for her.”

When she left the room, Louis slumped down into his father’s desk chair. He felt drained, and foolish, like a child after a tantrum. A powerless rage burned through him; at his father’s betrayal, at his mother’s coldness, even at this Mr. Frenière, who he did not yet know, but who purported to have everything that Louis did not.

He let his head drop into his hands, sobbing quietly.

Chapter Text

r. Frenière remained a frequent topic of conversation in the Pointe du Lac household, though Louis had little time to indulge in any of it. Despite his mother’s constant nagging, his thoughts were far more consumed by the pressing issue of their dwindling finances than by any potential matches. Besides, he had his usual tasks to attend to in ensuring the smooth running of the estate. He had to meet with the foreman to take stock of the crops before the harvest started, negotiate the sale prices with the merchants, and call upon his most stubborn tenants to collect overdue rents.

Even long before his illness and eventual passing, Louis’s father had abandoned the running of the estate to him the moment he came of age. It was not a task that Louis relished, but it was one that he performed dutifully. By eighteen, he had already learned that caring for family came before all else—even his own personal happiness.

But as fate would have it, Louis’s mother still got her wish. In the following week, Mr. Frenière, who had arrived for a brief visit to oversee the progress of the move, made a detour by Pointe du Lac to formally introduce himself. The du Lac ladies were finally able to catch a glimpse of him when he dismounted to exchange greetings with Louis. Though they did not get to see Frenière up close, as he stayed on the veranda for the entire duration of his visit—about all of ten minutes—they were able to ascertain from the upstairs drawing room window that he was indeed handsome, wore a very fashionable blue coat, and rode a fine grey mare.

As soon as Louis stepped back into the house, he was besieged with questions, despite repeatedly insisting that he had exchanged only a few words with Mr. Frenière. The ladies bombarded him with a flurry of inquiries, assumptions, and speculations until they determined he had given a satisfactory description of the gentleman’s character. Louis confirmed to them that yes, the gentleman was indeed well-spoken, seemed agreeable enough, and that he had expressed looking forward to settling down in the area.

“Do you know if he’s coming to the assembly next week?” Claudia asked, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Yes, I believe so,” Louis replied, recalling that Frenière had mentioned it in passing as he expressed his desire to become better acquainted with his neighbours.

Claudia let out a delighted squeal, jumping up and down with joy. Louis knew she was more excited about the amusement their new neighbors might bring than any serious thoughts of marriage, but he couldn’t help sharing in her infectious enthusiasm.

Even Lily and Grace joined in, twirling about the room with excitement as they began discussing who would wear what to the ball.

The commotion even managed to rouse Paul, who poked his head into the parlour—to grumble that he had been attempting to study his scriptures, and would appreciate it if everyone ceased their shrieking—before loudly stomping back up the stairs.

Louis too was tempted to retreat to his father’s study to finish going through the mountain of paperwork, but it was such a rare sight to see his family this joyful, even if it was about something as frivolous as a country ball.

He was still furious about his mother’s lies, and his heart ached each time he looked at Claudia and noticed all the resemblance he had previously dismissed as mere coincidence. She had the same hazel green eyes they had both inherited from his father — while Paul and Grace had taken after his mother with their brown eyes, the same smile that made her nose scrunch up adorably, and the same unruly dark curls that frizzled at the first sign of moisture in the air. How could Louis not have realized all this time?

Louis sank into the sofa beside his mother, a fond smile stretching on his face as he listened to the girls bicker.

“I have to borrow your spotted muslin,” Claudia pleaded with her older sister. “If you let me, I’ll lend you my green slippers.”

“Well, they were mine as I seem to recall—" Grace shot back.

“Oh, were they? Fine, then can I have Grandmama Yvette’s pearl necklace?”

“I was planning to wear that,” Lily chimed in.

“But you wore it last time—”

The argument was finally put to rest when Mrs. du Lac declared she would take the girls to the modiste in the morning for new dresses.

Louis winced, already imagining the dent such a trip would make in their meager finances. “Mama, I don’t think we can afford—”

“Hush! I’m sure we can manage something with Miss Madeleine. She always gives us a fair price.”

“But aren’t we still in mourning?” grumbled Paul, who had crept back into the room under the pretense of searching for his book of saints. “We should be praying for Daddy’s soul, not indulging in frivolous earthly pursuits.”

“Oh, I’m certain your father wouldn’t begrudge us one evening of amusement, dear,” Mrs. du Lac said, her tone sugary sweet. Then, more bitterly, she added under her breath, “Lord knows he had more than his fair share of it.”

That evening, Grace burst into the study to drag Louis out for one of their usual evening strolls. "You've been cooped up in here all afternoon," she said. "A bit of fresh air will do us both some good."

Louis gladly went along, though he suspected this was just a ruse for her to pry more information about Mr. Frenière. Still, he never minded Grace's company. She had a gentle temperament but she also possessed a sharp mind and a quick-witted humour that was always a welcome respite from the rest of their family. And though she was younger, Grace had a maturity beyond her years, and Louis often felt she should have been born the eldest.

Outside, the stifling afternoon heat had finally abated. The sun hung low, casting their shadows long on the dirt path as they walked.

They had nearly reached the edge of Pointe du Lac—where the estate bordered the Morton property, separated by a shallow creek—before Grace finally broached the subject.

"So, what did—"

"I’m telling you now, Grace," Louis interrupted with a theatrical sigh, “I've already said all there was to be said about your Mr. Frenière; I assure you I know nothing more.”

She laughed, giving him a playful shove. "He is not my Mr. Frenière." Her voice took on a more solemn edge as she added. "What I truly want to know is what you and Mama discussed the other night. You seemed quite upset afterward. I thought it was Jonah’s leaving, but there’s something else, isn’t there?"

Louis sighed. He stopped for a moment to gaze up at the century-old oaks that bordered the path. He and Jonah had loved climbing them as boys, perching precariously on their Spanish moss-covered branches to look over the entire estate. Up there, Louis had felt like the king of the world—like he could do anything he set his mind to. Life had been so much simpler back then.

"I wanted to talk to Mama about my visit to the bank," he said finally. "But the conversation spiralled into something much worse..."

Grace's eyes widened as Louis recounted his conversation with their mother—the shocking truths about their father and Claudia's true parentage.

"I suppose I always suspected, about Claudia," Grace said, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "But I wish you had told me about the money, about how bad things have gotten. I worry about the estate too, you know! Just because I’m a woman does not mean I care for nothing but husbands and pretty dresses."

Louis laughed, gently bumping her off the path. "Well, don’t let Mama hear you say that. She already imagines you as Mrs. Frenière, draped in diamonds and riding in fine carriages, with five plump children in tow."

Grace scoffed, looking out at the sun setting over the fields, casting a soft golden light over the indigo plants. "Would that be so bad?" she asked quietly. "If I married him, we could combine the estates like Daddy always wanted. It would certainly resolve the matter of our finances, and you’d finally be free to pursue your dreams, maybe even travel like you’ve always wanted."

Louis shook his head, offended at the mere thought of Grace sacrificing her happiness for his. "No. I won’t auction you off to the highest bidder just so that I may shirk my responsibilities. I mean, I have no objection to Mr. Frenière, but if he is to marry you, he’ll need more to recommend him than his five thousand a year.”

"Of course, Louis," Grace said with a smile. “All I mean to say is that the gentleman being conveniently rich does not hurt his prospects.”

“No, I suppose it does not,” Louis conceded. "If your Mr. Frenière is a good man, then I give you leave to like him. Lord knows you've liked many a stupider person."

Grace laughed, and she looped her arm through his as they began to walk back home. "Cheer up, Louis," she said softly. "You don’t have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders alone. You can always come to me. I am quite certain that with both our brilliant minds, we can easily manage a solution.”

Later that evening, after dinner, they pored over the estate’s books together, searching for ways to cut costs and generate new income. Grace had been right about one thing; it felt better not to face it all alone.

Mr. Frenière officially took up residence at the Morton Estate the following week.

At the insistence of Mrs. du Lac, a dinner invitation was dispatched the very same day. Already, she was planning the courses that would do credit to her housekeeping and entice Mr. Frenière into proposing on the spot.

But an answer arrived a few hours later, which put a damper on it all. Mr. Frenière was obliged to be back in the city the following day, and, consequently, was unable to accept the honour of their invitation etc. Mrs. du Lac was quite dismayed.

"I cannot fathom what business he has in town so soon after his arrival," she remarked, her tone tinged with frustration, as the family gathered for afternoon tea on the veranda, hoping the soft breeze might provide some relief from the humid heat. "I fear he may be one of those restless young men, always flitting from place to place, never settling anywhere for long."

Lady Williams, who had come over for tea, as she did nearly every afternoon, quieted her friend’s worries by informing her that the gentleman had only gone to town to fetch his sisters, along with a large party of friends he would be bringing to the ball.

"My maid heard it straight from Frenière’s cook, Mrs. Nichols," Lady Williams said, stirring a third spoonful of sugar into her iced tea. "My maid tells me Mrs. Nichols was at the butcher’s, ordering a haunch of pork and several pounds of the finest steak. She said Mr. Frenière is bringing seven guests—four ladies and three gentlemen. They’ll all be staying with him for a few days and will be attending the assembly on Friday evening."

"Seven people?" Claudia gasped, exchanging excited glances with Grace and Lily.

Mrs. du Lac, however, was dismayed by the thought of so many ladies. She found only slight relief when Lady Williams assured her that at least two of them were Mr. Frenière's sisters, one of whom was already married.

Louis sipped his tea in silence, already dreading the arrival of Friday night.

Chapter Text

he Meryton ball could scarcely be deemed a grand affair by any measure. Although it was held at Mr. Anderson’s opulent hotel, with its great high-ceilinged rooms and glittering crystal chandeliers, it was mostly just an occasion for all the families in the county to get together and have a merry time once a month. All were welcome regardless of rank or title, provided they wore their Sunday's best, and could afford to pay for their pint of mead or glass of Sazerac.

For Louis and other landowners, it was not merely an amusement, but also an occasion to mingle with the folks upon whom their livelihoods depended; the farmers who supplied the county with fresh meats and produce, the merchants who purchased and traded the crops they grew on their estates, and the ship captains who ensure the continued supply of new goods.

All the eligible young ladies of breeding were also in attendance, dressed in lavishly trimmed frocks, their bloodthirsty mamas at their sides, ready to flair out the most advantageous matches. Added to that were the wealthy tradesmen, bankers, club owners and other prominent figures that made up the life of their little corner of the world.

Louis did not mind that he had to dance with ruddy-cheeked merchant’s daughters while skillfully evading any marriage offers from their overeager mamas, or that he had to listen to long debates about the trade in the West Indies and the captains’ grievances about the unseasonally early hurricanes. Social engagements were an essential and unavoidable aspect of his duties to ensure the survival of the estate.

The entire de Pointe du Lac clan was in attendance tonight, even Paul—despite his strongly held opinion that public balls were nothing short of socially sanctioned dens of unbridled debauchery.

After having endured his third quadrille in a row, Louis gratefully excused himself from Miss Brookes and began making his way towards the refreshment table. He passed by Mr. Anderson, who greeted him with a cheerful wave.

“Splendid party Mr. Anderson,” Louis offered politely.

“Oh, we have only just begun,” Mr. Anderson replied, with a self-satisfied grin. “And I am hosting a private card game this Friday, should your datebook be free, Louis.”

Louis suppressed a grimace. Mr. Anderson’s games had a reputation for being as exclusive as they were ruinous. Many a man had squandered their entire fortune in one evening at his tables, Louis’s father included. However, Thomas Anderson was one of the wealthiest men in the county. It would not bode well for Louis to outrightly decline such an invitation.

“I shall see if I am able to attend, Mr. Anderson,” he replied, offering a measured smile.

He found Paul, Lily and Grace standing near the refreshments table with Lady Williams, surveying the proceedings with varied degrees of interest.

“Mama has truly outdone herself,” Louis remarked, addressing his sister and cousin as he joined them. “If every gentleman in the room does not end the evening in love with both of you, then I am no judge of beauty. And, of course, Lady Williams, you look elegant as always.”

Lady Williams accepted the compliment with a gracious smile, fluttering her fan coquettishly, while Grace and Lily merely rolled their eyes, dismissing Louis’s flattery.

But it was indeed true; they were both resplendent in their new dresses, which Mrs. du Lac had spent a fortune ordering from the modiste. Even Louis and Paul had gotten new evening attire. All part, no doubt, of their mother's grand design of seeing at least two of her children wed to the wealthy Frenières. Louis had voiced his concerns over the expense, while Paul had declared that vanity was the deadliest of sins, insisting that any woman he would ever wish to marry would care nothing for such things. Their mother had simply dismissed all of it.

“Nonsense!” she had declared. “What you boys lack in fortune, you can easily overcome with a little charm, provided you make the effort.”

Louis, who prided himself on always looking relatively well put together, had been privately worried that, even in his best clothing, he would appear rather provincial next to the Frenières and their city fashions. His mother’s initiative, costly though it had been, was not entirely unwelcome.

Paul was squirming uncomfortably, tiny beads of sweat pearling on his forehead from the stifling heat in the ballroom. But despite his visible displeasure, he looked quite dashing in his tailored coat and cravat.

“I feel silly in this getup,” he muttered glumly, scratching underneath the stiff high collar of his shirt. “I don’t understand why we must strap ourselves up like roasted hams for these Frenières.”

Louis gave him a compassionate pat on the back. “You shall have to take that up with our dear Mama. She is quite determined to make a good impression on our new neighbours.”

Before Paul could manage a retort, a sudden hush fell over the room. Even the musicians on the balustrade paused, their instruments held in suspense as all eyes turned toward the entrance.

Louis craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the newcomers. The crowd parted to make way, and it quickly became apparent that Lady Williams’ informant had been thoroughly unreliable. When Mr. Frenière’s party entered the ballroom, it consisted of only five altogether—Mr. Frenière, his two sisters, the husband of the youngest, and another young man.

“And who are the painted peacocks?” Lily whispered, leaning into Louis’s shoulder to peer through the crowd as Sir Fenwick and his wife bustled forward to greet the newcomers with obsequious bows.

Lady Williams, clearly overjoyed by the new arrivals, spoke in a hushed, excited voice from behind her fan. “Well, Mr. Charles Levi Frenière, you already know. And on the right is his youngest sister, as of recently Lady de Clermont. The gentleman next to her is her husband, Lord Clermont. He is a Duke, and rumoured to be a distant relative of the French royal family. On the left is the eldest Miss Frenière, still unmarried, poor dear, but said to have quite a sizeable dowry…”

Mr. Frenière was much as Louis remembered him—a fairly good-looking young man with unaffected, pleasant manners. His sisters were both beautiful women, with the youngest being especially striking, and they were dressed in a manner that left no doubt about their wealth. Mr Frenière’s brother-in-law was a stout man with a jolly round face, who looked nothing of the aristocrat he was save for his fine clothes and the exquisitely made gold cane he was leaning on.

But it was the final gentleman who soon drew all the attention of the room with his slim, elegant silhouette, his fair and obscenely handsome features, and the report that had begun circulating in the ballroom within five minutes of his entrance, that he had upwards of ten thousand a year.

His pale blue eyes were drifting over the gathering with thinly veiled disdain. But when his gaze landed on Louis, a flicker of something—surprised shock, perhaps—passed over his features, before he quickly averted his gaze back to his companions.

“And who is the other gentleman?” Louis asked, unable to take his eyes off the blond man, who was now standing at the center of the gathering, soaking up all the attention and admiration he was receiving.

Lady Williams leaned closer, whispering excitedly, “That, my dear, would be Frenière’s good friend, Mr. de Lioncourt. He’s a Marquis, and he owns half of Auvergne, along with other extensive property. Were I your sister, I would aim my sights higher than our Mr. Frenière, if you catch my meaning.” She punctuated her comment with a playful wink. “Though, between us, I heard that he has quite the reputation as a most incorrigible rake. But they do say reformed rakes make the very best of husbands…”

Louis nodded absently, his eyes still fixed on the blond man. He felt irrepressibly drawn to him, as if reeled in by an invisible string.

He did not have time to wonder long about the newcomers, as it seemed they were soon to be acquainted. Mrs. du Lac had materialized next to Mr. Frenière and was now gesturing discreetly for her children to join her.

Louis thanked Lady Williams—who responded with another playful wink—and offered his arm to Grace.

“Here we go,” his sister muttered under her breath as they began to weave through the crowd, Paul and Lily trailing behind.

"Here they are," Mrs. du Lac announced proudly, leading her family into the small circle that had formed around the newcomers. "Mr. Frenière, you’ve already had the pleasure of meeting my eldest son." Louis offered a polite bow. "And this—" She pulled Grace forward to make sure she was in full view of the whole party. "—is my eldest daughter, Grace."

Despite her palpable embarrassment, Grace managed a graceful curtsy. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

Mr. Frenière was evidently taken with Grace, and he seemed terribly at a loss to disguise his instant ardour. His face broke into a smile, and his eyes lingered on her even as Mrs. du Lac continued the rest of her introductions. The Frenière sisters were much more reserved in their enthusiasm, offering little more than curt nods as each of the du Lacs were introduced.

“I have another daughter, the youngest,” Mrs. du Lac added, her eyes scanning the room. “But it appears she is already dancing. If Grace does not take care, her younger sister may well secure a husband before she does.” She chuckled softly at her own jest.

Mr. Frenière laughed along, his attention still entirely on Grace, while the rest of the party offered polite, restrained smiles. Miss Frenière, on the other hand, seemed gravely offended by the remark for some odd reason.

"Delighted to meet all of you," Mr. Frenière said, with a warm smile, seemingly oblivious to his sister’s frigid demeanour.

The situation grew awkward again as Sir Fenwick—with all the zeal of a long-time acquaintance despite having only met them—took it upon himself to introduce the Frenière party. “And may I introduce Miss Barbara Elizabeth Frenière, Lady Caroline de Clermont, and His Grace, the Duke of Clermont—" Louis’s attention inexorably sharpened at the final name. "And Mr. Lestat de Lioncourt."

When Louis chanced a glance in his direction, the man was now openly staring at him, a sardonic smile playing on his lips.

Louis felt his face heat up in a mixture of indignation and embarrassment. He held the man’s gaze in defiance, disregarding the rule of precedence that dictated one must lower his eyes first in the presence of a gentleman of higher rank. Mr. Lioncourt’s smile widened ever so slightly, as though he was enjoying some private joke.

But even as they stared each other down, Louis couldn’t deny that Mr. Lioncourt was a strikingly handsome man. He was tall and gracefully slender, though his broad shoulders suggested some well-developed muscles—more than Louis would have expected from an aristocrat who, no doubt, had never done physical labour a day in his life. He had thick, wavy blond hair, that gleamed like spun gold under the gas lamplights of the ballroom. It was long, though not quite shoulder length, framing his chiselled face quite advantageously.

Up close, his eyes looked more grey in colour, but they absorbed the light, giving them an almost ethereal glow. He had a generous and well-shaped mouth, that was just a little too big for his face. But at present, it looked rather mean, twisted as it was in a mocking smile. In fact, Louis found that the man’s overall handsomeness was greatly undermined by the fact that he seemed the type of person who was well aware of their own beauty and the effect it produced on others.

"Isn’t that right, Louis?" Mrs. du Lac’s voice said, breaking through the tension.

Startled, Louis reluctantly turned to his mother. He had not even noticed that the Fenwicks had drifted away, leaving only his family and Frenière’s party.

“You’d be delighted to give Miss Frenière a tour of our library,” his mother insisted, giving him a meaningful look.

"Of course, Mama," Louis replied with a stiff nod, and absolutely no intention of following through.

“The Morton estate’s library, I've heard, is one of the finest in the county,” Grace chimed in, eager to dispel the awkward silence that had fallen. “I never got the chance to see it while the old Mr. Morton was alive, but I’m certain it is still in excellent condition.”

Miss Frenière looked at her with a sour expression. “If you are referring to the dusty old tomes left behind by the previous owner, I’m afraid we found no use for them after redecorating the house. We sent most of them back to his grandson and burned the rest. We’ve curated a new collection, with works from Paris’s best authors and poets."

Louis nearly gasped in horror. The Morton library had been his favourite in all the county. As a child, he had often begged to accompany his father on his visits, just to spend a few hours browsing the old soft leather-bound treasures, looking at the pictures in them and trying to decipher the ones that were in strange languages he did not understand. Of course, when the elderly Mr. Morton died, the house had been boarded up, and the library along with it. But there must have been at least a thousand books in there, and Louis had cherished each one. He shuddered to think that now they were all gone, replaced by whatever mundane fads were in vogue in Parisian salons.

Mr. Frenière must have noticed Louis's shock because he laughed nervously, an apologetic expression on his jovial face. “I must confess I am not much of a reader myself. I much prefer being out of doors. I mean, I can read, of course...And I'm not suggesting one can't read outdoors—”

His eldest sister shot him a stern look, and he trailed off before falling silent.

Grace, ever the diplomat, offered a kind smile. “I wish I read more, myself. But there always seems to be so many other things to do.”

“Yes, that's exactly what I meant,” Mr. Frenière said, smiling gratefully at her.

Paul chose that moment to chime in unhelpfully, his voice firm with conviction. “It is my opinion that the only book one truly needs is the word of God.”

Miss Frenière’s face twisted with open disdain, while Mr. Lioncourt let out a derisive laugh. Offended, Paul proceeded to storm off without another word, muttering angrily under his breath.

After that, the awkward silence returned, and Louis was thinking of a way to extricate himself from these people without seeming impolite. Mr. Lioncourt was staring at him intently again, but this time, Louis resolutely ignored him.

“Your library in Auvergne is quite remarkable, Lestat,” Lady Clermont interjected. “I was most impressed when we visited last summer.”

The marquis’s pale gaze finally left Louis to look at her as he replied. “Yes, thank you, Caroline. It is the work of many generations. My father, I’m afraid, shared Babette’s aversion to dusty old tomes, and he neglected to care for it. But my mother is an avid reader. It is she who has overseen its preservation these past thirty years.”

Miss Frenière seemed unsure of whether or not to take offence at Mr. Lioncourt’s comment, and it gave Louis some measure of satisfaction to see her wounded expression.

“Oh, do not be so modest, Lestat,” Lady Clermont pressed. “You have added so much to it yourself, have you not?”

“Yes, I always try to bring back books from my travels. And I, too, would like to explore the libraries here in your…village.” His eyes returned to Louis as he said this. “I’m sure there are many hidden treasures to uncover.”

Louis recoiled at the prospect of spending any more time with this man than he had to, but he nodded politely.

It was at this moment that Claudia bounded up to the gathering, in a state of high excitement. She began to speak right away, with utter disregard for propriety or those present, save for her own family. “Mama! You’ll never believe it! I’ve just heard the most wonderful news.”

Louis tried to motion to his little sister to moderate herself, but Claudia was already going on with her tale, her hands and face animated.

“The militia are arriving next month from the north! They will be stationed here for the whole winter! Kitty’s mama told us! Can you believe it, Officers! Officers as far as the eye can see!” Claudia shrieked, jumping up and down.

The Frenière sisters exchanged a disapproving look, and Mr. Lioncourt’s derisive smile stretched wider. But none of them made any comment as Claudia bounded away again, pulling Mrs. du Lac with her towards the small group of ladies that surrounded Mrs. Anderson and her daughter.

Luckily, Mr. Frenière took no notice of all this commotion as his attention remained solely on Grace.

“May I have the honour of this next dance, Miss du Lac?” he asked as the orchestra switched to a waltz.

Grace agreed with a radiant smile, and the two made their way to the ballroom’s center.

“Do you dance, Mr. Lioncourt?” Lily asked bravely, trying to restart the conversation.

“Of course,” Mr. Lioncourt replied, his tone dripping with arrogance. “I was taught by one of the finest instructors in Paris. And at only fifteen, I was named the best dancer at the annual winter ball by Her Majesty the Queen herself.”

Lily nodded, her eyes wide with awe, while Louis barely restrained the urge to roll his eyes at the man’s ostentatious self-aggrandizement.

“I would be delighted to have a demonstration of your talents,” Lily offered, signalling at the still-empty dance card on her wrist.

“I am afraid that would simply be impossible with such dreadful music,” Mr. Lioncourt said, gesturing to the orchestra with a flourish of his bejewelled hand. “Tell me, do they simply hand the instruments to the farmhands and ask them to attempt a melody?”

Miss Frenière let out a laugh at the jab. “Oh, Lestat, you always say the drollest things,” she exclaimed, coquettishly leaning on the gentleman’s arm, though he seemed to pay her no attention.

“Well,” Lily pressed on, “they say the true art of dance lies in the partner, not the music.”

“That may well be, Miss Lily,” Mr. Lioncourt replied. “But at a public gathering such as this, one would be hard-pressed to find a partner worthy of the honour, much less an audience sophisticated enough to appreciate it.”

Lily’s face fell at such a categorical rejection, and Louis decided he had had enough.

"Indeed, I’m sure our humble country fare pales in comparison to Parisian balls," Louis said coolly. “It is a wonder you bothered coming at all.”

With that, Louis excused himself with a stiff bow, offering Lily his arm to lead her away. They danced a few steps together through the crowded floor before he discreetly guided her back towards the refreshment table.

“What an arrogant, pompous man,” Louis exclaimed, fuming with rage. “Count yourself lucky dear cousin. He seems so insufferable that it would be a bigger misfortune to be liked by him.”

Lily laughed softly. “Do not trouble yourself on my account Louis, I was merely offering to be polite.”

But Louis could tell that her pride was wounded by such a public rejection. She did not dance for the remainder of the evening, even when other young men approached her with an invitation.

As the evening progressed, Mr. Frenière had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal people in the room. He was lively and unreserved and seemed easily likeable. He danced three sets with Grace, and was heard loudly proclaiming his disappointment that the ball ended so early. He even talked of giving one himself as soon as he was fully settled.

In stark contrast, his friend Mr. Lioncourt danced only once with Lady Clermont at her husband’s insistence—the young duke had sustained a riding injury as a child that prevented him from doing it himself—but he declined being introduced to any other lady, and spent the rest of the evening walking about the room, speaking occasionally to someone of his own party. But despite his haughty airs, the man’s presence was magnetic, and Louis found it difficult not to notice his every movement and his continued insistent glances in Louis’s direction.

By the end of the evening, Louis’s opinion of Mr. Lioncourt was firmly set: arrogant, presumptuous, and altogether disagreeable. Whatever fleeting attraction he might have felt for the man was firmly suppressed, and Louis hoped never to encounter him again.

Paul and Mrs. du Lac seemed to agree with Louis’s assessment of Mr. Lioncourt. One because he was gravely offended by the man’s brazen disregard for the scriptures, and the other because she was resentful that he had slighted one of her girls so publicly.

Mrs. du Lac’s ire was somewhat tempered by seeing Grace and Mr. Frenière dance together for several songs in a row. They seemed genuinely taken with each other, and Grace had decidedly had a much better time than the rest of her siblings.

As the family finally exited the ballroom to find their carriage, Mrs. du Lac declared the evening a resounding success. Mr. Frenière’s interest in Grace was undeniable, and for now, that was the most important thing.

Chapter Text

fter two weeks of uneventful quiet, Mrs. du Lac’s excitement over the ball had somewhat dampened. The only occurrence of note had been an invitation from Lady de Clairmont, who had asked the eldest du Lac girls over for dinner on the eve of her and her husband’s departure back to the city. But upon the girls’ return, Mrs. du Lac had been disappointed to learn that Mr. Frenière had been dining out that evening, and Grace had not seen him at all.

The following day, Mrs. du Lac had devised a new strategy to hasten matters along. It was a grey Thursday morning, and the family was sitting down for breakfast—all save for Paul, who never once missed the morning service.

“Grace, dear," Mrs. du Lac began, setting her cup of tea down with a deliberate clink. “I think it would be most appropriate for you to visit the Frenières today.”

Grace, who was seated across from Louis, looked up from her plate with mild confusion. “Visit them? But Mama, I was just there last week.”

Mrs. du Lac smiled sweetly, her fingers tapping lightly on the table. "Yes, but this time you shall go alone, and Mr. Frenière will be present. He is quite fond of you, my dear, I have no doubt of it. His absence was simply a matter of ill-timing, I am sure.”

Louis, sensing where this was going, set down his fork with a sigh. “Mama, surely you do not expect Grace to be the one to court the man. If Mr. Frenière’s interest is genuine, then he will make his intentions known in due time.”

"Nonsense," Mrs. du Lac replied, her voice sharp but still wrapped in that ever-present air of grace. “We are well enough acquainted with the family now that no formal invitation is required for a simple visit.” She turned to grace, patting her hand gently. “You are always so modest, dearest. Sometimes a gentleman needs a little encouragement. Another visit would be the perfect way to show Mr. Frenière that his attentions are returned.”

Louis shook his head, exasperated. “Or she will show him that she is desperate, thus removing any interest on his part. Believe me, Mama, nothing cools a man’s affection faster than the sense that the object of them is easily won.”

Grace, who had been watching the entire exchange with quiet amusement, laughed softly. “Louis is right, Mama. I would not wish to appear overeager.”

Mrs. du Lac, however, would not be deterred. Louis had learned from a young age that there was no winning against his mother once her mind was set on something. And Grace, who had spent all of her life trying to please their mother, was not very apt at saying no to her.

“Very well. I’ll go,” Grace said, capitulating as Louis knew she would. “Can I take the carriage? It’s too far a distance to walk back and forth.”

Mrs. du Lac looked at the dark grey sky out the window before replying resolutely, “No, I have need of it today for my visit to Lady Williams. You can go on horseback.”

“Horseback?” Grace and Lily exclaimed in unison.

Mrs. du Lac smiled sweetly. “Yes. The fresh air will do you some good. You spend far too much time indoors for a young person of your age.”

It was only an hour later, as Louis returned from speaking to the steward, that he understood the true extent of his mother’s scheme. The first fat droplets had begun to fall from the sky, and he passed Betsy, hastily pulling the linens down from the line. Judging by the rolling thunder on the horizon, it promised to be a proper downpour, the kind that usually heralded the end of the sweltering summer heat.

Louis found his mother sitting with Lily and Claudia in the drawing room. Mrs. du Lac and Lily were working together on an intricate piece of embroidery, while Claudia practised her scales on the pianoforte.

Louis cast his mother a hard look, crossing his arms over his chest. “So you sent Grace on horseback, knowing there would likely be a downpour? And for what? So the Frenières might pity her when she arrives dripping wet on their doorstep?"

Mrs. du Lac waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t be ridiculous, Louis. She will have arrived long before it started raining. But now she will have to stay there the entire day, exactly as I predicted. And should the weather truly worsen, I’m quite certain the Frenières will insist on her staying the night.”

“Of course they will," Louis muttered, unimpressed. "So you deliberately sent her out into a storm to manipulate the situation.”

"It’s hardly manipulation," Mrs. du Lac said, lifting her chin in an air of offended dignity. "It’s merely giving fate a gentle nudge."

Louis couldn’t help but roll his eyes. His mother’s idea of "fate" was as flexible as a reed in the wind, bending whichever way her whims dictated.

Lily laughed softly, and she gave Louis a reassuring smile. “I’m sure Grace will be quite fine. Though I don't think, Aunt, that you can reasonably take credit for making it rain.” 

“Then perhaps nature is simply on my side,” Mrs. du Lac replied with a coy smile.

Louis scoffed, utterly unamused. “If Grace catches a cold—which she most likely will—you’ll have only yourself to blame.” 

Louis’s grim predictions came to pass when the next morning, a letter arrived from the Morton estate, thrust into Lily’s hands by a poor drenched footman. It was written by Grace herself, informing her family that she had taken ill and was now confined to bed.

Louis’s mood darkened as Lily finished reading the letter out loud, “…My kind friends will not hear of me returning home until I am fully recovered. But do not be alarmed. Excepting a sore throat, a fever, and a headache, there is nothing wrong with me."

“I hope you're satisfied, Mama,” Louis said furiously, standing up from the breakfast table. “If Grace does die, you’ll have the comfort of knowing it was all in pursuit of Mr. Frenière.”

Mrs. du Lac smiled sweetly, as if Louis’s objections were nothing more than the petulant grumblings of a child. “Oh, Louis, must you always be so dramatic? Your sister will be perfectly fine. People do not die of colds.”

"Though she might well perish from the shame of having such a mother,” Louis muttered darkly under his breath as he left the room.

Far from abating, the rain had intensified through the night. It was now falling in thick sheets, turning the entire landscape into a sodden blur of green and grey. And as Louis’s bad luck would have it, the carriage had thrown a wheel in the slick mud the day before, and Grace had taken the only horse that was not needed in the fields for the harvest. He would have no other choice but to walk.

He sighed, and without wasting another moment, he threw his coat on and set out on foot for the Morton estate.

An hour later, Louis stood in the Frenières’ drawing room, his coat entirely soaked through, his boots leaving a trail of mud on the pristine marble floors. He hadn’t set foot in this house since Mr. Morton’s passing, and it was clear the Frenières had spared no expense in redecorating every room to the height of current fashion.

The butler, with a look of utter confusion, scarcely had time to announce him before Louis crossed the threshold. He was aware of how dreadful he must have looked, but he was well past the point of caring.

Miss Frenière and Mr. Lioncourt were alone in the breakfast room. Miss Frenière was sipping her tea and nibbling on pastries while Mr. Lioncourt read his newspaper, the two of them the picture of perfect tranquillity. At Louis’s sudden entrance, Miss Frenière let out an audible gasp, and Mr. Lioncourt abruptly rose from his chair in a sharp, surprised motion.

Louis greeted them with a polite bow, trying his utmost not to let his irritation show.

Miss Frenière’s eyes widened in mild horror when she took note of Louis’s bedraggled appearance. “Good heavens, Mr. du Lac, did you walk here?”  

“I did,” Louis replied, with all the restraint and courtesy he could muster. “I apologize for the intrusion. I’ve come to see my sister.”

Louis’s gaze unwillingly wandered to Mr. Lioncourt, who, past his initial shock, was now observing Louis with the same mixture of curiosity and amusement he’d had at the ball. Their eyes met, and Louis did his best to maintain a neutral expression. There was something about the man that set his nerves aflame, a sensation Louis found infuriating. He couldn’t help but wonder why Mr. Lioncourt had not returned to the city with the rest of the party, and what he must have been thinking now, of Louis’s dishevelled appearance.

When Mr. Lioncourt spoke, his tone was perfectly measured, a model of polite solicitude. “Your sister is upstairs. Levi is tending to her. The footman can show you the way.”

“Thank you,” Louis replied curtly.

With a twinge of guilt, he looked down at his muddy boots, which were still dripping on the gleaming floor. At a loss for a better solution, Louis bent down to undo his laces and stepped out of them, leaving him standing there in his damp stockings.

Miss Frenière looked utterly scandalized, her eyes wide in horror. But when Louis chanced a glance at Mr. Lioncourt, there was a strange, almost hungry glint in his pale eyes. Louis ignored it, bowing stiffly at the pair before following the footman out of the room and up the lavish spiral staircase.

Grace had been placed in a spacious room facing the east side of the house. It was decorated in the French style, with pale blue silk wallpaper and velvet-upholstered furniture. The door was open, and Grace was lying in bed, her face ashen. A weak smile stretched on her lips when she saw Louis, and Mr. Frenière rose up from his chair to greet him.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Mr. Frenière said. He gave Grace a warm smile before quietly exiting the room, gently closing the door behind him.

Louis pulled up the chair Frenière had just vacated and sat at Grace’s bedside, the cold, wet fabric of his coat sticking to his skin. He took her hand gently. Her skin felt hot to the touch, but aside from her reddened nose, she seemed relatively fine—certainly not on the threshold of death like he'd feared.

"Oh, your hands are so cold," Grace complained in a playful tone, her voice slightly hoarse. "You needn't have come all this way, Louis. I’m quite fine as I mentioned in my letter."

"Of course I had to come," Louis replied. "I could not very well abandon you here alone. But perhaps next time you will listen to me instead of following Mama’s foolish schemes."

Grace let out a weak laugh, which turned into a coughing fit. Louis winced, and he reached over to hand her the glass of water that was on the table.

“I’m fine, Louis, really,” she insisted. “Doctor Johnson already came last night, and he said I was in no danger. He assured me I’ll be up and about in no time. I just caught a chill on my way here, that’s all.”

Louis sighed, leaning forward to tuck away a strand of her curls that had fallen loose from her braid. “All the more reason you shouldn’t have come. Now you’ll be bedridden for days, while your Mr. Frenière watches you cough and sneeze.”

Grace chuckled softly. “I’ve been very well taken care of. Levi has been so kind—”

“Oh, is it Levi now?” Louis teased, watching as a flush of embarrassment bloomed on his sister’s cheeks. “I’m sure our dear Mama will be very pleased to hear that.”

Louis stood and shrugged off his soaked coat, draping it over a chair near the fireplace to dry.

“What happened to your shoes?” Grace asked, belatedly noticing his appearance.

“They were covered in six inches of mud,” Louis said with a laugh. “I thought Miss Frenière was going to faint when she saw me dripping profusely on her expensive floors, and then again when I took off my boots then and there, like a complete heathen.”

Grace giggled, and her laughter brought a comforting sense of normalcy that eased the anxiety Louis had been feeling all morning.

“Now Rest,” he commanded gently, coming back to sit at her bedside.

After Grace had fallen asleep, Louis ventured back down the stairs, and he encountered Mr. Frenière midway. The man seemed even more anxious about Grace’s illness than Louis was.

“She is asleep now,” Louis reassured him. “And thank you for tending to her so diligently. It seems she is in far better comfort here than she would have been at home.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Mr. Frenière said eagerly. “Well, not a pleasure that she’s ill, of course, but a pleasure that she’s here—being ill.”

Louis nodded, offering him a genuine smile. Mr. Frenière seemed like a decent man, and more importantly, he seemed to genuinely care for Grace. Had it not been for his mother’s dubious motives for choosing the man, Louis would have been utterly delighted about their burgeoning courtship.

“I have already asked the servants to have a bed made up for you,” Mr. Frenière said happily. “You must be our guest here until your sister is recovered.”

They had now reached the drawing room, where Miss Frenière and Mr. Lioncourt were sitting in a sullen silence—she with a book in hand and he in front of a game of solitaire.

“Perhaps I can stay for tonight,” Louis conceded. “But I’m afraid I cannot absent myself too long from the estate; we are in the middle of a harvest, and there is much to be done.”

Mr. de Lioncourt perked up as they entered the room, and his eyes drifted to Louis with his customary insistent look. Louis sat down on the lavish sofa, acutely aware that he was still in his damp clothes and without shoes. Judging by Miss. Frenière’s pained grimace, she was aware of it too.

“Don’t you have people for that?” Mr. de Lioncourt asked, tilting his head sideways in mild confusion. A lock of his blonde hair tumbled artfully onto his face, coming to rest at the corner of his sharp jawline.

“Yes,” Louis replied curtly. “We have several farmhands and a foreman, but my presence is still required.”

Mr. Lioncourt abandoned his card game and moved to sit next to Louis on the sofa, despite the many other available seats. Louis stiffened, cursing the warmth that spread through him at their sudden proximity.

“And what is it that you grow on your… estate?” Mr. Lioncourt asked, leaning closer.

From anyone else, the question might have seemed like a polite, innocuous one—an invitation for Louis to share more about himself. But coming from Mr. Lioncourt, and accompanied by his ever-present unnerving gaze, it felt like another jab, meant to further humiliate Louis.

Louis shifted away, trying to create as much distance as possible on the narrow sofa. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mr. Lioncourt’s smile widen just a fraction.

“We grow indigo,” Louis replied tersely, offering no further explanation.

“How very interesting,” Mr. Frenière said, completely oblivious to the palpable tension that had settled into the room.

“Yes, very intriguing indeed,” Mr. Lioncourt hummed. “We passed your fields on our way here, all those little flowers, very charming. I should like to visit sometime.”

Mr. Lioncourt’s hand was now resting on the sofa, mere inches away from Louis’s thigh. Louis’s pulse quickened, but he did his best to keep his expression neutral. His eyes lingered on Mr. Lioncourt’s long, elegant fingers, adorned with rings that likely cost more than Louis’s entire yearly income. His nails were perfectly manicured, without a speck of dirt under them. It was evident the man had never done a single day of work in his life.

“The blooming period has ended for the season,” Louis said in a clipped tone. “I’m afraid there is not much to see at present besides shrubbery.”

Louis stood up and excused himself, with the pretense that he wanted to ensure Grace was still sleeping soundly and not in need of anything.

Chapter Text

he rest of the morning proved to be an exercise in endurance for Louis. He stayed by Grace’s side as much as he could, reading to her when she was awake, or simply sitting with her as she drifted in and out of a fitful, feverish sleep.

He did his best to avoid Mr. Lioncourt, though the man seemed to coincidently appear in every room Louis ventured into. Louis found him in the library when he went in search of a book to occupy himself. He encountered the man again in the drawing room when he came down to request a cup of tea for Grace. He happened upon Mr. Lioncourt again when he briefly wandered out onto the veranda for some fresh air.

It was as if the man was loitering in hallways and dark corners, waiting for any chance to engage Louis in trivial conversation or worse, simply to stare at him intently. Louis was sure some sort of game was at play, but he was not certain what Mr. Lioncourt’s end goal was other than to embarrass and ridicule him.

After a stilted, awkward luncheon, Louis found himself once more in the company of the Frenières in the drawing room. Miss Frenière and her brother were engaged in a quiet conversation, while Mr. Lioncourt, seated at the desk, was composing a letter. His gaze occasionally wandered to Louis, but Louis did his best to ignore it, focusing on the book in his hands.

“You write uncommonly fast, Mr. Lioncourt,” Miss Frenière remarked sweetly, evidently trying to draw his attention.

Mr. Lioncourt, without looking up from his letter, replied with an air of mild indifference, “You are quite mistaken, Babette. I write rather slowly. I never had much skill with it even as a boy, much to the chagrin of all my tutors.”

Miss Frenière was momentarily thrown by his dismissal, but she pressed on, undeterred.

“Oh, please do tell the Marquise that I long to visit her again,” she added, clearly relishing the opportunity to flaunt her connections.

Despite his resolve to focus on his book, Louis’s attention was piqued at the mention of a Marquise. For some odd reason he did not wish to ponder, he felt a pang of disappointment at the knowledge that Mr. Lioncourt had a wife.

As if attuned to Louis’s unspoken feelings, Mr. Lioncourt’s pale gaze shifted to meet his, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips. “Yes Babette,” he said, his tone laced with subtle sarcasm, “I have already conveyed your effusive greetings to my mother. I trust that once will be sufficient.”

Louis felt his face heat up as Mr. Lioncourt’s eyes remained fixed on him, as though gauging his reaction.

Entirely oblivious to the silent exchange, Miss Frenière continued. “And please do extend my regards to Lady Sevraine as well. I so do miss her music. I was quite in raptures at her beautiful playing—”

“Perhaps,” Mr. Lioncourt interjected smoothly, “you will give me leave to defer your raptures until my next correspondence. At present, I have no room left to do them justice.”

Louis stifled a smirk at the look of dismay that flickered across Miss Frenière's face.

Later in the afternoon, Louis decided to journey back to Pointe du Lac, primarily to inform the rest of the family of Grace’s condition, but also because Grace had expressed wanting some of her personal belongings—fresh clothes, the silly romance novel she had been halfway through reading, and most importantly, her favourite blanket, which she claimed was the only thing that would help her sleep more easily in unfamiliar surroundings. Louis was more than happy to oblige her.

The rain was still falling in a steady downpour and Mr. Frenière, who would not hear of Louis returning on foot, gracefully offered one of his own carriages. Despite the sting to his pride for having to rely on the generosity of others, Louis was grateful to avoid another hour of trekking in the rain.

The easier solution, of course, would have been for Grace to ride back with him and recuperate at home. But the Frenières—Mr. Frenière in particular—would not hear of her moving while she was ill.

“Mr. de Pointe du Lac," came the smooth, lilting voice that had been haunting Louis all day. "Lévi has told me of your intentions. Might I join you on your journey?"

Louis froze, his hands halfway through pulling on his boots—which a kind soul had cleaned of all the mud. He turned and saw Mr. Lioncourt standing at the entrance of the drawing room, that same infuriating easy smile on his face. He was dressed in an elegant caped overcoat, that was perfectly cinched at the torso to showcase his obscenely narrow waist. His pampered blonde curls were impeccably brushed, shining brightly despite the gloomy weather.

By comparison, Louis must have looked like a half-drowned stray cat. He felt this even more keenly as he slipped his worn coat back on, still damp from his previous journey.

“I don’t see why you would need to, Mr. Lioncourt,” he replied stiffly. “It’s a simple errand, nothing more.”

Mr. Lioncourt’s smile deepened, his eyes shining with amusement. “The weather is dreadful. I’d feel positively remiss if I let you ride out alone in such conditions. Besides, it will give us the opportunity to…resume our conversation.”

Louis could feel his patience wearing thin. “I don’t seem to recall us having a conversation of any significant length, Mr. Lioncourt.”

But Mr. Lioncourt’s smile only widened. “Then it’s time we rectified that; don’t you agree?”

Louis suppressed a groan. He wanted to retort that he was here to tend to his sister, not to be a source of amusement for some pompous, arrogant...But he held his tongue. He could not possibly decline the offer without appearing exceedingly rude—especially not in front of the Frenières, who were seated in the drawing room, drinking their afternoon tea. Levi seemed oblivious, as always, but Miss Frenière was eyeing their exchange curiously, her brow creased in a quizzical frown.

"If you insist," Louis said through gritted teeth, forcing a smile.

Mr. Lioncourt’s eyes gleamed triumphantly. With elegant, unhurried movements, he strolled forward, falling into step beside Louis as they made their way to the waiting carriage.

Mr. Lioncourt, with a graceful inclination of his hand, gestured for Louis to enter the carriage first, following close behind and deliberately seating himself beside Louis rather than taking the opposite bench. As soon as the door was shut, Louis was acutely aware of how little space there was between them. Mr. Lioncourt’s leg brushed against his, and the warmth of the contact sent a shiver down his spine.

The rain thundered on the roof of the carriage as it made its way down the soggy dirt path, creating a constant, rhythmic backdrop that seemed to match the erratic pounding of Louis’s heart.

Louis fixed his gaze on the blurry drifting landscape outside the window, determined to ignore the man beside him. But it was a near-impossible feat. The quiet, simmering tension was unbearable. Each time Mr. Lioncourt shifted even slightly, Louis was reminded of just how close they were, how easily he could reach out and—

He kept his gaze resolutely fixed out of the window, praying silently that the journey to Pointe du Lac would be a swift one.

A sudden chill sipped through the carriage, and Louis shivered in his damp coat. He tucked his hands under his armpits for extra warmth, uncaring that the gesture was both uncouth and improper.

“Are you cold?” Mr. Lioncourt asked in a soft voice, his pale eyes studying Louis with that same unsettling intensity.

Louis shrugged, refusing to dignify him with an answer.

Undeterred by Louis’s silence, Mr. Lioncourt bent down to retrieve a carriage blanket from beneath the bench. It was thick and made of finely woven and likely very expensive wool, with the Frenière initials embroidered in an intricate pattern.

“Levi keeps one in every carriage for the ladies,” Lestat explained with a teasing smirk.

Louis chose to disregard the insulting implication behind it; that somehow suffering from a chill made him less manly. He reached out, expecting Mr. Lioncourt to hand over the blanket, but instead, Mr. Lioncourt unfolded it fully, shifting closer to spread it across both their laps.

“There, that ought to help,” Mr. Lioncourt said, his voice low and teasing.

Louis could feel the warmth of his breath, maddeningly close to his ear. he swallowed hard, and when Mr. Lioncourt spoke again, Louis could almost feel the low rumble of his voice vibrating through him.

“Louis—” Mr. Lioncourt murmured, and Louis felt a thrill at the way his lilting accent made the vowels sing. “May I call you Louis?”

Louis’s breath caught in his throat, and when he did not reply for fear of his voice betraying him, Mr. Lioncourt took it as an assent.

“I can sense that you’ve been avoiding me since the moment we met at the ball. And while I find your withholding… intriguing, I can’t help but feel like we got off on the wrong foot.”

"I have no idea why you would think that Mr. Lioncourt," Louis said, refusing to slide into any familiarity by calling the man by his first name.

Mr. Lioncourt leaned in a little closer, his shoulder brushing against Louis’s. "Well, if I have given offence in some way, then please allow me to apologize. I would love for us to get better acquainted, Louis.”

His voice was barely a whisper now, and Louis could feel his warm lips, hovering dangerously close to his ear.

Mr. Lioncourt’s hand moved to rest lightly on his thigh, and Louis felt his entire body tense with the shock of the touch. It was a light, almost innocent gesture, but it sent a wave of heat and desire rushing through him. Louis’s heart lurched, his mind racing, and he found himself leaning closer, chasing that warmth. Their eyes met, their face only mere inches apart, and Louis felt himself inexorably drawn in.

Mr. Lioncourt’s gaze softened, his blonde eyebrows lifting up slightly. When he spoke again, his voice was low and coaxing, his eyes almost pleading. “I can sense that we are destined to be very good friends, Louis.”

The carriage jerked to a sudden halt and Louis pulled away abruptly, breathless and disoriented, his chest heaving as he tried to collect himself.

Mr. Lioncourt’s gaze remained fixed on him, his eyes dark and hungry.

"We’re here," Louis managed, his voice hoarse.

Mr. Lioncourt reclined against the seat, his lips curving into that infuriating amused smile as he cast a glance at the rain-soaked façade of Pointe du Lac. "Indeed, it appears we are."

Louis wrenched the carriage door open and the cool air rushing in jolted him back to reality. He tossed the blanket aside and stepped out into the rain, not bothering to check if Mr. Lioncourt was following behind him.

To Louis’s relief, the ride back to the Morton Estate was made far more bearable by the fact that Lily, Claudia and Mrs. du Lac all decided to come along, insisting they wanted to visit Grace and form their own judgment on her condition. Louis suspected they simply seized on the excuse to satisfy their curiosity about the renovations the Frenières had made to their house. Still, he welcomed their company all the same, grateful for the distraction.

He was rescued again later when Lily volunteered to stay with Grace in his stead, to allow him to return to his work.

The following day, Grace was well enough to come home, much to the disappointment of Mrs. du Lac, who had calculated on her daughter remaining with the Frenières for at least a week.

Chapter Text

n the last Friday of the month, the militia made their grand arrival in town. At Claudia’s insistence, Louis, Lily and Paul all went down with her to the square to watch the parade. Grace, who was still recovering from the last remnants of her cold, had opted to stay home, declaring that the regiment came down every year and she did not see what all the fuss was about. All of Meryton had gathered for the spectacle; the children were running around in excitement, the ladies fluttering their fans impatiently. Even the shopkeepers stood in their doorways, hoping to catch a glimpse of the officers as they marched by.

Louis had to admit that they looked quite dashing in their redcoats and feathered caps. He couldn’t help but think of Jonah, of how much he desperately missed him. They had exchanged a few letters since Jonah’s arrival at the camp in Normandie, but Louis had been so preoccupied lately that the correspondence had tapered off.

Claudia’s very conspicuous whisper cut through his gloomy train of thought. “Do you see that one, Lily?” she said, pointing, rather obviously, at a particularly striking young officer. “Goodness, he’s beautiful! Look at his eyes. He’s got long lashes like a cow.”

The young officer in question briefly turned towards them. He was indeed beautiful; slender, with a delicate, handsome face that was framed by dark, tousled curls. He had big brown eyes that gave him a candid, youthful air. Claudia let out a soft giggle when he smiled politely at them as he passed. Louis smiled back, a little mortified to be caught staring.

After the Parade, Claudia begged to go browse the new arrivals at the milliner’s. Louis and Lily accompanied her as Paul wandered off to converse with his friend from church, Miss Gardiner.

“You may browse all you want, but we’re not buying anything today,” Louis reminded Claudia as they were nearing the small shop.

“I just want a ribbon for my hat,” she protested. “They’re only a sixpence each.”

She was entirely turned towards Louis as she spoke, and she did not notice the gentleman in uniform who was walking in the opposite direction. They bumped into each other and Claudia stumbled and dropped her gloves. Louis rushed forward to pull her back, utterly embarrassed.

To everyone’s surprise, the gentleman was the same officer from earlier, and he dismissed Louis’s profuse apologies, bending down to retrieve Claudia’s gloves.

“Please, the fault is all mine,” he said with a polite bow. “Here you are, miss.”

Claudia took the gloves back, her face beaming. Introductions were soon made; the young man was a lieutenant in the regiment, and he said he was most delighted to make new acquaintances so soon after his arrival.

“Shall we all go look for some ribbons together?” he asked with a smile, and Claudia jumped with excitement.

“So, how long will you be stationed here, Lieutenant?” Louis asked.

“Please, call me Armand,” the young officer replied with an easy smile, falling into step with Louis. “No need for such formalities, I am but a lowly first lieutenant. But to your question, I suppose it will depend on the French and whether or not they decide to invade us on the morrow. They are known to be a very fickle sort.”

Louis laughed, charmed by the young man’s witty humour. They fell into an easy conversation as they entered the shop, and the girls drifted away to browse the hats and accessories neatly displayed on the shelves. Louis found himself quickly taken by the young man’s pleasant, unassuming manners and by his easy, charming countenance. He told Louis he had been in London before coming to Meryton, and that he had been travelling in the East Indies before that.

“But I must say, I find that the country suits me much better,” he finished, giving Louis a bright smile.

“Yes, I can imagine it must be a welcome respite after spending so long in a large city.”

Claudia bounded closer, a stack of ribbons clutched in her hand. “Lou, can I have a sixpence?” she pleaded, “I’ve found the perfect ribbon for my hat and I simply must have it.”

Before Louis could protest, Armand pulled out a coin from the pocket of his red jacket with a playful flourish and handed it to her. Claudia took it eagerly, rushing back to the counter.

“Please, you must allow me to pay you back,” Louis said, embarrassed.

“Not at all!” Armand replied. “You can repay me by allowing me the pleasure of your company again sometime.”

Louis smiled, charmed. He was almost disappointed when Claudia and Lily were finished with their shopping and it was time to part ways.

As was customary, Sunday began with the obligatory morning service, which was then followed by a rather surprising announcement that same afternoon, that Paul had invited Miss Gardiner for dinner.

“Whatever for, my dear?” Mrs. du Lac asked, her expression one of sincere bewilderment.

"I wish for her to be properly introduced to the family,” Paul replied sullenly.

“We are already sufficiently acquainted with Miss Gardiner, dear,” Mrs. du Lac said with a stiff smile.

That was indeed true. The Gardiners were their tenants, and they resided only five miles from Pointe du Lac. The children of both families had grown up together, though, as was often the case, their vastly different circumstances had inevitably drawn them apart. Though her family was very modest, Doris was a gentle, sweet girl, whose exceptionally lovely voice had made her a prized addition to the parish choir. Doris’s childhood had been irrevocably marked by a dreadful carriage accident, which had resulted in the amputation of her left leg below the knee. She now walked with a wooden replacement that gave her an ungainly gait, and had earned her the cruel nickname of Peg Leg Doris.

Paul's face set in a determined frown as he fixed their mother, unflinching. “We are engaged, Mama. I mean to marry her as soon as I can secure a posting."

Mrs. du Lac's eyes widened as she strived—unsuccessfully—to conceal her shock. Louis had known of Paul’s longstanding friendship with Doris, but he had not been aware of Paul’s intentions to marry. That he should be the first of the Pointe du Lac children to do so had a certain irony to it.

“Paul dear,” Mrs. du Lac said in a strained voice. “Doris is a lovely girl, but I am certain we can find other, more suitable matches. Miss Frenière, for instance, would—”

“Miss Frenière is a vapid, arrogant woman with little regard for the holy scripture,” Paul exclaimed with a rare vehemence. “I care nothing for Miss Frenière, Mama, regardless of how sizeable her dowry is."

Mrs. du Lac tried to reason with Paul for the remainder of the afternoon, but Paul would hear none of it. And being the only one of her children whose every whim she indulged, Mrs. du Lac eventually let the matter rest.

But after dinner—as she disapprovingly stared through the window at Paul walking Miss Gardiner home—she confided to Louis her belief that by the time Paul had secured a parsonage and taken his vows, the infatuation with Miss Gardiner would have long worn out.

Louis, however, was not so sure about that. Paul was nothing if not stubborn.

The following morning, Louis was in the old greenhouse, absently jotting down some notes in his plant journal, when suddenly Mr. Lioncourt appeared in the doorway. He was dressed impeccably as usual, the sharp lines of his finely tailored coat stark against the cloudy gray morning. Louis dropped his pencil in shock and nearly knocked over a pot in his haste to retrieve it.

“Mr. Lioncourt?” he stuttered, closing his journal with a frantic gesture that was completely undignified. “What are you—”

“Your steward told me I could find you here,” Mr. Lioncourt said, vaguely gesturing in the direction of the fields as if that explained anything.

He stepped further into the greenhouse, his eyes twinkling with his usual unspoken amusement as he curiously inspected the plants that crowded the shelves. When Louis remained silent, he added, “Well, I said I would visit your fields did I not? That dreadful rain has finally let up today, and I thought it the perfect opportunity.”

Louis managed a tight smile, ignoring the heat he could feel creeping up his face.

“Is all of this yours?” Mr. Lioncourt asked, making a slow twirl as he took in the entire greenhouse, his eyes lingering curiously on the trailing plants of tomatoes and parsley that were suspended on hooks with twine ropes.

Louis cleared the lump in his throat before answering. “It was my father’s.” He considered leaving it at that, but Mr. Lioncourt’s face was open, his eyes sparkling with genuine curiosity and so Louis continued. “One summer he fancied himself the scientist and decided to research the best way to increase our crop yield. But like all his fancies, it wore off rather quickly. My sister Grace now uses it to grow flowers and vegetables and such—”

Mr. Lioncourt nodded, seemingly intrigued by Louis’s every word. He walked closer, curiously inspecting the cluttered workbench Louis was sitting at.

His eyes landed on Louis’s journal. "May I?"

Louis felt his face heat up again, but he handed over the worn notebook. “You may, though I suspect you will find it dreadfully mundane."

Mr. Lioncourt took the journal from him with a graceful flourish, his gloved fingers brushing against Louis’s. “Ah, but I am nothing if not fascinated by the mundane,” he said with a smile. “Especially when it pertains to someone as intriguing as you.”

Louis watched in stunned silence as Mr. Lioncourt carefully opened the journal, his fingers running over the yellowed pages.

“I am trying to catalogue all the different species around the area,” Louis explained awkwardly. “When I find a new kind, I research it and add it to the book.”

Mr. Lioncourt seemed strangely engrossed, his eyes carefully examining Louis’s hasty sketches of leaves and flowers.

“And do you do this for some greater purpose or simply your own amusement?” he asked, his tone surprisingly earnest.

“Mostly for my own amusement,” Louis admitted. “Though I do hope… one day, to publish it as a guide to the local flora.”

For a moment, the greenhouse was silent except for the faint creaking of wood and glass settling around them. Louis shuffled awkwardly, unsure of what to do with his hands. The attention was overwhelming; no one had ever shown such pointed interest in his trivial little hobby.

Paul had shared his interest when they were younger, eagerly accompanying Louis on his excursions to swamps and woods to collect samples, and marvelling at Louis’s ability to name and identify each one by the scientific names he had memorized from their father’s Encyclopedia Botanica.

Ten years later, Louis was intimately familiar with each stem, root and leaf that grew on the estate and the surrounding county. He could recognize each with his eyes closed, simply by scent and feel.

"Quite impressive," Mr. Lioncourt said softly, handing the journal back with an almost reverent care. "I hope you do publish it one day. It would be my pleasure to read it."

His gaze met Louis’s, and for a moment, the thick and humid air in the greenhouse seemed to hum with that same unspoken tension that had existed between them from the moment they’d met.

Louis swallowed, his heart pounding in his chest. He cleared his throat again, hoping to break the intensity of the moment.

"You mentioned wanting to see the fields," he said at last, his voice steadier, though his hands were still trembling slightly.

“Yes,” Mr. Lioncourt replied with a radiant smile, clapping his gloved hands together. “Please lead the way.”

They walked in silence for a long moment, their footsteps muffled on the damp earth. The foggy morning air was crisp, tinged with the scent of wet foliage and soil. The overcast sky bathed the fields in a muted gray light, creating the illusion that they were alone, in some hazy undefined place. Louis led the way with measured steps, guiding Mr. Lioncourt through the narrow path between the neat rows of low shrubs.

They came to the section Louis had been looking for, where the stems were already in full bloom. Mr. Lioncourt looked around, his eyes gleaming with wonderous awe. With a gesture of practiced elegance, he removed the glove from his right hand and gently grazed one of the pink flowers. “I had imagined they would be blue, given the name”

“A very common misconception,” Louis replied. “The dye is derived from the leaves and not the flower—” he hesitated to go on but Mr. Lioncourt was listening intently, no hint of sarcasm or mockery on his handsome face. “The leaves are soaked in water and allowed to ferment to extract the dye. It is a technique that was derived from the West Indies.”

“You seem to be very knowledgeable on the topic,” Mr. Lioncourt observed.

Louis scoffed. “Well yes, I should hope so. It is the foundation of our entire business, our very bread and butter.”

Mr. Lioncourt nodded, giving Louis another radiant smile. “And what is this dye used for, once it is produced?”

“All manner of things; medicine, paint colours, but mostly for fabrics—cotton, silk, wool such as that, no doubt very expensive, coat you are wearing.”

Louis allowed his hand to lightly brush against the sleeve of Mr. Lioncourt’s coat, feeling the warm soft fabric beneath his fingertips. It was an exquisite midnight blue color, which only seemed to enhance the brilliance of Mr. Lioncourt’s eyes.

Mr. Lioncourt smiled, preening at the attention.

Louis hastily took a step back when he saw Finn O’Shea in the distance, a basket in hand, pausing to curiously look at them before continuing on his way.

“He’s stealing from you, you know,” Mr. Lioncourt dropped casually, his pale eyes fixed on Finn’s retreating figure.

Louis scoffed. “Is that right? And you know this how? Are you able to enter the minds of men and excavate their buried thoughts?”

Mr. Lioncourt laughed, a rich, throaty sound that Louis felt deep in his core. “Mon Dieu! Life would be unbearably tedious if I could hear all the petty musings of the people around me.” His lips curled into a meaningful smirk as he added. “There would be no room for surprise, no thrill of discovery. No, I simply overheard the man boasting of it at the local tavern the other evening. He spoke quite loudly of how he overcharges the merchants on the ounce—not enough for you to notice, but enough to make himself good extra, he called it.”

Louis’s mouth dropped open, at a loss for what to reply to such a brazen accusation. He was no bean counter, but he had noticed a few small inconsistencies in the books here and there, not substantial enough for him to pay it much mind. Finn had been hired by his father, and he had been at Pointe du Lac for years now. If what Mr. Lioncourt was saying was true, then a serious conversation was in order. But Louis’s curiosity was far more piqued by the other part of Mr. Lioncourt’s statement.

“And what, may I ask, was someone like you doing in a local tavern?” he inquired.

“I like to indulge in all kinds of pleasures, Louis,” Mr. Lioncourt replied, his tone saccharine. “And I’ve often found that they can be procured in the most incongruent of places.”

Louis looked away, feeling his face heat up at the ease with which Mr. Lioncourt spoke of such things. Louis was no blushing virgin himself—though he always endeavoured to keep his private affairs private. He had no doubt, though, that Mr. Lioncourt indulged in the kind of vices and debaucheries that Louis couldn’t even begin to fathom. The thought sent his mind spiralling, and he had to stop himself before he could get too carried away imagining any of it in great detail.

Of course, a man like Mr. Lioncourt could afford to be careless about his reputation. He did not need to concern himself with securing his fortune or status through an advantageous match. Louis could easily imagine that when one already had an ample supply of both, trivial social conventions ceased to matter.

Afterward, their conversation shifted to farming techniques in France and how they compared to those here. Inevitably, the topic turned to travel, of which Mr. Lioncourt had done a substantial amount and Louis none. In a moment of unguarded vulnerability, Louis found himself recounting his childhood, the countless hours he spent staring at his father’s globe, his little fingers tracing over the countries, lakes and mountain ranges, imagining himself traversing them. It felt strange now to think he had ever indulged in such presumptions.

“It’s never too late to begin,” Mr. Lioncourt mused teasingly. “Rome is particularly lovely this time of year.”

Louis shook his head, letting out a derisive chuckle. “No, I’m afraid the closest I’ll ever get to that dream now is through the pages of my books.”

“Why do you say that?” Mr. Lioncourt asked, his brows lifting in a puzzled frown.

Louis sighed lightly, pausing to look at the misty fields around them. “Well, my father nearly gambled our entire estate away before he passed. My family is now entirely dependent on me to provide for them. I cannot simply pick up and go to Rome whenever the fancy strikes.”

They spent the remainder of the morning together. Mr. Lioncourt seemed genuinely intrigued by all the mundane details of Louis’s daily life, asking thoughtful questions and listening with an almost fascinated attentiveness as Louis spoke about his unremarkable interests and pastimes.

Louis was still wary, uncertain of Mr. Lioncourt’s true intentions in seeking out his company so persistently. But he had to admit it was refreshing to have someone take such an earnest interest in the small, simple things that filled his days.

For the first time in a long time, Louis felt truly seen—not for what he could offer others, but for who he was. It was a dizzying feeling, especially coming from a man like Mr. Lioncourt, who was always the center of attention in any room he entered, and who could easily surround himself with far more prestigious company.

As they parted around midday, Louis found himself already longing to see him again.

Chapter Text

eeks passed before the moment Mrs. du Lac had been longing for finally arrived; Mr Frenière coming to dine at Pointe du Lac. From the break of dawn, the entire household was in an uproar, as Mrs. du Lac—with single-minded meticulousness—harried the servants into making every nook and cranny of the house spotless and ready for her esteemed guests. She was quite determined to mask the inconvenient truth of their meagre finances with fine silverware, a lavish seven-course meal, and the unrelenting charm she believed herself to possess in spades.

Louis had retreated to the study to escape the mayhem, but at barely four o’clock, his mother stormed in, in a whirl of black taffeta and flushed cheeks, tersely commanding him to go upstairs and not return until he was presentable.

With a sigh, Louis closed his book and made his way upstairs. He nearly collided with Grace in the hallway, her hair in rag curlers, her face a mask of wide-eyed panic. They exchanged a glance and dissolved into a fit of stifled laughter, until Mrs. du Lac’s sharp voice rang out from below, reminding them that she expected everyone ready and gathered in the drawing room within the hour.

At precisely six o’clock, the Frenières arrived in their shiny four-horse carriage. This time, Louis was no longer surprised to see Mr. Lioncourt accompanying them, though the man’s presence still stirred an uneasy mix of dread and anticipation.

Mrs. du Lac’s eyes widened when Mr. Lioncourt took her gloved hand and hovered a scrupulously polite kiss over her knuckles. “Madame de Pointe du Lac, all the kindness for the invitation.”

Louis could see her displeasure flickering behind her gracious mask, but the pride of having a marquis dining in her home quickly overruled her dislike for the man, and she welcomed him with her best practiced smile.

Mr. Lioncourt greeted Louis with a wolfish grin, his eyes lingering on him as the guests were ushered into the dining room.

The dinner was, to put it mildly, a rather strained affair. Mrs. du Lac, eager to make a good impression, presided over it with a smile so fixed it appeared painted on. The stilted conversation was punctuated by Mrs. du Lac’s overly effusive compliments to Mr. Frenière, and Babette’s increasingly obvious attempts to draw Mr. Lioncourt’s attention. The latter replied to her with curt sentences that suggested his politeness to her was more an obligation than a pleasure.

Paul was brooding, as he had been for the past month, his eyes remaining fixed on his plate. Claudia, beside him, vibrated with barely contained excitement at the presence of so many new faces. As for Mr. Frenière, his attention continually wandered toward Grace, who, in her own shy, demure way, seemed equally captivated.

Louis sat in uncomfortable silence, attempting, without much success, to ignore his growing awareness of Mr. Lioncourt, who was seated directly to his left. As usual, Mr. Lioncourt was the picture of ease and effortless charm. Tonight, he wore a deep green brocade waistcoat that emphasized his lean figure, and a pristine white cravat adorned with an emerald pin. His hair was tied back in a silk ribbon, but one lock had fallen loose, curling enticingly against his sharp jaw.

Louis knew he ought to be paying attention to the conversations being had—if only to ensure that no one in his family would say anything too mortifying—but he couldn't seem to take his eyes off that blond lock as it tumbled forward, grazing the corner of Mr. Lioncourt’s lips. He felt a maddening temptation to lean forward and gently tuck it back behind his ear. The situation was not helped by the fact that Mr. Lioncourt seemed to make no effort to disguise the warmth in his gaze or the knowing smile that danced on his lips whenever their eyes met.

At first, Louis had easily dismissed the man as nothing more than a vain, pompous aristocrat, whose provocative charm was as insincere as it was abundant. But the morning they had spent in the fields together had greatly altered his perspective. The memory of that day still lingered in Louis’s mind, stirring up emotions he was reluctant to put a name to. While Mr. Lioncourt’s interest was too marked to be mistaken, Louis nursed no illusions about what their strange, unspoken connection could amount to. Sooner or later, Mr. Lioncourt would inevitably grow bored with the quaint novelty of small country life, and he would leave, vanishing from Louis’s life just as suddenly as he had appeared.

The awkwardness of the evening reached its peak midway through the sixth course. The topic had shifted to music, and Lily made a passing remark about the lovely singing at Sunday service, to which Mr. Lioncourt replied, quite matter-of-factly, that he did not attend. It was enough to push Paul over the edge.

“I take it, then, that you are not a godly man, Monsieur de Lioncourt,” Paul said, his tone cold. Louis shot him a warning glance, but Paul ignored it, his eyes burning with furious outrage.

Mr. Lioncourt blinked, visibly taken aback, yet he moved with his characteristic grace, lifting his wine glass to his lips and taking a small sip before speaking. “As a boy, I was very devout,” he began, his tone measured. “I came to know God in a monastery. I, too, wanted to be a priest, just like you.”

Paul’s eyes widened, his expression shifting to reluctant interest as Mr. Lioncourt continued.

“Under the guidance of the monks who lived there, I memorized both Testaments and all the writings of the saints and the prophets. But my father did not think much of this education. You see, such a lowly occupation was unbefitting of our rank and of his grand aspirations for me. When I wrote to him declaring my intention to enter the order, he came for me three days later. In the months that followed, in between the beatings, the starvations, and the failure of God to intercede in said beatings and starvations, I slowly forgot all the testaments and all the writings of the saints and the prophets…”

A tense hush had fallen around the table, all eyes fixed on Mr. Lioncourt as he continued in a dangerous low whisper, his pale gaze fixed on Paul.

“So, to answer your insipid question, Mr. du Lac, there is now an ocean between God and myself.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Paul abruptly stood, tossing down his napkin. “If you’ll excuse me,” he gritted out, his voice shaking with barely contained fury, “It would seem I have lost my appetite.” Without waiting for a response, he stormed out of the room, ignoring Mrs. du Lac’s murmured pleas.

Louis looked down, fixing his gaze on his barely touched plate, silently wishing the ground would open up and swallow him.

Mrs. du Lac cleared her throat delicately, valiantly attempting to dispel the tension. “Shall we have dessert?” she said, ringing the bell.

The apple soufflé was served, and for several long moments, the only sound was the clink of spoons against porcelain. Louis chanced a glance at Mr. Lioncourt, whose eyes had turned more pensive, the teasing warmth from earlier gone. When he met Louis’s gaze, he looked almost chastened as he lifted his wine glass to his lips, taking another small sip.

“Mr. Frenière,” Claudia broke in suddenly, her cheerful voice a welcome interruption to the strained atmosphere, “is it true that you promised to hold a ball at your estate?”

Mr. Frenière, who seemed a little startled by her directness, hesitated before nodding. “Yes, I may have mentioned it.”

“A ball?” Miss Frenière interjected, her tone disapproving.

But Claudia pressed on, undeterred. “It would be an excellent way to meet new friends. You could invite the militia—they are excellent company.”

Mr. Frenière hesitated again, his gaze turning to Grace—the only person whose opinion on the matter he seemed to truly value. She smiled shyly and nodded, “Yes, a ball would be lovely.”

Mr. Frenière turned back to Claudia, a newfound enthusiasm coloring his voice. “Very well then, when your sister is fully recovered, you shall name the day.”

Chapter Text

ouis sat by the window when they all went through to the drawing room after dinner. The rain had begun to fall halfway through the meal, and it now drummed steadily against the glass, a relentless hushed patter. He sighed at the thought of this agonizing evening being further prolonged as a result—an inconvenience that would surely delight his mother. But despite his general frustration, he could not deny the dizzying anticipation that he felt as Mr. Lioncourt, as if by some silent agreement, disregarded the sofa and came to sit right beside him.

The rest of the party had settled into a low conversation, which seemed to have shifted to the ball that Mr. Frenière would soon be hosting. Louis paid it no mind, his thoughts entirely consumed by the man seated next to him. There was something in Mr. Lioncourt’s presence—in his quiet confidence and unflinching attention—that made Louis’s stomach twist nervously.

Mr. Lioncourt leaned in, his proximity sending a sharp jolt of heat through Louis. When he spoke, his deep voice was low and intimate. “I wanted to apologize,” he said, his tone startlingly earnest. “I fear your family may have taken a permanent offence against me. I sincerely hope my poor manners at dinner will not entirely sink me in your esteem.”

Louis blinked, surprised by the candid apology, and even more so that Mr. Lioncourt would seek to be esteemed by Louis, who was, in the eyes of the world, inferior in every way that mattered.

“There is no need to apologize Mr. Lioncourt,” he murmured, his voice instinctively lowering to match the other man’s. “Paul is—he is not out in society often. He does not always understand how to behave gracefully in company.” He chuckled humorlessly. “And if you truly must know, his foul mood has more to do with his other recent vexations than with your lack of admiration for the clergy.”

Mr. Lioncourt smiled at Louis’s quip, though his expression still looked wary. “Yes, I did notice he was rather gloomy during dinner.”

Louis nodded, unsure of whether or not to continue. But there was something in Mr. Lioncourt’s gentle, curious gaze that made him want to confide more.

“You see, Paul was ordained deacon two years ago," he explained. "Under our parish priest, Father Mathias. He worked incredibly hard for it, and he was so proud—” He swallowed, guilt and bitterness sliding uncomfortably down his throat.

“And that is… a good thing, is it not?” Mr. Lioncourt asked, a slight frown creasing his brow.

“It is. Paul was eager to take his vows and enter the priesthood as soon as he was permitted to, which under the usual circumstances would have been this year. But as of yet, we have not managed to secure him a living. Just this week, he received another rejection, from a position in Hamstead he had applied to.”

Mr. Lioncourt’s fair brows rose in astonishment. “And can nothing be done to resolve the matter?”

Louis sighed, the weight of the divide between them dawning on him once again. Of course Mr. Lioncourt was utterly perplexed at the idea that one didn’t simply obtain whatever they wanted. He existed in a world where all his desires were fulfilled as easily as he spoke them aloud.

“Not unless by some miracle another vacant parsonage were to present itself," Louis said. "Paul has no choice but to wait until Father Mathias is too old to continue his duties, which may very well take years, if not decades.”

“Then I am very sorry for your brother,” Mr. Lioncourt said, sounding startlingly sincere. "That is indeed a vexing predicament to be in."

Louis shrugged, offering a small, grateful smile. For a moment, they sat in silence, the rain and the conversation around them a distant hum, inconsequential when measured against the strange current thrumming between them.

The quiet spell was broken when the door suddenly flew open, and Tobias, the young stableboy, stumbled into the room, soaked and breathless. He dropped into a hasty bow, his face ashen, beneath the constellation of freckles that dotted his cheeks. “Begging your pardon, Mr. du Lac,” he panted, his words tumbling out in a rush. “It's the mare, sir, she got caught up in the mud. The rain’s turned the fields into a swamp. Mr. O’Shea is trying to free her, but he fears she might break a leg—”

Louis sprang to his feet, his heart sinking. The mare was one of the few horses they owned large enough for the arduous fieldwork. They couldn’t afford to lose her—not when he had only just managed to secure a new loan by mortgaging the following year’s harvest. With their finances so precarious, such a substantial loss would be devastating.

Mrs. du Lac, completely oblivious to the gravity of the situation—or at least pretending to be— waved a dismissive hand. “Louis, I’m sure the farmhands will manage. You needn’t trouble yourself.”

“Trouble myself?” Louis repeated, incredulous. “Mama, if we lose that horse, I can assure you it will be more than a little trouble.”

Just as his mother was about to argue, Mr. Lioncourt’s voice cut through. “I’ll come with you.”

Louis turned to see him rising smoothly from his seat, perfectly at ease as if he hadn’t just volunteered to go trudging through rain-soaked fields.

“What?” he blurted, so astonished that he forgot his manners.

“Mr. de Lioncourt, there is absolutely no need.” Mrs. du Lac protested, her face flushed with embarrassment at the suggestion of one of her guests being made to do the work of field hands.

“It’s no trouble at all, Madame,” Mr. Lioncourt replied with an easy charm. He slipped off his velvet tailcoat and draped it across the chair with a flourish. “Levi, stay here with the ladies,” he instructed smoothly, with a commanding tone that brokered no further argument. “I’m sure we shan’t be long.”

With a frustrated sigh, Louis shrugged off his own dinner jacket, not wanting to waste any more time. “Let’s go,” he said.

Tobias bowed awkwardly, turning on his heels to exit the room. Louis followed him out, Mr. Lioncourt trailing closely behind.

The air outside was cold and breezy, a shock after the soft, cozy warmth of the drawing room. Tobias bravely led the way, the wavering light of his lantern casting a pale halo over the hazy landscape. The rain lashed against Louis’s face as they slogged across the waterlogged fields, each step made unwieldy by the thick, slippery mud. Beside him, Mr. Lioncourt moved with a maddening casual grace, seemingly unperturbed that he was ruining his fine leather boots. The white sleeves of his linen shirt clung to his broad shoulders, nearly translucent from being soaked through. Louis tried to focus on the urgent task at hand, but he couldn’t help but cast a few sidelong glances at the man, still astonished that he’d so eagerly offered to come along.

When they reached the mare, Louis’s heart sank further. The poor beast was wild with fear, eyes wide and nostrils flared as she thrashed against the mire holding her hind legs captive. The seed drill she’d been hauling had been unhitched and set aside, and Finn was struggling to keep her controlled, his portly arms straining as he pulled uselessly on the reins.

Louis hurried forward, already dreading the damage that would be done if they didn’t free her quickly. The way she was bucking and kicking, it was a miracle that she had not already injured herself.

He turned in surprise when Mr. Lioncourt stepped closer, his expression perfectly calm. Despite his soaked hair clinging to his forehead, there was a determined intensity in his eyes that made him look quite fearsome. He slowly approached the mare and held up a hand to Finn, who gratefully passed the reins to him and stepped back to avoid any stray kicks. Louis watched, transfixed, as Mr. Lioncourt began speaking softly to the mare, murmuring to her in low, soothing French.

The mare’s frantic movements slowed, her ears flicking toward Mr. Lioncourt. Her wild, terrified eyes softened as his fingers moved gently along her neck, stroking in long, soothing motions.

Louis watched, astonished, as Mr. Lioncourt continued murmuring to the animal, his movements calm and deliberate. Louis’s eyes followed his long, elegant fingers as they gently glided over the mare’s sleek coat, moving with a practiced ease that belied all the previous assumptions Louis had made about him. Reluctantly, Louis tore his gaze away, forcing himself to focus.

He slowly circled the mare, inspecting her trapped hind legs. “Toby, on my signal, lift her left leg as hard as you can,” he instructed, bracing his shoulder against the mare’s right flank.

Toby complied without question, positioned himself on the opposite side. At the count of three, they gave a sharp pull. The mare bucked, frightened once more, but Mr. Lioncourt kept a firm, reassuring grip on her, his arms wrapped around her neck as he continued to speak to her softly.

It took them several tries, their feet struggling to find purchase on the slick mud, but at last, with a gentle tug on the reins, Mr. Lioncourt was able to coax the mare forward, and with one last heave, she pulled free from the mud, stumbling slightly but overall unharmed.

Tobias hurried forward to take the reins from Mr. Lioncourt, stammering his thanks, but Louis barely registered the exchange. His mind was still reeling, torn between relief and exhaustion as he slumped against the abandoned sled.

Mr. Lioncourt turned towards him, wiping the rainwater from his brow. His face was beautifully flushed from the exertion, his eyes bright. “Are you alright?” There was an unmistakable teasing edge in his tone.

For once, Louis could think of no witty retort. “Thank you,” he said simply. 

Mr. Lioncourt's lips quirked into a smile, his eyes glinting with a fondness that made Louis’s pulse quicken. Mr. Lioncourt extended a hand, and Louis gratefully accepted it. The contact sent a dizzying jolt through him as he clung to it, allowing Mr. Lioncourt to pull him to his feet.

When they finally made it back to the house, Mrs. du Lac was horrified at the state of them, and Miss Frenière looked so shocked that Louis was certain she was going to swoon. They were immediately ushered to the study to change out of their soaked clothes. Mr. Lioncourt looked utterly unbothered as he stepped out of his ruined boots and followed calmly behind Louis.

A fire had already been lit in the study, its warm glow seeping into the room, casting flickering shadows on the bookshelves. Betsy brought them a stack of towels and some of Louis’s own clothes to change into. The awkwardness of the situation didn’t dawn on Louis until she exited the room, quietly shutting the door behind her.

His back deliberately turned, Louis unbuttoned his soaked waistcoat, doing his best to ignore the sudden tension in the air. His gaze inevitably drifted toward Mr. Lioncourt, who had already shed his waistcoat and was now unbuttoning his shirt, with the ease of someone entirely comfortable in their own skin. Louis’s eyes lingered, trailing over the firm lines of his chest, the sculpted muscles of his abdomen, and the flex of his arms as his elegant fingers deftly plucked at the buttons.

Mr. Lioncourt seemed well aware of the scrutiny, his lips curved into a small, knowing smile. Louis’s breath caught when he finished unbuttoning the shirt, and he shrugged it off in one smooth motion, exposing his bare chest to the warm glow of the fire.

Their eyes met, and Louis quickly turned away, suppressing a laugh as his fingers clumsily fumbled with the buttons of his own shirt. He felt more than he saw Mr. Lioncourt draw closer. He was still bare-chested, moving with his usual confident grace.

“Here, let me help you,” Mr. Lioncourt said in a low murmur, his hands covering Louis’s.

Louis’s pulse quickened, and he inhaled shakily. He could feel the warmth radiating off of Mr. Lioncourt’s body, so close now that their breath mingled in the warm air of the room. Mr. Lioncourt smelled like sunshine, sandalwood, and something else that Louis couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was a rich and intoxicating scent, that made Louis want to lean in and taste it.

“Mr. Lioncourt—” Louis began, his brain scrambling for something coherent to say.

“Please, call me Lestat. I would prefer it.”

Louis nodded, too distracted to think of a reasonable objection. “Fine, Lestat then,” he said, savouring the way the name tasted on his tongue.

Lestat smiled. He finished undoing Louis’s shirt, and then slowly, he slid his hands up Louis’s chest, peeling it away and letting it fall to the floor in a heap. Louis’s pulse was hammering in his ears, and for once, he allowed himself to feel it; the reckless, overwhelming desire that flooded all his senses.

Lestat’s hand came to rest at the back of his neck, his touch achingly tender. Slowly, deliberately, he closed the short distance between them, capturing Louis’s lips in a soft, languid kiss. Louis’s heart lurched in his chest, and he kissed Lestat back, surrendering to the maddening pull he had been fighting for so long.

He couldn’t deny that he had envisioned this moment before, more times than he cared to count. He’d often found himself gazing at Lestat’s lips as he spoke, wondering what it would feel like to draw nearer, to bridge that gap between them that rank and propriety dictated. Finally allowing himself to taste it was a heady, dizzying rush.

He moaned lightly into the kiss as Lestat’s warm hands roamed down his back, settling on his waist to pull him closer. He could feel Lestat’s hardening cock pressing against his thigh, and it sent a sharp thrill of arousal coursing through him. His hands moved to tangle in Lestat’s wet hair, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. Lestat sighed, parting his lips, and Louis pressed in, licking hungrily into his mouth.

When they pulled apart, they were both flushed and breathless. Lestat’s lips were bitten red, his blue eyes blazing.

“Is this what you are after then?” Louis asked, letting a playful smile settle on his lips as he reached down to rub Lestat through the soft fabric of his breeches. “Is that why you have been circling me like a vulture from the moment we met?”

Lestat let out a breathy exhale, and he tucked his face into the crook of Louis’s neck as if suddenly overcome by a bout of modesty. His soft lips brushed against the hollow of Louis’s throat as he spoke in a low murmur, his voice muffled against Louis’s skin. “Yes, perhaps I was hoping something like this would happen.” Then, with unexpected sincerity, he added, “But that’s not all I desire. I can easily secure that sort of affection at any gentlemen’s club or tavern. What you offer is infinitely more enticing.” His gaze rose to meet Louis’s, and the intensity in his pale eyes was striking. His pupils were wide, his expression was so openly pleading that it made Louis’s heart skip a beat. “I meant it when I said I wish for us to be friends.” His hand came to softly cradle Louis’s cheek. “I just want you, Louis, in any way you will have me.”

Louis gasped, rendered momentarily speechless by the weight of such a declaration. But he could not allow himself to linger on it; doing so would have sent his mind headlong into a tailspin. The mere fact that he was fondling Lestat in his father’s study, with his family in the next room over, was unnerving enough as it was.

He slipped his hand down Lestat’s breeches, wrapping around his warm hard cock—this, at least, Louis understood well enough. Lestat moaned softly, leaning back in for another heated kiss as his hands reached for Louis in turn.

“Louis?”

Louis’s head snapped up, his pulse thundering in his ears as he stared at the door in wide-eyed horror. It was Grace’s voice, calling from behind the door. He let go of Lestat, stumbling hastily backward.

“There’s tea and mulled wine in the drawing room when you’re done,” Grace continued, her voice as innocent and unassuming as ever.

“Yes, thank you, Grace,” Louis called out, scrambling to put some semblance of composure in his voice. “We’ll be out shortly.”

He glanced back at Lestat, who seemed entirely unbothered by the interruption, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter as though this was all an amusing diversion.

Louis let out a sigh of relief when he heard Grace’s footsteps fade down the hall.

“We should head back,” he said in a low urgent voice. He picked up a shirt haphazardly from the pile of dry clothes and handed it to Lestat.

Lestat smiled, his hand lingering on Louis’s as he accepted the shirt. He leaned in for another brief kiss, and against his better judgement, Louis allowed it, letting himself savour the warm sweetness of it.

Chapter Text

he next morning, Betsy came to Louis, a small object glittering in her hand. It was Lestat’s emerald tie pin, the one he had worn at dinner.

"I found it while dusting the study," she said, offering it to Louis with a meaningful look.

Louis felt violently flustered, but he managed to keep his expression neutral as he thanked her, promising to return it to its rightful owner at the earliest opportunity.

In the days that followed, Louis often found himself looking at the pin, his fingers brushing softly over its gleaming surface as he admired how exquisitely it was crafted. It was mounted on a gold needle, and the central stone was a large marquis-cut emerald, surrounded by a cluster of sparkling white diamonds. It was the most beautiful piece of jewellery Louis had ever seen, and a more bitter side of him couldn’t help but wonder what it must be like to be so wealthy as to misplace something this valuable and think nothing of it.

Soon, it became a habit for him to carry the pin wherever he went, tucked in his coat pocket, his hands absently running over it as he went about his day. He told himself that he carried it merely out of convenience, in case he happened to cross paths with Lestat. But the truth was that their encounter in the study still echoed in his mind, and it had left him feeling unbearably restless.

He could not stop thinking about the feeling of Lestat’s body pressed against his, the heated, desperate kisses they had exchanged, the warm feel of Lestat in his hand, the breathless gasps that had slipped from his lips as Louis touched him. But what lingered most in Louis’s mind was the way Lestat’s blue eyes had softened when he’d made that strangely earnest declaration.

The physical part was the least of it—that, Louis could have easily dismissed. After all, he was no stranger to the unspoken, mutual gratification that men who shared his tastes often sought from one another. There had been Jonah, and a few others along the way, ever since Louis had been old enough to realize that he felt little to no attraction for the other sex. But this—this was something different entirely. What troubled Louis the most were the strange feelings of intimacy the encounter had awoken within him, terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.

He tried to remind himself that any relationship with Lestat could not possibly amount to anything. Their lives were worlds apart, not to mention that Louis knew next to nothing about the man, save that he was French, exceedingly wealthy, and—by his own account—had suffered a rather wretched childhood. And despite Lestat’s recent displays of kindness, Louis remained cautious of him, of what his intentions were in choosing to bestow his affections on Louis when he could have had anyone else. Whatever this strange attraction between them was, theirs could only ever be a fleeting liaison—if even that. Louis knew he could not afford to get carried away by misplaced sentiment.

And yet, try as he might, he could not banish Lestat from his mind. It seemed the more he tried, the more the strange knot of confusion and longing tightened inside him.

The following week, Louis had been brooding in the study—with the pretence of going over the estate books—when his mother barged in, as she had become accustomed to doing. She wore a triumphant little smile, an open letter clutched in her hand.

“A note just arrived," she declared with no other preamble. "Miss Frenière has invited Grace and Lily over for tea on Thursday afternoon. It seems her sister has come down to help her prepare for the ball, and she is in great need of company.”

Louis fought the urge to roll his eyes. He was astonished, however, by such an overture, considering how little either of the Frenière sisters had warmed to any of them. It was far more likely the invitation had come at the insistence of their brother, whose partiality to Grace was no longer in doubt.

“Very well, Mama,” Louis said. “I’ll have Toby ready the carriage to take them. We wouldn’t want a repeat of last time.”

His mother gave him a sharp look. “You will be accompanying them. Miss Frenière mentioned you by name in the invitation.”

Louis’s eyebrows lifted in astonishment. It strained credulity even more that Miss Frenière would want his company. Louis certainly did not enjoy hers. “I’m not sure I’m free that afternoon, Mama," he tried. "Perhaps the girls can go alone—”

“Oh, you are free,” his mother replied in a sugary tone. “And you will be going. I’ve already accepted on your behalf.”

Louis sighed, nodding curtly. This was a battle he could not possibly hope to win.

“Oh, and Louis, dear,” his mother added, pausing at the door. A reproachful frown settled on her face as her eyes trailed to his dusty boots and faded overcoat, which he had not yet changed out of since returning from the fields. “Be sure to wear something presentable. We wouldn’t want them to think we are so utterly destitute as to be unable to afford proper clothing.”

“Of course, Mama,” he muttered irritably.

When they arrived at the Morton estate, both of Frenière’s sisters were present, as were Lestat and Mr. Frenière. Lord de Clairmont had excused himself for a nap, claiming he still needed to recover from the journey.

Mr. Frenière, amiable as ever, greeted them at the door with a broad smile, beaming at Grace as he helped her down from the carriage.

Lady de Clairmont seemed far warmer than her older sister, and altogether more agreeable, though she still carried the same haughty air of someone convinced of their own self-importance.

“I am so glad you have all come,” she said cheerfully as they were ushered into the drawing room. “I was telling Babette that we shall be at each other’s throats in no time if I have to spend another afternoon with her as my only company.”

Louis greeted Lestat with a polite bow, doing his best to ignore the way his heart raced. Lestat was dressed impeccably as always, this time in a pale blue silk brocade waistcoat and a matching crushed velvet tailcoat. The colour made his pale eyes seem even brighter as he smiled at Louis, his gaze soft with an emotion Louis could not quite decipher.

Tea was served, and after the customary greetings and inquiries about one another’s health, a somewhat tense quiet settled over the room, broken only by the clink of porcelain as they drank.

“How are you enjoying the country, your Grace?” Lily asked, breaking the silence.

“Oh, it has its charms, I suppose,” Lady de Clairmont replied. “The air is certainly much fresher than in the city. Though I do lament how little there is for ladies to do. Gentlemen may have their riding and their shooting, but we only have cards and gossip to occupy our time.” She laughed, and everyone answered with polite smiles.

“Then we must introduce you to Lady Williams,” Lily said with a sly smile. “She is the authority when it comes to the matter.”

“Or perhaps,” Lestat interjected playfully, “you might take a stroll to one of the taverns in Meryton, Caroline. You’d be astonished what sort of secrets people reveal once they’ve had a few pints.”

“Oh, you’re very funny, Lestat!” Lady de Clermont exclaimed. “Can you imagine such a thing? Me, in a tavern?”

“Indeed I can, Caroline. And I’d be quite happy to accompany you.” Lestat gave Louis a meaningful look as he added, “Perhaps Mr. du Lac here could be our guide.”

“You’re quite mistaken, Mr. Lioncourt,” Louis said in a muted tone. “I rarely have the time or the desire to frequent such places.”

As the conversation continued, Lestat leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Oh, do not be cross, Louis. I was merely jesting.”

“And here I thought the aim of jests was to be amusing,” Louis replied deadpan, speaking in an equally low voice.

Lestat’s grin widened, his eyes lingering on Louis as his finger seductively traced the edge of his teacup.

Lady de Clermont, evidently vexed at not being the center of attention, turned curiously to Lily. “Remind me, Miss Lily, how exactly are you connected to the Pointe du Lacs?”

“I am a du Lac myself,” Lily replied with a polite smile. “My father was the late Mr. du Lac’s younger brother. Though I lost both my parents when I was young.”

“Oh, how dreadful,” Lady de Clermont exclaimed with a theatrical gasp, her dainty hand clutching at her heart. “There is nothing quite worse than being an orphan. “Thankfully, we still have both our parents. They reside with me in London, in Grosvenor Square—perhaps you’ve heard of it? But of course, the duke and I always do our best to help the orphans and the other downtrodden. We donate quite regularly to charities and orphanages and such…Though naturally, we don’t get too close. As you know, one can never be sure what diseases these sorts of people may be carrying.”

Mr. Frenière, no doubt sensing the rising discomfort, cleared his throat and skillfully shifted the conversation to the upcoming ball, which, apparently, was now to be a masquerade.

“I came up with the idea,” Lady de Clairmont declared proudly. “Masquerade balls are all the rage in town. I think it will be the most amusing thing. Don’t you agree, Babette?”

Her sister offered a tight, strained smile. “I still question the necessity of hosting a ball at all, Caroline. Especially in a place like this, where one can hardly find anyone worth inviting.”

“Oh, don’t be a spoilsport, Babette. It will be splendid fun. I’m so glad you convinced my brother to do it, Miss. du Lac.”

“I believe it was rather my younger sister, Claudia, who insisted on it,” Grace said with a bashful smile. “I merely went along with the idea.”

“Mr. du Lac,” Lestat said, his voice smoothly cutting through the chatter, “I would like to take you on a proper tour of the library. You hardly got a chance to see it during your last visit. Levi has since acquired several new volumes that I think you would very much enjoy.”

Louis looked up in surprise, aware that all eyes in the room were now on them. Miss Frenière, in particular, watched with thinly veiled disdain, her gaze sharp and probing.

“Of course,” Louis said, his voice steady even as he felt a flutter of excitement building in his chest. He stood, doing his best to ignore Miss Frenière’s pointed scrutiny as he bowed to the ladies and followed Lestat out of the drawing room.

As they stepped into the hallway, the cool, quiet air wrapped around them, a stark contrast to the humming chatter they had just left behind. Lestat walked ahead with easy, graceful strides, his eyes flicking seductively over his shoulder to ensure Louis was still following.

“You didn’t have to make such a spectacle of it, you know,” Louis murmured under his breath, still feeling mortified at the attention their sudden departure had drawn.

Lestat stopped, turning on his heels with an artful twirl, a small, amused smile dancing on his lips. “A spectacle?” he echoed, his voice light and teasing. “I merely wanted to show you the library, Louis. Surely, there is no harm in that.”

Louis didn’t answer, but he felt a faint smile tug at the corner of his mouth despite himself. He found it impossible to resist Lestat’s effortless charm, the way he could so easily disarm Louis with a glance or a few carefully chosen words. As much as Louis wanted to deny it, being with Lestat made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t in years.

The new library was two stories of towering white shelves, trimmed in gold mouldings and neatly lined with pristine, brand-new books, the scent of fresh leather and crisp paper still in the air. Here and there, marble busts of stern, unfamiliar figures stood in silent watch. As Louis looked around the vast room, he couldn’t help but mourn the way it had been before, with dark and dusty wooden panels, and shadowy nooks and alcoves where he could hide for hours. Now, like the rest of the house, it seemed almost sterile in its perfection—a place meant to be admired rather than made use of.

He heard the white French doors click shut behind them, and in an instant, Lestat was on him, kissing him with an unrestrained hunger. The suddenness of the kiss briefly caught Louis off guard, but he quickly melted into it, as he was once again enveloped by Lestat's intoxicating scent—sandalwood, lavender and something he couldn't quite identify. His fingers rose of their own accord to thread in Lestat’s silky blonde locks, pulling him closer.

“I have missed you,” Lestat murmured against his lips, “I've thought of nothing else since that night.”

Louis let out a soft chuckle, amused now more than he was surprised by Lestat's brazen candour. “Do you truly have books you wish to show me,” he said, his tone teasing, “Or did you simply lure me here to have your way with me?”

Lestat’s grin widened, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Et pourquoi pas le deux?” he whispered, his warm breath ghosting against Louis’s skin. “Would you like that, Louis? Hmm,” His hand came to skirt along the front of Louis’s trousers, his elegant fingers cupping Louis through the coarse wool fabric. “If I pulled you out of your breeches right now and put my mouth on you…”

“Lestat!” Louis squeaked out in shock, meaning for it to sound like stern disapproval, but it came out much more like a breathless plea. His eyes instinctively flicked down to said proffered mouth. It was flushed red, lips parted and glistening. Yes! He would have liked that very much.

Lestat smiled coyly, and he leaned forward to place a chaste kiss on Louis’s lips before pulling away, tugging Louis’s hand to bring him along. He walked backward, his gaze never wavering from Louis’s face, a playful smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Louis found himself helplessly smiling back.

Lestat stopped once they got to the center of the vast room, and then, with a flourish, he gestured toward a small table beside one of the towering shelves. “I thought you might like this one,” he said.

Resting on the table was a small gift box, wrapped delicately in silk paper. Louis stepped forward, intrigued. He carefully pulled on the strings to unwrap the packet, his fingers trembling slightly with anticipation. His breath hitched when he unveiled the book inside. The cover was exquisite, bound in a rich brown leather, the title embossed in gold leaf: The Mysteries of Udolpho by Ann Radcliffe.

“Is this... a first edition?” Louis asked, incredulous, his eyes wide as he ran his hand over the gilded letters.

Lestat beamed, clearly pleased with the reaction. “Tis,” he said, tracing the edge of the cover.  “With gold and silver in the velum. I ordered it especially for you after I saw how captivated you were with the story during your first visit.”

Louis let out a soft laugh, remembering the awkward tension from that day, and how he had spent hours doing his best to avoid Lestat. “I will admit that my performance that day was not the best,” he said, a bit bashful.

A smile stretched on Lestat’s lips, something warm and hungry and just a little bit teasing, and Louis’s pulse quickened at the sight of it. It sent a dizzying wave of desire coursing through him, and he had to make a substantial effort to concentrate on the words Lestat was saying.

“Oh, you cannot imagine what a torment that day was for me, Louis, how it drove me to near madness,” Lestat let out a theatrical sigh. “Having to watch you prance about the house in your stockings while not being able to touch you or even elicit a friendly glance from you—it was pure agony.”

The confession startled a genuine laugh from Louis, and his gaze drifted back to the book, feeling uncertain. “I’m not sure I can accept this,” he said. “It must have cost a fortune.”

“But you must, Louis,” Lestat insisted, his head tilting sideways as he gave Louis another teasing smirk. “Consider it a small token of my affection.”  

Louis’s breath caught at the intensity in Lestat’s piercing blue eyes. With a nervous glance away, he fumbled in his coat pocket, pulling out the emerald pin, in a gesture that had now become a habit. “That reminds me, I have something for you as well,” he said softly, heat rising to his cheeks. “Our housekeeper found it in the study. It must have fallen off when you—”

Before he could finish, Lestat’s hand closed around his, and there was something so tender in his gaze. “Please, keep it,” he said. “I wore it that night for you—it reminded me of your beautiful eyes.”

As the words sank in, Lestat drew closer, his arm slipping around Louis’s waist, pulling him into another kiss—this one deeper, more urgent, as if the space between them had suddenly grown unbearable.

He walked Louis backward, and Louis went eagerly, stumbling blindly until he felt his back collide with the nearest shelf. “How long, do you think, until the others begin to wonder where we are?” Lestat asked, breathless, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along Louis’s jaw as his hands slipped underneath Louis’s coat to roam down his sides.

“Perhaps we should—”

The rest of Louis’s sentence was cut off into a strangled moan as Lestat gracefully sank to his knees, a hungry smile on his lips. “Best make the most of it then,” he said, his fingers deftly unbuttoning the fall front of Louis’s breeches and pulling down his drawers in one swift movement. And then Lestat’s mouth was wrapped around him, hot and wet, his tongue moving in a skilful way that left no doubt that he was quite experienced at this. Louis shuddered, grasping down on Lestat’s shoulder to steady himself as his knees turned liquid.

Lestat’s blue eyes flicked upwards, and the glint in them was nothing short of smug. But Louis could not find it in him to care. Lestat’s mouth was warm, his tongue velvety soft as he slowly licked the underside of Louis’s cock, swirling languidly around the tip before diving back down to take fully into his mouth, the tip of his nose grazing the soft wiry hairs on Louis’s groin.

Louis let out a breathless moan, and he was mortified when the sound echoed rather loudly in the quiet library.

“Lestat—” he started, but he instantly forgot what he was going to say, his mind far too scattered to concentrate.

Lestat let out a soft hum at the back of his throat, and Louis felt the sound reverberate through his very core. His hand found its way into Lestat’s hair again, his fingers twisting into it and pulling. Lestat moaned around him, his eyes growing hazy and then fluttering shut, his face an expression of utter bliss that would forever remain seared into Louis’s mind.

Louis gasped as Lestat increased the pace, grabbing the back of Louis’s thighs to keep him pinned in place as his head bobbed up and down. Louis moaned helplessly, his other hand grabbing the bookshelf behind him for some purchase. His clumsy fingers knocked over a volume, and it tumbled to the ground with a loud thud. Louis was too far gone to pay it any mind. Lestat’s hands rode up from the back of his thighs to settle on his buttocks, squeezing in time with his movements. Louis lasted only two strokes, and then he came with a muffled shout, his entire body trembling as Lestat swallowed around him.

Lestat finally pulled off with an obscene smack, sitting on his heels as he delicately wiped the corners of his mouth with his middle finger, before sensually slipping it into his mouth.

“Show off,” Louis muttered, still panting, and Lestat let out a pearl of laughter, his voice a little hoarse.

“Come here,” Louis commanded, hauling Lestat up to his feet for a kiss. Lestat moaned as Louis pressed his tongue into his mouth, tasting the faint remainder of his own salty spend on his tongue.

Louis wasted no further time as he got Lestat’s tight breeches open, wrapping a hand around his rather impressive cock. He was hard and already leaking, and he moaned against Louis’s lips as Louis gave him a few slow, languid strokes.

“Stop teasing,” Lestat whined, his hips thrusting forward to meet the loose circle of Louis’s fist. Louis teased him for a few more strokes until Lestat groaned in frustration, and then he obliged, tightening his grip to give Lestat more friction, running his thumb over the tip on the upswing.

Louis’s grip was quickly turning slick as Lestat moaned into his neck, murmuring low, incoherent praise as he thrust quicker into Louis’s fist. His voice sounded broken and vulnerable. His eyes were glazed over, his pupils blown wide as he leaned in to catch Louis’s lip in a wet, messy kiss. Louis kissed him back just as fervently, his other hand pressing firmly at the back of his neck to hold him close. It was only moments before Lestat shuddered against him, spilling into his hand with a breathless moan, his teeth biting down on Louis’s bottom lip.

He collapsed against Louis, his shoulders shaking with a burst of breathless, giddy laughter. His hair, soft and tousled, brushed against Louis’s face as he nuzzled affectionately into his neck. Louis leaned in, letting himself breathe in the intoxicating scent of it.

Once they'd regained some composure, Lestat pulled out his embroidered handkerchief, and they cleaned each other up with hurried, playful gestures. “How is my hair?” Lestat asked with a smirk, artfully running his fingers through it to comb out the tangles that Louis had made.

"Your hair is perfect, as you no doubt very well know," Louis replied, rolling his eyes with affectionate exasperation. "But now we really must get back."

  
Despite his efforts, Louis’s face was still embarrassingly warm as they reentered the drawing room. He did his best to avoid Grace and Lily’s curious glances and ignore Babette’s barely concealed scornful glare. His hand slipped into his coat pocket out of habit, fingers grazing the soft leather of the book that was now resting beside the pin.  

Chapter Text

s Louis and the girls entered the house upon their return home, they were greeted by a commotion in the drawing room. Father Mathias was there, sitting beside Mrs. Du Lac who seemed rather distraught. Paul was standing by the fireplace, his posture rigid, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“What’s happened, Mama?” Louis asked, his heart pounding as he tore off his coat and gloves, rushing to his mother’s side.

Mrs. Du Lac barely looked up, her eyes red and swollen. “You smell strange,” she muttered scornfully. Louis swallowed hard, his face heating up as he fought to keep his composure.

Father Mathias cleared his throat, and he greeted Louis with a nod and a kind smile. The gentle-faced, balding curate had been a steady presence in their lives for as long as Louis could remember. He’d been the one to baptize Louis as a babe, and he had ever since, always been a reliable source of sound advice whenever Louis needed it. But tonight, he looked exhausted, nervously wringing his hat in his hands. “Paul has received some... news,” he said slowly, his voice soft, almost hesitant.

“I’ve been offered a posting,” Paul explained in a flat tone.   

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Grace exclaimed, but her excitement quickly faded as she glanced at Mrs. du Lac’s stormy face.

“Which he will not be accepting,” Mrs. du Lac snapped.

“Where, or rather from whom, is this offer?” Louis asked, ignoring his mother’s outburst.

“It’s from Duchess Collingsworth,” Father Mathias replied, his voice steady and calm despite the palpable tension in the room. “She lives in Hunsford and has offered Paul the rectory on her estate of Rosings Park. She says their former curate passed away some five years ago, and the living has been vacant ever since.”

“She mentioned that the parishioners have to go into the next village over for their Sunday mass,” Paul said, “She says they would be most grateful for my moving there at the earliest convenience.”

Louis nodded. The offer was an extraordinary one to be sure—exactly what Paul had been hoping for, though he’d nearly given up on ever receiving such an opportunity. Livings of this sort were rarely bestowed on anyone outside of direct family members or very close relations.

“But why him?” Mrs. Du Lac said, her voice trembling. “Doesn’t this woman have family she could offer the living to? Why write to Paul, a stranger whom she has never even met?”

Father Mathias spoke up in a calm voice, trying to reason with Mrs. du Lac. “I am told the lady is a widow and has no children. She heard of Paul’s situation and thought it an ideal match. Florence, I can assure you the living is quite adequate; I made all the necessary enquiries myself before communicating the offer to Paul. And the Bishop speaks quite highly of the lady, of her generosity and all the extraordinary charity work she does for her parish.  This is a wonderful opportunity, Florence. Nothing short of a miracle—”

“But it is so far away,” Mrs. du Lac lamented, her voice pitching high. “I want him here, close to us! He was supposed to take over this parish when you’re gone. That was always the plan!

“Hunsford is in Kent, Mama,” Paul said with frustration. “It is only a half day’s ride away. You can all visit me whenever you wish.”

“I won’t hear any more of this!” Mrs. Du Lac declared stubbornly, her voice breaking. She rose from her seat, her eyes brimming with tears, and stormed out of the room without another word.

She did not emerge from her bedchambers for the remainder of the afternoon, not even when Grace went up to fetch her for dinner.

After dinner, Louis took it upon himself to go see her. His stomach tightened as he made his way to her room. He hadn’t set foot inside his mother’s bedchambers since he was a boy, and the prospect of entering them now felt foreign and awkward. But his father was gone now, and this duty, as unwanted as it was, now fell to him.

He knocked and gently pushed the door open. His mother was in bed, her face streaked with tears, her eyes swollen and rimmed red. She shot him a hard look, but Louis pressed on, resolute.

He perched himself at the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking slightly under his weight. The unfamiliar intimacy of it felt uncomfortable, almost intrusive. He had never been close to his mother by any standard, even as a boy. He’d been far too willful and unruly, and he greatly suspected that she had found fault in him from the very moment he was born.

“Will you at least have some tea, Mama?” he pleaded gently. “I can have Betsy bring up a tray.”

She waved him off, her hand trembling as her eyes clouded with fresh tears. “I never once imagined he would be the first of my children to leave me,” she whispered, her voice raw and hoarse. “How can I possibly let him move so far away? He needs me. He’s a fragile boy...”  

Louis sighed, leaning closer, his voice gentle but firm. “I think it is rather you who needs him, Mama. Paul is twenty-five years old, and he’s far more capable than you give him credit for. Besides, he will not be alone; Doris will be with him. I know you don’t approve of her, but—”

“That scrawny, hapless girl?” Mama interrupted, her voice rising, bitter and sharp. “How can she care for him? She’s a pauper’s daughter, with no education to speak of!”

“But Paul loves her,” Louis cut off, his tone unwavering. “And I suspect she loves him as well. I think they could be happy together, Mama. This could be a good thing.”

Mrs. Du Lac scoffed, shaking her head in disgust. “Whatever frivolous and naïve sentiment they have for one another is not love. You cannot know love until you have felt it growing in your flesh, until you’ve carried it within you, brought it into the world through pain and joy.” Her voice cracked as her trembling hand clutched at her chest. “After his accident, Doctor Johnson was certain Paul was going to die. Your father was resigned. He barely even came into the room to see him. But I stayed, day and night, I was at Paul’s bedside. Day and night, I prayed to God to take me instead and spare my sweet little boy.”

The memory of that day hit Louis like a punch to the gut. He saw it again: the whooshing sound of the wind as Paul had lost his footing on the roof, the sickening crunch of his bones shattering as he’d hit the hard, packed earth of the courtyard below. Louis still vividly remembered the long months that had followed; Paul’s eerie stillness as he lay in bed, the blood-soaked gauze wrapped around his head, his broken arm resting limply at his side. His entire body had been covered in blue and purple bruises, so stark against the white sheets around him. Louis could still hear his cries of agony as he slipped in and out of delirious fevers.

Most of all, Louis remembered the unbearable guilt, gnawing at his insides like a bitter poison. Mama had blamed him for the accident, and Louis had blamed himself too. He was older; he should have known better… But they had climbed that roof a thousand times, how could he have suspected?

Even after he had fully recovered, with nothing but a thin scar on his temple left to show for it, Paul had never quite been the same. He became aloof, withdrawn, spending hours reading his scripture books, convinced he had heard the voices of the angels calling him forth as he fell.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” Louis murmured, his voice strained as he fought back tears. “I truly am. I know how difficult this is for you. But this is Paul’s decision to make, not ours. If you take this away from him, he’ll never forgive you. And neither will I.”

When Louis finally retired to his bedchamber, he was exhausted, drained from so many events and contradictory emotions in such a short time. He was greeted by the familiar scent of firewood, floor polish, and crisp linen. It was so disconcerting to have these scents mix in with Lestat’s cologne—or hair soap, or whatever it was that he used that still clung to Louis’s clothes, as relentless and as intoxicating as the man himself.  

He sighed, stripping off his coat and loosening his cravat with slow, drowsy movements. Crossing to the washbasin, he splashed cool water over his face, trying to shake off the day’s weariness, the lingering thoughts of Paul and their mother, and the way Lestat seemed to relentlessly occupy his mind even now.

He dried off and pulled on his nightshirt, the soft, worn fabric comforting as it fell over his skin. His fingers moved automatically to the pocket of his discarded coat, retrieving both the small pin and the book Lestat had given him. He placed the pin carefully on the bedside table, its delicate metal gleaming faintly in the firelight. His eyes lingered on it for a moment before he turned his attention to the book, his fingers brushing reverently over the cover as he opened it. The pages were crisp, untouched, except for the very first one, where a brief note was written, in Lestat’s unmistakable neat cursive.

I hope you enjoy the book, and think of me as you read it.

Yours affectionately,

Louis’s heart lurched as he reread the note several times. The simplicity and directness of the words was both amusing and touching, so unabashedly Lestat. He wondered if Lestat had imagined this very scene as he wrote it, if he had pictured Louis here, in his bed, his heart fluttering as he read the words. A smile twitched on his lips as he settled more comfortably against the pillows and turned to the next page.

Chapter Text

ith the Frenière ball swiftly approaching, Mrs. du Lac seemed to have recovered enough in the following week to refocus all her energies on her primary mission: getting Grace wed to Mr. Frenière. Louis found himself accompanying the girls to Meryton to gather supplies for the event, which was fixed for the upcoming Friday. The dress code for all the guests was strictly white, and masks would be de rigeur. Louis found the whole affair rather silly, but he reasoned that a ball was a far better diversion than enduring yet another Friday evening of playing cards and charades with his siblings, which always ended in bickering, and more often than not, with someone—usually Claudia—storming off in tears.

The monotony of the trip was quickly dispelled for Louis when they unexpectedly encountered Lieutenant Armand again. His soft brown eyes lit up when he spotted Louis, and he approached eagerly, falling into step with them. He and Louis fell into an easy conversation as the ladies continued their browsing. Afterwards, Armand gracefully offered to escort them back to Pointe du Lac, a suggestion Louis found himself readily accepting, reluctant for their conversation to end.

As they walked leisurely across the sprawling fields, the tall grass brushing against their legs, Louis couldn’t help but steal glances at Armand’s elegant profile. His dark tousled curls flowed gently in the breeze, and his lean silhouette cut a rather handsome figure in his red regimental uniform and his flowing grey cape. Unlike Lestat, whose charms seemed almost like a weapon that he wielded deliberately, Armand appeared entirely unaware of his own ethereal, delicate beauty. Every so often, Louis would catch Armand also casting shy glances in his direction, and whenever their eyes met, Armand's lips would curl into a bashful smile, a faint blush peeking on his beautiful tawny skin.

They were in the midst of a lively discussion about the merits of life in the regiment when two riders approached from across the small creek, their horses’ hooves splashing gently in the shallow water. Louis’s breath caught as he recognized Mr. Frenière and Lestat, who looked as magnificent as ever in a flowy, seal-grey riding coat and a matching top hat. His fair hair shined brightly in the afternoon light, curling gently on his shoulders. It was the first time Louis had laid eyes on him since their charged encounter in the library less than a week prior.

Mr. Frenière was visibly delighted to see them. He pulled on the reins of his horse and dismounted, hurrying toward them with a wide grin. To Louis’s surprise, Lestat stayed astride his white mare, his face dark and closed off. Louis’s heart sank when Lestat’s eyes passed over him without pausing, not even sparing him a glance. When Louis followed his gaze, he saw that it was fixed unflinchingly on Armand, his mouth twisted into a hard line. Armand held Lestat’s stare, his chin tilted up in defiance, his entire body rigid with tension.

“We’ve just come from your house,” Mr. Frenière announced cheerfully, his eyes predictably drifting to Grace. “But we were told you'd all gone down to the village.”

Grace offered him a shy smile. “Yes, we had gone to find accessories for the ball.”

“How do you like my mask, Mr. Frenière?” Claudia chimed in, spinning playfully with her gold mask held before her face, its long ribbons floating in the breeze.

“Very beautiful,” Mr. Frenière replied politely, his focus already shifting back to Grace. “I’m sure you will all look lovely.”

But Louis barely registered the exchange. His attention was flitting between Armand and Lestat, who were still locked in what appeared to be a hostile, silent conversation.  

“Be sure to invite the Lieutenant,” Claudia said, “He is a credit to his profession.”

Lily shot her a warning look, trying to rein her in. “Claudia, you can’t just invite people to someone else’s ball,” she whispered. But Claudia paid her little mind.

At that moment, Lestat turned abruptly, his mare whining in protest, and he rode off without a word. Louis watched, astonished, as Armand composed himself and bowed politely to Mr. Frenière.

“Of course, you must come, Lieutenant,” Mr. Frenière said, hastily mounting again. “Ladies, please excuse me. Enjoy the rest of your day.” He gave them all a hurried farewell wave before galloping off to catch up with Lestat.

Louis turned back to Armand, who was now walking slightly ahead, his earlier pleasant demeanour clouded with melancholy. Louis fell back into step with him, still thoroughly shocked by the odd exchange he had just witnessed.

“Will you be coming to the Frenière ball then?” he asked, trying to return to their light-hearted banter.

“Perhaps,” Armand replied, his tone distant, his eyes filled with sadness.

They walked in silence for a moment, the girls chatting happily in front of them, their giddy laughter filling the air, a sharp contrast to Armand’s sudden sombre mood. Louis was exceedingly curious about his history with Lestat; whatever it was couldn’t be good given their reaction at seeing each other. But he did not dare to press the matter for fear of upsetting the lieutenant further.

To his surprise, it was Armand who broached the subject first by asking, almost hesitantly, “How far is the Frenière Estate from Pointe du Lac?” Louis answered, and then, with obvious reluctance, Armand asked, “And how long has Mr. Lioncourt been a guest there?”

“About a month,” Louis said cautiously.

“And… how do you find him?” Armand’s question was laced with an unspoken meaning that Louis couldn’t quite decipher.

He hesitated before replying with a nervous laugh, “I’d say Lestat improves upon closer acquaintance—though he can still come off haughty at times.”

Armand nodded, his expression darkening. “I see.”

The heat rose to Louis’s cheeks as he realized that he had inadvertently revealed too much about his feelings—feelings that were still nebulous and confusing, especially given the fact that Lestat had not even deigned to acknowledge him. Louis had spent the past week reminiscing about the scent of his hair like some lovesick fool, and Lestat had not even spared him a glance.  As if their time together had meant nothing to him—as if Louis was a mere afterthought, so easily toyed and discarded. It was mortifying, to say the very least.

“Forgive me for prying,” Louis said, “but are you acquainted with the gentleman—with Mr. Lioncourt I mean?”

Armand let out a hollow, joyless laugh. “Quite well. I've been connected with him since infancy.”

Louis’s eyes widened in astonishment.

“You may well be surprised,” Armand said. “Especially given the cold manner of our greeting just now.”

“I take it there’s history between you,” he prompted, eager for Armand to go on.

Armand’s lips pressed into a thin line. “There is. But I wouldn’t want to disparage the gentleman, given what you’ve just told me of your…connection.”

“I assure you, our acquaintance is a very brief one,” Louis protested with a tight smile. “You would not be offending me in any way by speaking your mind about him. I’m well aware that he can sometimes be… a lot to contend with.”

Armand’s eyes softened, though his tone remained bitter. “In my case, it was not merely his arrogance or his vanity that offended me—those things I could have easily disregarded. But you see, Lestat ruined my life. He destroyed every prospect I ever had or could have had.”

Louis’s heart twisted painfully. “How?” he whispered, shocked.

Armand’s voice grew softer, filled with anguish. “As I said, we’ve known each other since we were boys. We were fostered together in Paris, under the same mentor. As we got older, our close friendship grew more…intimate.” He paused, looking at Louis meaningfully. “I loved Lestat dearly, and he claimed to love me as well. He always promised we would run away together someday, travel the world. But Lestat was proud, easily prone to obsessive jealousy whenever he felt slighted. Our mentor had always favoured me, and Lestat couldn’t stand it. He was, after all, the son of a Marquis, while I was merely an orphan of low birth and no consequence. He always sought to diminish me in the eyes of our mentor, to prove himself my better.”

Louis’s heart ached at the resigned powerlessness in Armand’s voice, and the deep pain etched into his delicate features stirred something deeply protective in him.

“When we were sixteen, Lestat conspired to have me dismissed. I was unceremoniously thrown out onto the street, with no money, no connections, nothing save for the clothes on my back.”

“How awful,” Louis said in an indignant whisper, a wave of horror washing over him.

“In the end, Lestat’s schemes bore their fruits. When our mentor died two years later, Lestat inherited everything—his vast fortune, all his estates and holdings. But to my surprise, I learned that on his deathbed, our mentor had grown remorseful of his treatment of me, and he had left me a generous sum, enough to make a living for myself. When I went to Lestat to claim the funds, he refused to honour our mentor’s dying wishes.”

“Was there no legal recourse you could take?” Louis asked, his voice trembling with outrage.

“None. Lestat was in possession of the entire estate, and I was utterly at his mercy. We had a horrible argument, after which, he severed all ties, declaring that he could not be seen to associate with persons as lowly as I had become.” 

Louis was speechless. The cruelty of it was staggering. He had known Lestat to be proud and more than a little conceited, but if what Armand was saying was true, then Lestat was also cruel and utterly devoid of honour. That he would betray his childhood friend in this manner was beyond despicable.

“The worst part is that Lestat had no need of the money,” Armand said, shaking his head sadly. “With the fortune our mentor had left him, it would have been a mere drop in the ocean. But he did it to spite me, to ensure that I would never rise above what he saw as my rightful place in this world.”

“I’m so sorry,” Louis said, aware of how hollow and meaningless the words were. Armand looked so young—surely no older than five and twenty. Learning that he had endured so much undue hardship was heartbreaking.

Armand gave him a small smile. “It’s no matter, I managed to find my own way eventually in spite of it all. After Lestat and I parted ways, for months I wandered the streets as I had before, aimless and penniless, taking whatever menial work I could find. But a year later, I secured a commission with the East Indian Company and sailed for Madras. I had not laid eyes on Lestat since then. Until today.”

Louis nodded, his mind reeling. He was ashamed that he had allowed Lestat’s relentless charm and paltry gifts to lure him into overlooking his initial reservations about the man. It was now evident that his first impression had been correct; Lestat was an arrogant, cruel and selfish individual.

His heart broke as he looked at Armand, at the pain so vivid on his youthful face. “I hope your plans in favour of Meryton will not be affected by your difficult relations with the gentleman,” he said with feeling, reaching out to place a comforting hand on Armand’s slender shoulder.

“Oh no. It is not for me to be driven away. If Lestat wishes to avoid seeing me, he must go, not I.”

“Quite right,” Louis said emphatically. “And you should come to the ball. It is not you that should hide away in shame; it’s him. I fail to understand how a kind and sensible man like Mr. Frenière can even be close friends with such a person!”

“Oh, I can easily conceive of it,” Armand said with a sad smile. “To those he deems his equal in wealth and consequence, Lestat is very agreeable. He can be extremely charming when he chooses—if he thinks it’s worth his while. I, too, fell for his seduction, until he inevitably revealed his true nature.”

Louis felt a wave of disgust rise in his chest. He was so disappointed in himself for letting Lestat’s pampered hair and mirrored eyes lure him in, like some inexperienced debutant, fancying herself in love with the first man who showed her a speck of attention. Lestat had merely used him as a source of amusement, and his cold dismissal today was only proof that he would no doubt discard him as he had done with Armand, and probably countless others.

Louis silently vowed to himself that he would never see or speak to Lestat again if he could help it.

Later that evening, as he recounted the tale to Grace, she received it with surprising skepticism.

“I am convinced it must be some great misunderstanding,” she declared to Louis, who was sitting at the foot of her bed, holding a small looking glass steady as she braided her hair for the night. “How could Mr. Lioncourt do such a thing, and purely out of spite? It is beyond comprehension.”

“We’ve been through this, Grace,” Louis replied, determined to shake his sister’s unwavering faith in the goodness of others. “What motive could the Lieutenant have to fabricate such a tale? You should have seen his face as he spoke of it. He was utterly devastated. No one, not even the most skillful actor, could have feigned such emotion.”

“I think you are entirely too partial to him Louis,” Grace remarked, tucking her now finished braid beneath her silk night bonnet. “We have known the Lieutenant less than a fortnight and met him but twice. Why would he confide all of this to you unprompted?”

“It was not unprompted,” Louis protested, feeling the need to defend Armand. “I was the one who pressed him about it. It was difficult not to after Mr. Lioncourt’s rude display this afternoon.” The memory of it still infuriated Louis, tugging at a small deeply wounded part within him—the way Lestat had looked through him, as though he were invisible, his disdainful gaze entirely fixed on Armand. “Besides, the duration of an acquaintance matters less than people think. One could spend eternity in someone’s company and hardly know them at all, while, with another, mere hours are enough to build the deepest of friendships.” He shot her a teasing look as he added, “As I seem to recall, you had scarcely known your Mr. Frenière for an evening before you were entirely besotted with him.”

Grace laughed lightly. “Oh? Is that what you are then, Louis—besotted with the Lieutenant? I thought Mr. Lioncourt was the one to capture your interest—your absconding with him to the library last Thursday certainly suggested as much.”

Louis levelled her an offended look, tossing one of the small decorative pillows at her, which she dodged with remarkable skill. “I think highly of the Lieutenant, that is all. He seems like a good man, who has suffered a great deal and yet endured it all with admirable fortitude. As for Mr. Lioncourt, I scarcely know what to think anymore, except that I feel like a fool for being so easily misled by him—”

Just then, a light knock interrupted them, and Lily slipped into the room with a mischievous grin. “What are we gossiping about?” she whispered, gliding over in her nightgown, a flickering candle in hand.

“Louis has just shared the most dreadful account of Mr. Lioncourt from the Lieutenant,” Grace replied.

Lily set her candle on the nightstand and slipped into Grace’s bed. “How scandalous indeed!” she exclaimed playfully before adding in a more serious tone, “I did sense something was amiss when we met Mr. Frenière and Mr. Lioncourt earlier.”

With a heavy sigh, Louis repeated the entire tale, while Lily’s eyes widened in astonishment.

“I still cannot believe it,” Grace said, shaking her head. “And for Levi to be so intimate with such a man—could he truly be so deceived? It’s inconceivable! I shall question him myself at the ball. Surely, there must be some other explanation.”

“It is entirely possible Mr. Lioncourt has not disclosed this particular part of his history to him,” Louis replied, impatiently. “Cheating one’s childhood friend out of their inheritance is hardly the kind of thing one would boast about. But if the tale is false, then let Mr. Lioncourt contradict it himself. Until he does, I hope to never encounter him again.”

“Poor Armand,” Lily said softly, her expression filled with pity.

“On the contrary,” Louis replied, his voice warming with indignation. “I think Armand is twice the man Mr. Lioncourt is. He managed to build himself from nothing, while Mr. Lioncourt has been given every advantage, merely by the privilege of his birth.”

When, a few moments later, Claudia also poked her head into Grace’s room, eager to know why they were still up so late, Louis declared the little impromptu slumber party over and he stood up to return to his own room.

"A letter arrived for you, Louis," Betsy informed him the next morning as he came down the stairs. "The footman from the Frenières brought it over an hour ago, but I did not think it urgent enough to wake you."

It was early—scarcely six o’clock—and Louis had been preparing to head out for a field inspection before breakfast. He took the letter, and his mood darkened when his eyes fell upon the name. It was from Lestat.

"Thank you, Betsy," he muttered, turning on his heel and heading for the privacy of his study, the letter clenched in his fist.

For a long moment, he simply stood there, staring at the wax seal, which was embossed with an intricate family crest that was no doubt Lestat’s. His first impulse was to cast the letter into the fire without even opening it. His anger flared as he looked at it, mixing in with a deep hurt that twisted inside him, more painful than he cared to admit.

In the end, his curiosity won over his irritation, and he tore the seal, unfolding the letter. The note was pitifully brief, the writing erratic and so unlike Lestat’s usual neat hand, as though it had been scrawled in haste, the ink smudged together in several places.

Dear Louis,

I would like to apologize for my sudden departure yesterday afternoon, and for not stopping to offer my greetings to you and your sisters as I should have. I was, in truth, not feeling well, and I unfortunately suddenly found myself in no frame of mind for conversation.

But if you will permit me, I should very much like to call on you this afternoon, or at any other time of your convenience.

Yours affectionately,

Louis read the letter over and over again, pacing the length of the study as his frustration mounted.

“Affectionately?” he muttered bitterly under his breath. The audacity of such a word, the sheer audacity of the man! This—this was all Lestat had to say? After he had relentlessly pursued Louis and then unceremoniously dismissed him the following day as if he was nothing, after the horrifying way he had treated Armand. A short, flippant note where he offered no real explanation, and where he dared to make more demands upon Louis’s time and affection. Did he think so little of Louis that he imagined this flimsy gesture would suffice to have him come running again?

Louis clenched the letter tightly in his hand, crumpling the paper as fury coursed through him. He considered not replying to the note at all, but he was far too furious to let Lestat have the last word. Besides, ignoring him entirely was a kind of social faux-pas Louis couldn’t afford to make.

He sat down angrily at his desk, pulling out a fresh sheet of writing paper from the drawer. The pen bit into the paper as he began to write, anger spilling into every stroke.

Dear Sir,

I thank you for your kind apology, and I will be certain to pass it on to my sisters. Regrettably, I find myself much occupied at present and unable to oblige your request for a visit. I will also use the opportunity of this reply to return the emerald pin and the book, which you had so obligingly bestowed on me. Upon further reflection, I have come to the conclusion that it would be both misguided and improper for me to keep these items.

He signed the letter and sealed it, and with a heavy sigh, he wrapped it, along with the book and the pin, in a packet to have sent immediately to the Frenière Estate and handed to Lestat personally. Returning the gifts was the only revenge he could enact—petty and futile, but enough for him to feel like he had reclaimed some shred of his dignity.

Lestat’s reply to his reply arrived less than an hour later, which Louis did not read, and then in the following days, three more letters came and were equally left unopened. As furious as Louis was, he couldn’t bring himself to burn them. he shoved the letters into the bottom drawer of his desk, burying them beneath a clutter of bills and receipts, as though hiding them might help silence the tumult of his feelings.

He was acutely dreading Friday evening, and the inevitable prospect of finding himself in Lestat’s proximity again.

Chapter Text

fter what felt like the hundredth attempt at his cravat, Louis let his hands fall with a sigh of resignation. His reflection in the mirror appeared as sullen as he felt. He would have gladly excused himself from the Frenière ball altogether had there been any way to do so without it seeming like a grave slight. The mere thought of seeing Lestat again was enough to put him on edge. He reminded himself that at least Armand would be there, which was a small consolation—social events were a great deal less tedious with someone lively to talk to and with whom one could mock the ridiculousness of them. But even that did little to alleviate Louis’s growing sense of dread.

He crossed the short hallway and knocked on Grace’s door. “I need help with this,” he said when she opened, gesturing to the offending cravat with a grimace.

Grace shook her head fondly. “Honestly, Louis, how would you ever manage without me?”

She was already dressed, in an elegant gown of cream satin and muslin, with tiny pearls expertly pinned into her braided updo.

“Let us hope for my sake that I never have to find out,” Louis muttered as he followed her inside.

The room was in utter chaos, with all three girls gathered here to make their preparations. Claudia sat before the vanity mirror as Betsy removed her rag curlers, while Lily, still in her cotton shift and stays, flitted about the room anxiously.

“Has anyone seen my long white gloves?” she cried, her hands rummaging through a drawer. “Claudia, if you have taken them again, I swear that I—"

“They are being ironed, Miss,” Betsy replied, her calm, gentle demeanour unperturbed by the frenzy in the room. “The maid will bring them up.”

“Stay still,” Grace ordered as she tugged on Louis’s cravat with sure fingers. “You're positively cheerful tonight,” she added with a smirk, her voice laced with sarcasm.

Louis grimaced. “I just want this evening to be over with.”

“There.” Grace stepped back to admire her handiwork. “If it is any consolation, brother, you look quite dashing, even with that dreadful scowl on your face. I’m sure the ladies will be lining up for a mile to dance with you.”

“Thank you, Grace,” Louis replied dryly, scowling even more. “But I’d much rather they didn’t.”

More likely, it would be their eager mamas lining up, deluding themselves into thinking that with his mild manners and charming smile, Louis would make for an ideal son-in-law. The young ladies, on the other hand, were much better at figuring out rather quickly that Louis had no interest in them.

When he descended into the drawing room, he found Mrs. du Lac in a flurry of nerves, frantically adjusting the white feathers in her hair. Paul was staring out the window with a bored expression, and Doris, who had only been invited at Paul’s insistence—he had threatened not to come if she didn’t—sat on the edge of the sofa. She was the picture of barely restrained nervousness, her hands smoothing the skirt of her plain linen gown while casting furtive glances toward her future mother-in-law.

Louis offered her a small, sympathetic smile as he sat down, opening his book where he’d left off.

Time passed in a painfully slow trickle. The girls, true to form, took an age to ready themselves. After half an hour, Louis sighed impatiently and went into the hallway to call loudly up the stairs, “Girls, if we are ever to make it to the ball, you might want to consider descending sometime before dawn!”

“There’s no need for such shrieking, Louis,” his mother chided, her hand clutching her pearls in an offended gesture.

Louis ignored her, going to sit back down in a huff.

By the time the girls finally hurried down the stairs, in a cloud of perfume and rustling petticoats, and their party of seven squeezed uncomfortably into the carriage, Louis was in a foul mood.

The line of carriages to the Frenière estate stretched out interminably. Louis drummed his fingers on the windowsill, fighting the urge to exit the carriage and walk the rest of the way on foot.

When they finally descended, Mr. Frenière was stood on the wide veranda, flanked by his two sisters as they greeted each guest. He smiled warmly, thanking them for coming. Babette offered a stiff nod, barely concealing her contempt as she eyed Doris’s plain clothes. More affable, Lady de Clermont gave everyone a gracious smile and altogether made for a much better hostess than her older sister.

The ball was predictably extravagant. The rooms were draped with white silks and fragrant flower arrangements. The massive crystal chandeliers blazed with so much light they were almost blinding to look at, the shimmering crystal reflecting on the polished marble floors. A full orchestra played from a podium in the vast ballroom, their lilting waltz barely cutting through the cacophony of conversations and high-pitched laughter.

Louis’s lips curled into a grimace as he took it all in. It was the epitome of opulence and excess, exactly what one would expect of the newly monied Frenières, eager to flaunt their ample wealth.

It seemed Miss Frenière had managed to find enough people of consequence to invite after all. The vast ballroom was more than sufficiently crowded, and there were small clusters of guests spilling over into the card room, the buffet room—where extravagant tables of food and drinks had been set up, and out into the meticulously trimmed gardens. There must have been at least two hundred people here, all attired in their finest silks, feathers and jewels.

Louis slowly drifted through the different rooms, occasionally stopping when he passed familiar acquaintances, to give a quick bow or exchange a few polite words, while skillfully sidestepping the predatory smiles of the eager mamas trying to lure him into writing his name down on their daughter’s dance cards.

Mr. Frenière had made good on his promise to invite the militia, and they all seemed to be in attendance, having traded their red coat for ceremonial white ones. Louis’s eyes briefly scanned for Armand, but he was not among the cluster of officers standing near the entrance of the ballroom, nor was he in the card room or out in the garden. Louis suddenly had the dreadful suspicion that perhaps Armand had been purposefully omitted from Mr. Frenière’s invitation at the request of his friend, and it only made him more furious at Lestat.

He frayed his way through the crowd back into the ballroom, where the Frenières had finished greeting their guests and were now standing near the center, with the Duke de Clermont and a few other city folk Louis did not recognize.

He caught a flicker of golden hair and the lilt of an accent, and his heart skipped before his mind had caught up.

Lestat.

Louis came to an abrupt halt, his pulse quickening. Lestat was standing a mere few feet away, resplendent in a white coat with gold and silver embroidery and matching white silk breeches, his porcelain mask dangling lazily from one hand. His golden hair shimmered under the light, his pale eyes sharp as he surveyed the room with practiced detachment.

Lestat seemed almost startled when their eyes met, but then his face stretched into a sardonic smile as they looked at each other in a silent, tense exchange. Lestat’s gaze was challenging, as if he was daring Louis to react in some way. For a moment, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of them, the music and the noise of the party fading into a distant hum.

A gentle nudge in his side abruptly brought Louis back to reality. Lily was looking up at him, her brow furrowed in concern. “Are you alright?” she asked in a whisper.  

Louis clenched his jaw, nodding slightly as he composed himself.  

He straightened his back, stealing his face in a mask of neutral indifference. He could not simply ignore Lestat—not in such a public setting—so he gritted his teeth and offered the barest hint of a bow, a curt nod of acknowledgement before turning away.

Lily took his arm to guide him to the edge of the ballroom where the rest of their family had settled. “Did you find the Lieutenant?” she asked.

“No,” Louis replied glumly, doing his best to ignore Lestat’s gaze, that he could feel burning at the back of his head. “Either he has not arrived yet, or he will not be coming at all.”

Lily gave his arm a comforting squeeze. “I’m sorry.”

Louis offered her a strained smile, all his prospects of finding some enjoyment from this evening entirely shattered.

Their party had expanded, joined by Lady Williams, who was wearing an elaborate half-mask decorated with tall feathers that eerily made her look like a giant bird, and Mrs. Anderson, a petite and anxious woman with “delicate nerves.” She was no match for her boisterous husband, nor for her frivolous daughter, Kitty, who she allowed an inordinate amount of freedom. Kitty was the same age as Claudia, and much to Louis’s dismay, the two girls had been inseparable since childhood. Upon their arrival, Kitty had immediately taken Claudia’s hand with a happy squeal, and they had disappeared into the crowd, no doubt to get up to some mischief.

Louis half-listened to the conversation around him, doing his best to avoid glancing in Lestat’s direction. He could see the revolting performance well enough from the corner of his eye—Lestat’s deliberate flirtations, the way his hand lingered on Babette’s waist just a little too long, the way he whispered something into her ear that made her laugh. It was a calculated display, a taunt intended solely for Louis’s benefit. Lestat’s occasional glances at him, flashing with a sardonic glint, only confirmed it as much.

“Quite a splendid ball, isn’t it?” Lady Williams mused, fanning herself vigorously.

“Yes, very delightful,” Mrs. du Lac replied absently, her attention fixed on the Frenière party.

“Tom and I had a lovely conversation with the duke earlier,” Mrs. Anderson chimed in proudly. “He told us his younger brother made the journey from town especially for the occasion.”  

“It’s a shame they are not more handsome, poor souls,” Lady Williams commented, eyeing the duke and the equally plain young man next to him who must have been his brother.

“Indeed,” Mrs du Lac agreed with a mou, “They are both quite ill-favoured. But I suppose it matters little when one is a Duke.”

On the contrary,” Mrs. Anderson protested with a sniff, “I find their countenance quite charming. Lady Caroline made a very handsome match if you ask me. And I dare say her sister will soon do the same.”  

Her gaze drifted meaningfully toward Lestat and Babette, who were now laughing ostensibly at something Lestat was saying. Louis’s jaw clenched in silent fury as his eyes briefly met Lestat’s before he quickly looked away.

“An even better one, I should say.” Lady Williams said, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I hear the duke was nearly penniless when the younger Miss Frenière set her sights on him. A title with plain looks and empty pockets can only carry one so far. Monsieur le Marquis, on the other hand, is in ample supply of all three.”

The ladies let out a string of laughter as Louis exchanged a mortified glance with Grace and Lily.

“What does it matter if he’s a Duke?” Paul interjected sourly. “We’re all equal in the eyes of God.”

He looked as unhappy to be there as Louis felt, though Doris, on his arm, was beaming, her eyes wide with wonder as she looked around the lavish room. She had evidently not had much occasion to attend grand balls in her life.

“Oh, but titles are everything, dear,” Lady Williams said. She patted Paul’s cheek affectionately as if he were still a boy of five, begging her for sweets when she came over for tea. “Many would give more than a generous dowry for one.”

“So, the Frenières have to bow to a man who has less money than them, and pretty much less of everything else, merely because he has a title next to his name?”

“Their fortune comes from trade, dear,” Lady Williams said in a hushed whisper, like she was revealing the most scandalous of secrets. “The duke is a very advantageous match. The Frenières get the benefit of being tied to a noble house, and Lord de Clermont gets to replenish his empty coffers. That is the very purpose of the marriage mart.”

Louis wanted to comment that it only showcased how shallow and witless “the marriage mart” was for awarding people value based on something as arbitrary as birth, but he held his tongue.

“Of course,” Mrs. du Lac said, puffing with pride, “once my Grace marries Mr. Frenière, it will be the best match of the season.”

She was ostensibly addressing Lady Williams, but her voice was loud enough to be generally heard, and Louis cringed in embarrassment. He could have sworn he saw Babette glance at them scornfully, but he was doing his best to avoid looking in her general direction.

“Mama,” Grace protested quietly, “nothing is settled between us yet.”

“And perhaps you can remedy that by going to him,” Mrs. du Lac encouraged with a sweet smile.

“She will do no such thing,” Louis said firmly, his irritation seeping through his voice. “If Mr. Frenière wishes for her company, he can seek it out himself.”

“We’re going to find refreshments,” Paul declared glumly, taking Doris’s arm as they headed towards the buffet room. Mrs. du Lac eyed them scornfully, but mercifully, she made no comment.

Louis pressed his gloved fingers to his temple, feeling a headache forming. The room was too stifling, too crowded, and Lestat’s presence—a burning distraction at the edge of his vision, only made matters worse.

The orchestra struck up the first notes of a waltz, and the crowd shifted to clear the center of the room for the first dance. Mr. Frenière timidly approached their circle, bowing to the matrons before addressing Grace. “Miss de Pointe du Lac, would you do me the honour of opening the ball with me.”

“She would be delighted,” Mrs. du Lac said quickly, urging Grace forward.

Grace smiled, visibly embarrassed, but she accepted Mr. Frenière’s hand, and the two moved to the center of the ballroom under a smattering of applause.

Mr. Frenière smiled shyly as they danced. Grace looked magnificent and happier than Louis had ever seen her, even with the discomfort of being the center of so much attention. Louis watched her with an irrepressible fond smile. At least something good would have come from this circus of an evening.

The peaceful moment was abruptly shattered when Claudia’s voice rang out, scandalously loud. "Louiiiis!" as she and Kitty stumbled into their circle, laughing. Mrs. Anderson fussed over Kitty’s askew mask while Louis winced as Claudia perched on his arm.

“I’ve just heard the most dreadful news,” she whispered, rather loudly. “Our handsome lieutenant won’t be coming tonight. Kitty and I just heard it from his good friend, Captain Barclay.” She let out a giggle, waving at a pale, lanky young officer across the room, much to the visible discomfort of several older matrons who were standing nearby. “It seems the Lieutenant was called out to town on some urgent business.”

It was as Louis had suspected, but the confirmation that Armand would not be coming still stung.

Lily leaned it to whisper, “I suspect that business would have more likely been delayed were it not for the presence of a certain gentleman here tonight?”

“What gentleman,” Claudia asked loudly, swaying forward and then catching herself on Louis’s sleeve with a giggle.

Louis gave her a stern look. “Claudia, are you drunk?”

“Of course not, Lou,” Claudia said with a dramatic sigh, batting her lashes at him. “Kitty and I had some of the punch, that is all.”

Louis sighed. Claudia had a talent for causing disruption wherever she went, and it seemed tonight was to be no exception. Mrs. du Lac, of course, never lifted a single finger to check her, any more than she did with Paul. It always fell to Louis to maintain some semblance of decorum.

Claudia caught the attention of yet another young officer across the room, who looked far too eager to engage her in conversation. She took Kitty’s hand, and they were off again, giggling loudly as they went.

Other dancers were now joining the floor, and despite his best efforts, Louis’s eyes drifted back toward Lestat. His stomach tightened as he watched Lestat extend his hand to Babette with an exaggerated flourish. She accepted with an overly eager smile, her eyes sparkling as they exchanged a few words—too close, too intimate. Then, with a mocking smirk in Louis’s direction, Lestat led her onto the floor. Within moments, they were spinning in each other’s arms, Lestat’s graceful movements putting all the other dancers to shame and drawing the attention of the entire room.

From over Babette’s shoulder, Lestat’s gaze locked with Louis’s, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. Louis schooled his features into a mask of indifference as Lestat moved Babette into an obscenely low dip, her giggle echoing across the ballroom.

Louis’s chest tightened with fury, and something that felt too much like hurt. He clenched his fists, his chest heaving. If Lestat thought he could provoke a reaction, he was sorely mistaken. Louis would not give him that satisfaction.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Louis muttered, bowing stiffly to the ladies before striding toward the doors.

When the Mortons had lived here, the grand glass-ceilinged orangery had served as little more than a storage room. But, like the rest of the estate, it had been revamped in grand fashion.

As Louis stepped through the arched doorway, the sudden change in scenery was almost disorienting. Lush greenery draped from every corner, with towering exotic plants spilling from ornate pots and marble planters. The air was thick with the scent of citrus and jasmine, and the room was bathed in a soft, golden glow, lit by flickering lanterns, and the pale moonlight that streamed through the towering glass windows. In the center of it all, an elegant stone fountain stood, the faint trickling of water oddly soothing against the distant hum of music and laughter drifting through from the ballroom.

Louis sank onto the stone bench beside the fountain, its cold surface biting through the layers of his tailored silk coat. He had snagged a bottle of brandy from a passing servant, and he took a long swig, the brown liquor burning as it went down his throat.

He was nearly halfway through the bottle when he heard the sound of faint footsteps. He didn’t need to turn around; he already knew who it was. Lestat’s presence was unmistakable, like a gathering storm, drawing nearer with every step.

“Running away already?" Lestat’s voice was smooth, with a hint of mockery that only made Louis’s anger burn hotter.

Louis didn’t bother to turn around. His gaze remained fixed on the fountain, the water cascading rhythmically over the polished stone, even and steady—everything he wasn’t feeling at the moment. "I wasn’t aware I had to justify my movements to you," he muttered, his voice sharp and barely above a whisper.

There was a pause, then the quiet swish of Lestat’s coat as he came to stand beside him, leaning casually against a marble pillar. "You’ve been avoiding me," Lestat said, as if stating the obvious would somehow command an explanation. His tone was light, but there was an edge to it—something close to pain, though Louis suspected it was more bruised pride than anything else.

“I’m not avoiding you,” Louis lied, his fingers gripping the edge of the bench. “I simply have nothing more to say to you.”

Lestat huffed in frustration, his footsteps echoing as he moved closer. “I’m quite fond of you, Louis, but I will have you know that I do not take kindly to being dismissed without so much as the courtesy of an explanation.”

At that, Louis finally looked up. The dim light was casting a golden hue on Lestat’s face, his sharp features partially shadowed but no less striking. Louis rose to his feet, his voice cold and unyielding. “Oh, I see. So you believe that because you bestowed a few paltry tokens on me, that entitles you to my time and affection? Well, let me disabuse you of that notion, Mr. Lioncourt. I’m not some lackey that you may summon at your whim to amuse yourself, and then disregard the next day.”

Lestat flinched, a barely perceptible motion, but it was enough to give Louis a small, bitter sense of satisfaction.

But the hurt in Lestat’s eyes was quickly replaced by a steely anger. “I did not summon you, Louis,” he said, his voice now hard, completely devoid of its usual playfulness. “I asked if I could call on you, a request which you rudely declined. It seems to me that I am the lackey in this scenario, being made to wait patiently for you to deign to acknowledge me—or even reply to my letters.”

When Louis didn’t respond, Lestat scoffed. “And I suppose your sudden desire to sever our acquaintance has to do with your new soldier friend—”

“Yes, the lieutenant and I are friends. What of it?” Louis retorted, his voice rising.

“He was always very skilled at making new friends,” Lestat said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Whether he is able to retain them is another matter entirely—”

“Yes, I gather he’s had the misfortune of losing your friendship,” Louis shot back, his voice cold. “But I think that says a great deal more about your character than it does about his.”

Lestat drew in a sharp breath, and Louis knew he was now treading on dangerous ground. But he was far too angry and way past the point of caring.

“Oh, and you’ve formed all these grand conclusions after a mere fortnight of acquaintance?” Lestat scoffed, his pale brows rising in disbelief.

Louis’s gaze involuntarily flicked down to Lestat’s full mouth, which was twisted in a derisive scowl. The memory of tasting those lips was still all too vivid in his mind, no matter how hard he tried to forget. How was it possible that one man could be so maddeningly infuriating and so desirable all at once?

“I’ve been acquainted with you scarcely longer than that,” Louis reminded him coldly. “And the lieutenant has told me of his misfortunes—”

“Ah, yes,” Lestat cut in, his tone flat. “His misfortunes have been great indeed.”

“And of your doing!” Louis’s voice was now trembling with fury. “I knew you to be an arrogant and conceited prick, but this—this is beneath even you. How could you do it, Lestat? You’ve reduced him to his current state of poverty, and yet, even now, you speak of him with contempt and sarcasm. I wonder, do you treat all your lovers with such little consideration?”

Lestat stepped back as though he’d been struck. His eyes flashed, and his voice dropped to a dangerous low whisper. “Do not speak on matters you do not understand, Louis.”

Louis was suddenly aware they were now standing very close—far too close for what would be considered appropriate for mere casual acquaintances. The last thing he needed was for someone to stumble in the orangery and find them in the midst of what very much looked like a lover’s quarrel.  

“Perhaps you are right,” Louis said icily. “There is no point in discussing this further, Mr. Lioncourt. I trust I’ve made my opinions on the matter quite clear. You should return to Miss Frenière. I am sure she is wondering where you are.”

And with that, Louis walked away, leaving Lestat standing alone by the fountain, a furious and bewildered look on his face.

Chapter Text

he news arrived a mere three days after the ball. The family was seated at breakfast when a letter was delivered to Grace. It was from the Frenière estate, and she opened it at once. The envelope contained a sheet of elegant, high-quality writing paper, filled with a lady’s flowing, ornate script. Louis watched as his sister’s expression shifted as she read it, her eyes lingering intently on certain passages. But Grace soon composed herself, slipping the letter away, and attempting to engage with her usual cheer in the morning conversation.

Fortunately, Mrs. du Lac was too preoccupied with Paul and Doris—who had come over for an early visit—to notice Grace's distraction. With their betrothal now publicly announced and their wedding date set, Mrs. du Lac was resigned enough as to think it inevitable. She even went as far as to repeatedly say, in an ill-natured tone, that she “hoped they would be happy.”

As soon as breakfast concluded, Louis exchanged a knowing glance with Grace before retiring to the privacy of the study. Moments later, Grace and Lily discreetly followed. Grace’s face was sombre, her voice stilted as she shared the contents of the letter: Mr. Frenière and his entire party had left for the city, with no indication of when they would return.

“I don't understand,” Lily said, stunned. “What would take him so suddenly to the city? And why would he not know when he might return? Did he give you any reason at all for his departure?”

“No,” Grace replied, dejected. “The letter is from Babette. She writes that they were all eager to return to town and will likely remain there for the season.” She handed the letter to Louis. “Read it. I don’t mind.”

Louis quickly perused the letter, Lily leaning over his shoulder to read along. The snide and insincere tone of Babette’s words was immediately evident:

My dear Grace,

By the time you receive this letter, our entire party will have left for London, and with no clear plans to return soon. We hope to make good time, and to dine this very evening on Grosvenor Street, where, as you know, the Duke has a very charming and well-situated house.

My brother sends his regrets for not having had time to pay his respects before leaving the county, but my sister, the Duchess de Clermont, was eager to return to the city, as was I. These last months in the country, while very refreshing, have been most dreary in terms of entertainment.

Louis scoffed in disbelief at such a ridiculous statement, made a mere few days after hosting a lavish ball.

Caroline and I are quite convinced Levi agrees with this wholeheartedly, and once he gets to town, he too will be in no hurry to leave it again.

I do not pretend to regret anything we leave in Hertfordshire, my dear Grace, save for your and your family’s lovely company. But as you can imagine, we have many more friends in the city whose society we are eager to return to. And, if I may be so bold as to confide in you, dear friend, Caroline and I are quite certain that when next we see you, we shall have much happy news to report. As you perhaps already know, Mr. Lioncourt has long been closely acquainted with our family, and I daresay I now have good reason to believe that acquaintance will soon become an even closer one. With all the circumstances to favour a joining of our families, and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest Grace, in indulging the hope of an event which would secure the happiness of so many?

Louis let out a sharp, derisive laugh as he read that part. Babette Frenière was more of a fool than he had previously thought her if she truly believed that Lestat had any intention of ever marrying her. The Marquis had none of the usual inducements to marry—no want of fortune or status that a good match could remedy, and likely no desire to settle down at all. His feigned attachment to Babette at the ball had been nothing more than a cruel performance for Louis’s benefit. Louis almost pitied her—almost. He shook his head in disgust as he continued reading.

My sister and I are also confident that, within a few months, Levi will have secured an equally advantageous match in the city , where so many accomplished women of good breeding can be found. As you very well know, a man of his status is expected to marry a young lady either of high rank or great fortune, preferably both.

 
Louis scoffed again as he read the overly effusive and insincere conclusion.

Until then, dearest friend, I hope we may lessen the pain of our separation by a very frequent and most unreserved correspondence. Caroline and I depend upon you to keep us apprised of all the recent news of your family as we shall do in return with ours.

“It’s all quite clear, is it not?" Grace said in a glum voice as Louis gave her back the letter. "Babette Frenière neither expects nor wishes for me to become her sister. She is perfectly convinced of her brother's indifference to me. Can there be any other conclusion?"

“There can!” Lily said with angry passion. “What is clear to me is that Babette saw that her brother was in love with you, and she hopes to keep him in town to influence him into breaking up with you.”

Grace shook her head with a sad frown. “If he loved me as you say, he wouldn’t have left without a word. It is more likely that he was indifferent to me, and I was the one reading too much into his polite kindness.”

“Nonsense!” Louis retorted, his voice rising with indignation. “No one who has ever seen the two of you together could have mistaken his affection for you. If Babette had received even half the attention from Mr. Lioncourt as you did from her brother, she would have already ordered her wedding clothes. She simply believes we are not rich enough, or grand enough for them, and she seeks to prevent you from marrying her brother. That Mr. Frenière so easily went along with her machinations is both baffling and infuriating.”

Lily, calmer and more forgiving, suggested, “Perhaps he doesn’t realize his sister’s intentions in removing the family back to town. He may be utterly unaware of her meddling.”

Louis had begun pacing the study, in a vain effort to stave off the anger that he could feel rising. “No, he’s not some hapless fool who blindly follows his sister’s whim. The only thing this letter proves for certain is that your Mr. Frenière is an inconsistent rake, who delights in toying with young women’s feelings only to discard them unceremoniously. Now I begin to understand why he and Mr. Lioncourt are such good friends.”

Grace placed a gentle hand on his arm to stop his frantic pacing. “You don’t mean that, Louis. It is merely your anger speaking. Mr. Frenière is kind, and he would never do such a thing. I cannot believe his sisters capable of such scheming and deceit either. Besides, there was no understanding between us, no engagement. He did not owe me anything. He has broken no vow.”

Louis let out a hard exhale, exasperated. “He courted you publicly, Grace, singled you out for his attentions and made us all believe he loved you. And now he’s vanished without a single farewell or assurance of his return. That is not the behaviour of a gentleman!”

The back and forth argument continued for some time, and Louis was glad for the distraction. His righteous anger on Grace’s behalf kept him from dwelling too much on his other, more complicated feelings about Lestat’s equally sudden departure. He wished he could make himself truly despise the man—it would have made everything so goddamn easier. But the thought of never seeing Lestat again filled him with a deep and gut-wrenching sense of loss he didn’t want to acknowledge or think about.

When Mrs. du Lac heard the news of the Frenières’ departure, she took her usual route of denial and seemed almost utterly unconcerned about it.

“I see nothing to lament about Miss Frenière’s absence,” she said with a bitter edge, clearly still offended by Babette’s haughty and thinly veiled contempt towards her at the ball. “As for Mr. Frenière, I’m quite certain he will not be detained in London for long. There is no mistaking his attentions to you, my dear.” She patted her daughter’s cheek with an air of calm certainty. “I’m certain he will be back with us in no time, and then we will have a proper engagement to celebrate.”

The family was engaged to dine with the Fenwicks the following week, at an extravagant evening Sir Fenwick had arranged in honour of the militia and their annual tour in the country.

Sir Fenwick had been formerly in trade, where he had made a decent fortune, and he had risen to the honour of knighthood by delivering an address to the king during his brief tenure as head of the local council. This unexpected distinction had only inflated his own self-importance. He had promptly quit trade and moved his family to a grand estate just a mile from Meryton, pompously designated as Fenwick Manor. Freed from the degrading demands of having to work for a living, he now occupied himself solely in reflecting on his newfound status and reminding the rest of the world of it through the lavish parties and dinners that he and his wife frequently hosted.

His wife, now Lady Fenwick, was an equally conceited woman, but she was tolerable enough to be a valued friend and neighbour to Mrs. du Lac, if only for the fodder for gossip she provided. The Fenwicks had several children, too young to be out in society, and a niece, Mary, a sensible and intelligent young woman of about seven and twenty, who was set to inherit a fortune of ten thousand from her uncle. Alas, the generous dowry had so far failed to provide her with a husband, a fact that Mrs. du Lac often loved to remark on whenever she wanted to highlight the merits of her own daughters.

During supper, Armand appeared uneasy and evasive as he sat down next to Louis. It was only later, once they had withdrawn together to a quiet corner of the drawing room, that Armand explained why.

"I couldn’t bring myself to face him again," Armand confessed with a dejected expression. “I did not know what he might do, or whether he’d create a scene and seek to humiliate me in front of everyone. I know you must now think me the worst of cowards, but I just couldn’t… I’m sorry, Louis.”

Louis wanted, almost painfully, to pull Armand into his arms and console him. It was a ridiculous impulse, of course, but Armand looked so lost, so fragile—a brave, handsome soldier with the demeanour of a wounded child.

“I don’t think it cowardly to want to preserve your peace of mind,” Louis said softly, reaching out to gently touch Armand’s hand. “As much as I missed your presence at the ball, I understand perfectly why you chose not to subject yourself to it. Believe me, I would have done the same, had I had the option. In any case, Mr. Lioncourt has returned to town, and I doubt we shall hear from him again."

“So I’ve heard,” Armand said, his big brown eyes observing Louis closely. “And how does it make you feel?”

Louis shrugged, affecting a nonchalant expression. “Relieved, I suppose.”  

The rest of the evening passed more enjoyably than Louis could have ever expected of a party at the Fenwicks. He watched as Armand, with his easy and unassuming manners, charmed everyone in the room. In fact, Armand’s power to seduce seemed almost beyond his control, as men and women both, fell in love with his candid and quiet demeanour. He danced gracefully with the young ladies, including twice with Mary Fenwick and once with a giddy and delighted Claudia. His talent at the card table was equally impressive. He played whist and piquet with unparalleled skill, causing Sir Fenwick and Mr. Anderson to end the evening several hundred pounds poorer.

Yet even amid all the laughter and dancing, Louis couldn’t help but notice a darkness that lingered in Armand's demeanour. It was faint and subtle, but unmistakable—a trace of melancholy that clung to him, no matter how much he smiled. Louis had no doubt that was to be expected when one had lived a life as hard as the lieutenant had.

The end of autumn brought with it little news of the Frenières, save for one letter from Lady Caroline, announcing that they were all quite comfortably settled in town. The bulk of the letter was filled with endless and overly detailed descriptions of the various amusements they were enjoying in London, from the plays at the Royal Opera to the exciting soirées at Vauxhall and Almack’s. Louis, to whom Grace immediately showed the letter, read it in silent indignation, his heart divided between concern for his sister, and bitter resentment for the Frenières.

Lady Caroline made no mention of Lestat at all, and Louis was not sure whether to be relieved by that or not. It was clear that no engagement had taken place between Babette and Lestat; if there had been, Lady Caroline would have certainly not missed the occasion to boast about it.

Meanwhile, Mrs. du Lac had finally resigned herself to the reality that Paul would soon be leaving for Kent, though she made it no secret how unhappy she was about it.

Paul’s ordination took place on a brisk December morning, and Father Mathias had employed all his connections to secure a special license from the archbishop so that the subsequent wedding could be held at home, prior to Paul’s departure. Mrs. du Lac consumed herself with the preparations, declaring that just because the wedding would be small, it did not mean it had to be shabby.

There was not much to negotiate in the marriage settlement. Doris only came with a modest dowry of five hundred pounds, and even with the estate now on firmer ground, Louis could provide Paul with scarcely more than a thousand. However, Doris’s father, Mr. Gardner, did not look displeased in any way as they signed the papers, seemingly only concerned for his daughter’s happiness.

The vows were exchanged at the local Parish, with a cheerful Father Mathias presiding over the ceremony. Mr. Gardiner was beaming as he stepped forward to give his daughter away. Despite the simplicity of her bridal attire, Doris looked radiant, blushing profusely beneath the delicate veil that covered her bonnet. Louis had never seen Paul so happy, a look of solemn concentration on his face as he recited his vows. There were even tears in Mrs. du Lac's eyes, though whether they were tears of joy or bitterness was unclear.

When Father Mathias finally announced, "You may kiss the bride," Paul pulled Doris into an overly heated embrace, crashing their lips together with a passion that drew a collective gasp and a few laughs from the small assembly of guests.

A quiet wedding breakfast was held at Pointe du Lac, attended only by the two families and a few close friends and neighbours. Afterward, the happy couple departed, amidst cheers and tearful farewells. They planned to break the journey for luncheon at an inn at midday, and then arrive at their new home in Hunsford by the late afternoon.  

Determined to ensure that her beloved son was properly settled, Mrs. du Lac had insisted on accompanying the newlyweds to Hunsford, and remaining with them until she had ascertained Paul’s comfort and happiness for herself. Doris, who was eager to get in her new mother’s good graces, had readily acquiesced to the imposition, though Paul seemed less than thrilled at his mother’s intrusion on his honeymoon.

Thankfully, within the week Louis received a letter from Mrs. du Lac, stating that she had found the cottage "passably adequate" and the parish church "acceptable enough," and that, as a result, she would be returning to Pointe du Lac in two weeks, rather than the full month she had originally planned.

The next few months passed in a slow, lazy blur. Winter had fully set in, bringing cold, misty mornings and frosty rain that tapped relentlessly against the windowpanes. With the Frenières gone and Paul now in Kent, life at Pointe du Lac gradually returned to a strange new normal. Without Paul, the house felt both forlorn and oddly effervescent.

In her melancholy, Grace sought distraction by fully immersing herself into assisting Louis with the management of the estate. She began accompanying him to meetings with the steward and on his inspections of the fields, and she even sat in during the tense negotiations with the merchants. She also took on the task of managing the books and expense records, insisting there was no reason all these tasks should fall solely on Louis.

“You mustn’t despair, Grace,” Louis said gently one evening as they sat together in the study, going over expenditure records. “There will be plenty of other suitors. There is no need to be so distraught over Mr. Frenière. If he does not want you, then that’s entirely his loss, not yours.”

Grace gave him a sad smile, shaking her head. “It’s alright, Louis, you don’t need to worry about me. I’m quite resigned when it comes to him. Resignation is never so complete as when the blessings denied begin to lose their value in one’s eyes. I realize now that even if Levi and I had married, I could never have been happy, knowing that his sisters and friends all wished him to marry elsewhere. How dreadful it would have been to go from a home where I’m cherished into one where I would have been looked down upon, forever resented for my want of connections and lack of fortune. I’m not convinced that even the deepest love would have overcome that.”

Louis stood and walked around the desk, pulling his sister into a comforting embrace as she began to sob quietly.

“If it’s any consolation,” Louis murmured, “the estate is doing fairly well now.” His careful effort of retrenchment had been more successful than he had dared to hope. There was even enough money to spare to make some much-needed repairs to the house and hire a few extra workers in the fields. “We’re not drowning in money, but we’re no longer in the dire straits we were last summer. You need never marry if you don’t want to.”

“You know I care nothing for that, Louis,” Grace replied, her voice hoarse but resolved. “I would have married Mr. Frenière without a penny to his name if only I believed we would be happy.”

Over the winter, Louis’s easy friendship with the Lieutenant had slowly grown into a tentative attachment. Louis was rather uncertain of his own feelings, but he knew that he greatly enjoyed Armand's company, and he was happy to let himself be carried away by Armand's gentle and unassuming courtship. It was not uncommon now for Armand to visit Pointe du Lac several times a week—for dinner, afternoon tea or an evening game of cards. On other days, he and Louis met up in Meryton, where they took leisurely strolls through the bustling streets of the village, trading stories about their lives or exchanging thoughts on a variety of topics from literature to politics to the more intimate matters like love and marriage.

Armand’s calm presence had become a familiar comfort in their household, and his unwitting charm had seduced them all. The girls were exceedingly fond of him, especially Claudia, who lamented endlessly whenever he absented himself too long. Even Mrs. du Lac, who rarely offered praise to anyone, admitted that she found the Lieutenant very agreeable and that he was welcome at her table any time.

Yet, even with their growing intimacy, Armand’s shy flirtations with Louis remained very prudent and unassuming. Their romance—if it could even be called that—never ventured beyond a few stolen kisses, hastily exchanged when they managed to find a moment alone.

Louis did not mind it. He was equally as guarded, reluctant to dive headfirst into yet another impulsive and poorly thought-out tryst as he had with Lestat. But he had grown very fond of Armand, and he dreaded the inevitable day when the regiment would march away from Meryton, taking Armand with it.

During one of their walks, Louis finally voiced this concern. “I shall miss you terribly when you leave,” he confessed, keeping his tone light but unable to fully conceal the real sadness beneath his words.

Armand smiled playfully, though his eyes betrayed a deep melancholy. “I could always stay, you know.”

Louis looked up at him in surprised shock. “And abandon your career? Don’t be absurd. I would never ask you to do something so foolish and reckless.”

“Perhaps I could be of use at the estate,” Armand suggested, his gaze holding Louis’s. “I’m sure whatever I would make in your employ would be better than the pittance I get from the regiment.”

Louis laughed, though the odd suggestion left him a little bewildered. “Hardly. I’ve only just managed to get our finances back on track. There is barely a penny to spare, let alone enough to put a lieutenant on the payroll.”

Armand’s smile faded, though he said nothing more on the matter. The topic moved on to travel, and Armand regaled Louis with tales of Calcutta, Delhi, Madras, and all the other wonderfully warm places he had been as the wet, cold wind blew in their faces on their way back to Pointe du Lac.

After that day, Armand’s visits to Pointe du Lac became noticeably less frequent. At first, Louis reassured himself that Armand was merely kept away by his duties rather than by any lessening affections. But as time passed, he couldn’t help but feel a gnawing uncertainty. He tried his best to put it out of his mind, busying himself with his other concerns, like readying the new crops for the spring and planning the upcoming visit to Paul and Doris that he and Lily were set to make in March. But still, Armand's sudden absence weighed on him, and left a bitter taste of disappointment in his mouth.

A week before Louis and Lily were set to depart for Kent, Lady Williams came over for tea, and she relayed a new piece of gossip that shook the entire household. It was being whispered in Meryton that the Lieutenant was now engaged to Miss Mary Fenwick, with a strong hint that Armand had only sought the young lady for the ten thousand pounds she was set to inherit from her uncle.

Grace and Lily were shocked, unable to reconcile the cheerful, amiable man they had come to know with the image of a calculating, predatory fortune hunter. Claudia, on the other hand, was more distraught by the prospect of the lieutenant’s cheerful visits becoming even scarcer in future than by the reveal of his dubious morals.

For his part, Louis felt nothing but quiet, numb disbelief. He refused to believe that Armand would marry solely for money. It went against everything he knew Armand to be and every value Armand had so vehemently professed to hold dear. He was left with the conclusion that Armand must have formed a genuine attachment to Miss Fenwick and had made the sensible choice of choosing a respectable and prosperous marriage over an illicit liaison that could never yield anything. And as unhappy as the thought of being jilted made him feel, it was still preferable to the alternative of thinking that Armand could be a heartless fortune hunter.

The day before they were meant to depart for Hansford, Armand surprised Louis by calling at Pointe du Lac and staying for dinner. Despite the mild discomfort that hung in the air, he was still warmly welcomed by the family, who were all happy to see him after long weeks of absence. 

After a few rounds of charade, he and Louis retreated to a quiet corner of the drawing room, the air between them heavy with unspoken feelings.

“I heard you are off to Kent,” Armand began, eyeing Louis hesitantly. “I could not let you leave without seeing you again at least once.”

“I’m glad you came,” Louis replied, his voice steady despite the turmoil he felt. “I’ve missed our conversations. And I hoped to get a chance to congratulate you on your betrothal to Miss Fenwick.”

A shadow passed over Armand’s face, and he looked down, visibly embarrassed. “Believe me, Louis, if circumstances had been different, if—”

“Yes, I understand, Lieutenant." Louis interrupted, his tone sharper than he had intended. "We must all make difficult choices. Even handsome young men can’t live forever on charm and good company alone, can they? Do you love Miss Fenwick?”

Armand hesitated for a long moment, his hands clasped tightly. “I love her well enough,” he said finally. “She is bright and charming. There is no earthly reason why I shouldn’t be as happy with her as with any other young lady.”

Louis nodded, doing his best to mean it as he said, “Then I wish you every happiness. Truly.”

Armand’s brown eyes were wide and pleading as they searched Louis’s face. “I sincerely hope we can remain good friends, Louis. I mean, it could be easily done with me settled so close by…”

Louis forced a smile, his voice hollow. “Of course. I’m sure we shall.”

When Armand departed later that evening, Louis sank into a deep, disillusioned melancholy. He found that he did not resent Armand for his decision—he pitied him more than anything. Having to settle for the sake of survival and social conventions was, in his eyes, the most wretched of fates. Though the entire ordeal had made him lose his esteem and admiration for Armand, it stoked an even fiercer anger toward Lestat, whose callous cruelty had driven Armand to such a fate. He felt certain that, had Armand been afforded more financial security, he would have been courageous enough to make a different choice. 

Chapter Text

re you sure you don’t want to come with us?” Lily asked Grace, her voice gentle and a touch concerned. “Maybe a trip is exactly what you need to cheer you up.”

It was an ungodly hour, and the whole family was gathered on the veranda as a bleary-eyed Toby loaded up the carriage. Mrs. du Lac looked unusually emotional, her eyes red and her hands clutched around the thick shawl she wore over her dressing gown to ward off the morning chill. Claudia still looked half asleep, her eyes puffy and her hair in a dishevelled tangle of half-undone braids.

Grace, who looked more composed and considerably more awake, shook her head, a sad smile on her lips. “No, I’d rather stay here with Mama and Claudia. Besides, someone needs to oversee the estate while you two go off gallivanting around the countryside.” She pulled Lily into a tight embrace. “I hope you both have a wonderful time in Kent. Give Paul and Doris all my love.”

Louis had a nagging suspicion that Grace’s real reason for remaining behind was that, despite the months of absence and hardly any news, she still clung to the foolish hope that Mr. Frenière might return at any moment. It broke his heart to think of it. He had always been disposed to like Mr. Frenière and his affable manners, but now he could not think of the man without anger and contempt. While he didn’t truly believe Mr. Frenière was an inconsistent scoundrel, it still betrayed a lack of resolution that Frenière had so easily gone along with his conniving sisters' machinations, sacrificing his own happiness to the caprice of their whims.

Betsy came out, hauling a large wicker basket that looked like it weighed a stone. Mrs. du Lac briskly stopped her when she moved to hand it to Toby to load atop the carriage.

“No, they will carry it inside,” Mrs. du Lac said insistently. “I don’t want anything to get soggy during the journey.”

She had spent the previous afternoon in the kitchens with the cook, Mrs. Hill, overseeing the confection of an array of home-baked goods for Paul—loaves of walnut and lemon bread, pies, biscuits, and the powdered sugar-covered beignets that Paul particularly liked. Louis grimaced at the thought of enduring the entire journey surrounded by the sweet smell of pastries. but he said nothing. There was no point in upsetting his mother further when she already seemed so distraught.

Finally, after more haggling about what should be packed where and a succession of tearful embraces, they were on their way. Lily promptly fell back asleep, curled up on the cushioned bench with a thick wool blanket pulled up to her chin. Louis was left alone with his thoughts, and the overpowering scent of powdered sugar from the basket beneath his seat.

For miles, there was nothing but the sound of the carriage bouncing gently along the narrow road. The air seeping in from outside was crisp and wet, carrying the scent of morning dew and early spring blooms, mixed in with the distinct rank stench of waterlogged fields, slowly thawing from the winter frost.

Louis’s thoughts inevitably drifted back to what they were leaving behind—Grace, and how forlorn she had looked. These past months, he’d had a strong urge to write a sternly worded letter to Mr. Frenière at his sister’s address in Grosvenor Square, letting him know just what a heartless swine he was for making Grace so unhappy. But that would have been a waste of postage money. It would have accomplished nothing save to make their family seem desperate. Grace was right; there were no real grounds to reproach Mr. Frenière’s behaviour. While his partiality towards Grace had been clear as day, he had never taken any liberties or behaved in any manner that was not courteous and scrupulously proper.

Louis sighed, letting his gaze wander out the window at the passing landscape. Grace would move on...eventually. Or at least he hoped she would. As for Mr. Frenière, Louis could only wish that whatever pale replacement his sisters deemed good enough would make him regret what he had thrown away by giving up Grace.

Lily awoke with a stifled yawn as the carriage was pulling into the yard of a small coach inn, the Rose and Crown. It was very busy; a bustle of rattling wheels, travellers coming and going, stableboys weaving through the press of horses and carriages jostling for space.

“Have we already arrived?” Lily asked, still a bit dazed as she looked out the window.

Louis chuckled at her sleep-rumpled appearance. “No, just a quick stop for luncheon. We’re making excellent time, though.”

Lily nodded vaguely as Louis stepped down from the carriage and offered her his arm. The inn was cozy and warm, with its low-beamed ceiling and welcoming fire. The smell of bread and roasted meat greeted them at the door, and despite his usual lack of appetite during long journeys, Louis felt a small stir of hunger at the warm scent.

They settled at a table near the hearth, and Lily, now fully awake and excited by the lively atmosphere, ordered cheerfully for both of them. Louis, who was less fond of loud and crowded spaces, remained quiet, lost in his own thoughts. Lily watched him keenly for a moment before finally bringing herself to speak.

"Are you still sideways about the Lieutenant?" she asked, her tone gentle but probing.

Louis looked up at her, surprised. Armand had not even crossed his mind until now. Perhaps that spoke of how little Louis had truly felt for him. Surely, if it had been a deep attachment, he would now utterly detest Armand and wish him all manner of evil for choosing another. But as it stood, all that Louis felt at the thought of it was mild disappointment, nothing more.

"No,” he replied finally. “There is nothing further to think about. I wish him and Miss Fenwick all the happiness.”

Lily gave him a quizzical look, as if he was being particularly dim. “Yes, but does it not make you reconsider things? It’s evident now that his word cannot be trusted. What he said about Mr. Lioncourt—”

“What can that possibly have to do with Miss Fenwick?” Louis interrupted, a slight bitter edge to his voice. “Armand is not some devious villain simply because he wishes to secure his freedom through a prudent match. Not everyone can afford to be romantic, Lil. And not all of us are at liberty to marry as we truly wish.” 

Their food arrived then, steaming bowls of stew with a thick loaf of bread, still warm from the oven. But evidently, Lily was not yet ready to drop the subject.

“There is a substantial difference between a prudent match and a mercenary one, Louis,” she said. “It bothers me a great deal that the Lieutenant paid Miss Fenwick not the smallest attention until he heard of her inheritance. Her uncle may be an insufferable, pompous pig, but Mary is a kind, lovely girl. She deserves better than some callous fortune hunter.” Louis was about to protest, but Lily put her hand up to stop him.  “I also think it says a great deal that the Lieutenant's visits to Pointe du Lac coincidentally ceased the moment he discovered there was no money to be gained from it. I know you’re fond of him, Louis, but I don’t trust him and neither should you.”

Louis stared at her as she took a tentative spoonful of stew and made a pleased face at the rich, well-seasoned flavours. She was right, of course—Armand’s behaviour with Miss Fenwick did appear rather mercenary on the surface. But Louis refused to cast him as some heartless villain. Armand was kind, passionate, and more open than anyone Louis had ever met. But he had lived a hard life, and that sort of thing left a mark on a man—it made him value survival above all else.

“Why do you take up Mr. Lioncourt’s defence so eagerly?” Louis asked, raising an eyebrow. “Need I remind you that he slighted you, rather rudely, when we first met him.” From what Louis had seen, Lily had never shown any romantic interest towards the Marquis. But perhaps he’d simply been too distracted by his own attraction to notice.

Lily levelled him a look. He was deflecting, and she knew it. Of all his siblings, she had always been the one who could read him the easiest. She had found out about his attraction to Jonah even before Louis had realized it himself. And it had been her reassurances that had given Louis the courage to pursue it, even while knowing that Mama would be livid if she ever found out. He suddenly felt like a bastard for his uncharitable assumptions about her motives.

“Oh, I remember it very well,” Lily said with a slight pout. “But I also remember how charming he was afterwards, going out of his way that night to help you with the horse when he didn’t have to. I think he truly liked you, Louis. And you seemed different around him—happier, like you weren’t carrying the entire world on your shoulders for once.”

Louis sighed and took a measured bite of the bread. It was delicious, richly flavoured with butter and garlic. “Well, whatever the case may be, my disagreement with Lestat wasn’t solely about Armand. All Armand’s tale did was confirm what I had already ascertained for myself. Besides, I doubt I shall ever see Lestat again. There’s no point in wondering about what might have been.”

Lily finally let the topic drop, and the conversation moved to the far more pleasant topic of Paul and what his house would look like. The meal ended more cheerfully than it had begun, and soon, they were back on the road, the carriage rattling along as they left the high road for the smaller lane that led toward Hunsford.

The landscape shifted between dense, shadowed forests and wide, sun-dappled valleys, with the occasional cluster of cottages dotting the horizon, thin plumes of smoke curling from their brick chimneys. There were a lot of sheep, Louis noted, thick and woolly, grazing lazily on the rolling plains. He also glimpsed clusters of deer, but they scampered away at the first sound of the approaching carriage. If he were the poetic sort, he would have described it as picturesque.

"It’s so lovely?" Lily exclaimed, her face pressed to the window. "I never imagined Paul would live in such a place."

Louis smiled faintly. "It suits him well, I think."

Finally, as the carriage descended a small hill, Paul’s cottage came into view. It was much bigger than what Louis had expected from his mother’s descriptions, two stories tall, with a slanted clay tile roof. The ivy-clad limewashed brick walls, the smoke curling from the chimney, and the neat little flower garden gave it a homey, welcoming air.

The carriage rolled to a stop at the small wooden gate, and Paul and Doris appeared at the door. Paul was smiling brighter than Louis had ever seen him. Even Doris, with her gentle and shy manners, waved eagerly.

"Louis! Lily!" Paul called out, striding forward to greet them. "You’ve finally arrived!"

Louis stepped down from the carriage, shaking his head in mild disbelief as Paul ran up to embrace him with uncharacteristic exuberance. "I see married life agrees with you," Louis said, his voice laced with dry amusement.

Paul laughed. "More than you know, brother. Come, you must see the house—Doris has worked wonders on it."

Inside, the cottage was warm and spacious, with large windows that let in the soft late afternoon light. The furnishings were simple but comfortable, and there was a clear sense that care and love had gone into every detail, from the soft blue floral wallpaper on the walls to the hand-embroidered soft linens on the guest beds. As he took it all in, Louis felt an unexpected swell of pride.

“Should be plenty of space to keep all your books,” Paul said, opening a closet in what would be Louis’s room for the duration of their stay.

"You’ve done well for yourself, Paul," Louis murmured, his voice catching slightly. "I’ve never seen you so...content."

Paul glanced down the hallway where Doris was showing Lily to her room. His expression softened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "It’s all her doing, really. I never knew life could be like this, Louis,” he added in a whisper, an endearingly bewildered expression in his eyes.

Louis held his gaze, feeling a sense of relief settle in. He hadn’t realized how much he missed his brother until now, nor how deeply he had wanted to see Paul truly happy. It did not resolve everything, but it went a great way toward easing the lingering guilt that he felt, and the unshakable feeling that he had failed miserably to honour their father’s dying request to care for the family.

“Does she live alone?” Lily asked curiously.

They were seated for tea, enjoying the delicious beignets Mrs. du Lac had sent, while Paul gushed animatedly about his patroness, Duchess Collingsworth.

“Her Grace is a widow,” Paul replied. “And she has no children. Her brother-in-law visits often, and she has a lady friend who lives with her, though I’ve never met her myself as she never attends Sunday service.” He made a critical pout at this. “But we often glimpse her riding through the park on her black stallion or hunting in the woods with her dogs.”

“At first, we thought she was a gentleman,” Doris said with a laugh. “Seeing as she always wears men’s clothes and all.”

“It’s all quite improper, of course,” Paul said with mild disapproval. “But wealthy folks are always prone to all manner of eccentricities, and any friend of the Duchess is a friend of ours. Besides, Doris once spoke to her as she rode past our garden, and she was very agreeable. Isn’t that right, my love?” Paul looked at his wife with such fondness that Louis almost felt like he was intruding by witnessing it.

“'Tis right,” Doris said with a shy smile. “I was picking parsnips, and she stopped to greet me on her way to the gamekeeper’s cottage. She was bringing him the deer she’d just shot—a big male with antlers the size of a tree, slung across her saddle like it was nothing. I was quite in awe of the sight.” She let out a nervous, excited giggle. “Then she said we could have the meat from it if we wanted, or hides to make carpets.”

“Yes, The Duchess is very generous too,” Paul said. “We’ve already been invited for tea at Rosings four times since we arrived. We’re allowed unlimited access to the library and may use the stables whenever we please. We can even send our letters with Mr. Martin, the stable master, if we don’t want to make the trek all the way down to the village post office.”

“Sounds like you have extraordinary neighbours,” Louis said.

“We’ve been very lucky,” Paul agreed, glancing affectionately at his wife again. “Oh, and you must see the church, of course—we can go first thing tomorrow. It’s only about a mile walk from here. The Dutchess has been most generous in funding the repairs. There’s still a bit of work left to do on the roof, but soon it will look as good as new…”

Paul rambled on, excitedly describing the church and the steadily growing number of parishioners since his arrival. For once, Louis was content to listen, realizing just how much he had missed it.

Life in Hunsford was slow and quiet. Louis spent most of his time wandering the countryside, taking long walks by the lake or in the woods—where he never encountered any mysterious ladies on horseback. The air was still crisp but pleasant, and the grassy meadows were dotted with early blooms of bluebells and asters, which he collected for his journal. The slow pace was a welcome respite he hadn’t realized he needed.

Two days after their arrival, Louis was sitting with Lily in the parlour when they heard the distinct sound of hooves on the small road that passed behind the cottage. Moments later, Doris rushed in from the garden, a flutter of nerves and excitement.

“It was the footman from Rosings Park,” she gasped. “We’re invited to dine there this very evenin’! Six o’clock!” She glanced at the large clock on the wall—which had just sounded four—and her face morphed into a panicked expression.

“Is that a good thing?” Louis asked cautiously.

“Oh yes, wonderful! We’ve been there for tea after mass plenty of times, but never for dinner. Goodness me, I’ve no idea what I’ll even wear...” She hurried about the room, hastily pulling on her shawl. “I need to fetch Paul; he doesn’t come down from the church until supper sometimes when he gets taken up writing his sermons.”

Louis exchanged an amused look with Lily, then placed a mark in his book and stood. “No need to trouble yourself, Doris. I’ll go fetch him.”

Doris looked relieved, no doubt appreciating the extra time to get dressed.

They left the cottage at five, dressed in their Sunday best. Rosings was only half a mile away across the park, but Doris didn’t want to risk arriving late. She was still a bundle of nerves, smoothing down her gown and adjusting her bonnet for the many hundredth time.

The Rosings estate was extensive, with wide forests, and a lake—where Paul assured Louis that large trout could be caught by merely grazing the surface. The house itself was tall and imposing, surrounded by meticulously trimmed hedges. As they approached, Louis was struck by its impressive proportions. Why anyone would ever need a house this large was beyond him, but it was undeniably a marvellous feat of architecture, with its tall columns and elegant high windows.

They walked down the gravel path, and Paul gallantly offered his arm to Doris, who thanked him with a beaming smile, though her nervousness remained. They passed through rows of meticulously tended roses, their fragrant scent perfuming the air. Ahead, a lady in an elegant pelisse and a large straw hat was snipping a few stems with ornate clippers, placing them delicately into a wicker basket that a footman patiently held steady.

“It’s the Duchess,” Doris said in a breathless whisper, quickening her pace. “It’s Lady Sevraine.”

It was the first time Louis had heard the Duchess referred to by her given name. It sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. The Duchess turned and straightened upon seeing them, waving gracefully as she removed her hat. “Ah, Reverend Paul, Mrs. de Pointe du Lac. I was not expecting you so soon.”

Louis’s mouth fell open in what he knew must have been a stupid expression. He had seen his fair share of beautiful women in his life—his own sisters were, in his opinion, some of the loveliest in the country, and as an impartial and uninterested party in the matter, he believed his judgment quite sound. But Lady Sevraine looked otherworldly, like one of the ancient Greek goddesses in the illustrated history books. He couldn’t help but think that if more women like this had crossed his path, he might have been tempted to reconsider his inclination.

Lady Sevraine was tall and statuesque, her slender frame that was softened by enough curves to make her figure appealing. She was very fair-skinned, and her hair, a lush cascade of silver blond curls, was braided in an intricate pattern. Her eyes, a pale mixture of blue and gray, reminded Louis of the cold mist over the sea. Yet they were warm as they settled onto him.

“And you must be Louis de Pointe du Lac,” she said. "It is good to finally meet you after hearing so much,

Louis bowed, managing what he hoped was a charming smile. “Good things, I hope, Your Grace.”

“Oh yes! There’s been nothing but the highest praise from all those who speak of you.”

It was a flattering yet perplexing remark, but Louis had no time to dwell on it as Paul introduced Lily, and they were soon ushered into the house.

As Louis had guessed from the facade, the house was immense. They passed through tall ceilinged rooms, with gilded French mouldings, and elegant furniture that no doubt cost ten times more than his yearly income. Eventually, they were ushered into a large drawing room to wait, while Lady Sevraine went up to dress for dinner.

“You shall be in excellent company I think,” she mused playfully as she departed.

Two gentlemen were already seated in the drawing room, conversing quietly in rapid French. They both stood as Louis and his family entered, and Louis’s mouth dropped in a silent gasp.

It was Lestat, standing beside what Louis now realized was a woman—though she was dressed in men’s evening attire—who resembled him almost exactly. She had the same long blond hair, the same sharp, pale blue eyes, though she was significantly shorter in stature, and her features were softer, more delicate.

Louis’s heart pounded as Lestat smiled softly, seemingly unsurprised to see him. He had a split second of pure joyous thrill—Lestat, here, so close by—before the memory of their bitter parting crashed down on him. Lestat held his gaze for a moment longer before collecting himself, likely recalling that there were other people in the room. He bowed and, without breaking eye contact, murmured, “Bonsoir, Louis.”

Chapter Text

aul and Lily looked as shocked as Louis felt, while poor Doris seemed on the verge of panic, clutching to Paul’s arm for dear life. Lestat, on the other hand, was…well, he was absurdly beautiful. Louis had told himself—convinced himself, in fact—that he must have exaggerated it in his memory, that surely Lestat’s ethereal beauty had been nothing but a fever dream, which the passage of time would reveal to be a delusion born of infatuation. He’d told himself that Lestat was no more than an ordinarily handsome man, that his hair wasn’t even that golden. But it was, and he was, confoundingly, even more beautiful than Louis remembered.

A blush crept into Lestat’s cheeks as the agonizing silence stretched on, and Louis was so grateful that his own complexion did not betray him as easily. He knew he should offer some sort of response, some indifferently polite and detached greeting to lessen his embarrassing initial reaction. But he simply couldn’t come up with a reply. The shock of seeing Lestat, here of all places, had pulled all the air from his lungs.

Lily, to her credit, was the quickest to recover her composure, dipping into a graceful curtsy. “Mr. Lioncourt, we did not expect to find you here.”

Lestat turned his gaze to her, bowing in return. “Good evening, Miss Lily. I am…here as a guest.” His eyes drifted back to Louis who, by sheer force of will, managed to remain impassive and then he turned, a bit stiffly, to the woman beside him. “Please, allow me to present my mother, Lady Gabrielle de Lioncourt. Maman, these are the…er…friends from Hertfordshire I’ve told you about.”

Friends was a wholly inadequate term in Louis’s opinion. The word was both too generous and too derisory to describe his strange connection to Lestat. Worse than being back to mere acquaintances, they were now enemies, with far too much bitterness and anger between them to ever pretend at civility again. But Lestat did not seem angry now. He just seemed painfully uneasy, with a strange nervousness that was so at odds with the pompous self-assured man Louis had met a few months ago.

Louis bowed to Lady Gabrielle, who returned his gesture with the faintest glimmer of amusement in her piercing eyes, and her gaze lingering on him even as the rest of the party was introduced.

They sat down, and Louis found himself wedged between Paul, who sat stiffly silent, and Lily, whose hands were fidgeting restlessly. He could feel Lestat’s gaze like a physical touch, pressing on him, and he curled his fingers into his palm, willing himself to appear calm and detached.

The fire was lit in the elegant marble fireplace, filling the room with a soothing warmth and a flickering light as the sky outside slowly darkened to sunset. Resolved to avoid looking at Lestat, Louis directed his attention to the rest of the room. The decor was peculiar to say the least; ornate giltwood sofas in the French style, next to ottoman low tables, and colourful Indian tapestries, hanging beside tall Moroccan mirrors, with arabesques carved in their heavy wooden frame. It was a blend of styles that should have clashed but somehow formed a tasteful and beautiful whole.

There was a large framed painting hanging above the mantel, a Venetian-style romantic depiction of a young shepherd, playing the harp in a lush meadow, surrounded by dancing satyrs and nymphs. Louis quickly averted his gaze when he noticed that the shepherd bore an uncanny resemblance to Lestat.

“How long will you be staying in Kent?” Lestat asked, breaking the heavy silence.

“We’re here for the entire month,” Lily replied, her tone bright and cheerful. 

“Wonderful! And are you having a pleasant trip?” There was an uncharacteristic nervous edge in Lestat’s voice. When Louis glanced at him, Lestat was still watching him, something raw and vulnerable on his face, his eyes wide, almost pleading.

“Yes, it’s been lovely so far. It’s all quite…green.” Lily let out a little nervous laugh, subtlety nudging Louis to urge him to speak.

Clearing his throat, Louis mumbled, “Yes, very pleasant. Thank you.” And somehow, that simple reply was enough to make Lestat smile—a small, hopeful expression that made Louis’s heart ache.

The conversation limped along, sustained mostly by Lily and Lestat’s efforts. Lady Gabrielle contributed little, a detached, remote expression on her elegant face. Her gaze occasionally flicked toward Louis as if appraising him. The scrutiny was quite nerve-wracking, though it lacked any hostility and seemed rather more like perplexed curiosity.

Louis breathed a sigh of relief when Lady Sevraine finally returned, accompanied by a tall gentleman in a dark blue jacket that denoted him as a naval officer. The man looked no older than thirty, though his face was a little weather-beaten. He was very handsome, with dark tan skin and thick coal-black wavy hair that framed his face very advantageously. His warm, open demeanour instantly put Louis at ease.

“Reverend Paul, I believe you already know my brother-in-law,” Lady Sevraine said, as the man bowed gracefully.

“Sir Gregory Collingsworth, at your service,” the man said with a charming smile.

Louis decided he liked Sir Gregory already. His manners were easy and unaffected, quite unlike what he had expected from wealthy aristocrats, let alone Lestat’s close relations.

“I hope you didn’t have too much fun in my absence,” Lady Sevraine teased, her gloved hand resting affectionately on Lady Gabrielle’s shoulder.

“We wouldn’t dare,” Lestat replied with a smile.

The dinner bell rang, and Louis was surprised to be given the honor of escorting Lady Sevraine into the dining room.

The table was set with fine china and gleaming silverware, softly lit by the candles burning in the overhead chandelier and the silver candelabras on the table. Lady Sevraine sat at the head, with Lady Gabrielle directly to her right, and Sir Collingsworth on her left. Lady Sevraine playfully chided Paul for sitting next to his wife, and Paul, more eager to please than Louis had ever seen him, moved to the other side of the large oval table, leaving Louis with no other choice but to sit directly next to Lestat.

The dinner turned out to be far livelier and more pleasant than Louis would have expected. His imagination had conjured up a stiff, formal affair, where he’d have to endure the company of haughty aristocrats who would sneer at his lack of refinement. But instead, the food was delicious—and appropriately seasoned, and the conversation flowed far more easily than Louis had anticipated.

Lady Sevraine presided with effortless grace, engaging everyone with such skillful ease that even Paul lost his usual awkwardness. Soon, he was deep in conversation with her about the needs of the parish, while Sir Gregory regaled the rest of the table with tales of his travels. Lady Gabrielle occasionally chimed in with dry, witty remarks, that betrayed a keen intelligence and a very peculiar perspective on the world around her.

Lestat was uncharacteristically subdued, only offering a charming anecdote here and there when Sir Gregory addressed him directly, but Louis was still keenly aware of him—every movement of his hands, every minute shift of his arms—and each time their eyes met, Louis felt a familiar heat creep up his neck.

By the time the second course was served, Louis’s apprehensions about the evening had melted away. It was hard to believe this was Lestat’s family. They were warm, witty, albeit somewhat eccentric, and despite their rank and wealth, utterly unpretentious. Even Lady Gabrielle’s aloofness and curt manners held none of the contempt Louis had expected, but rather a kind of straightforward honesty that he found oddly refreshing.

After dessert was cleared and the ladies withdrew—and Paul went with them, insisting it did not befit a clergyman to overindulge—Louis found himself alone with Lestat and Sir Gregory. The two men seemed very close, their banter easy and friendly as they sipped their port. Louis mostly listened silently, enjoying the lighthearted exchange more than he cared to admit.

He had never seen Lestat like this, so at ease and among people who seemed to know him very well. He had none of the stiff pompousness that he’d had in Hertfordshire. Here he was all loose limbs and easy smiles, though there was still a nervous edge in his gaze each time he looked at Louis—which was far too often for Louis’s liking.

When Louis mentioned his desire to visit Rosings’ famed stables, Sir Gregory responded with a sly grin. “Oh, I’m sure Lestat would be happy to give you a tour. He knows far more about horses than I do. I’m afraid I’m not much for land travel of any kind. I don’t mind spending months on a ship, but on land, the journeys always seems endless.”

“Oh, come now, Greg, the ride here was barely four hours,” Lestat retorted with a smile.

“Yes, four interminable hours on a rainy country road, with nothing to look at but sheep,” Sir Gregory's face twisted with mock horror. “It was an absolute torture. I’ll never quite understand why Gabrielle and Sevraine chose to settle here when town is so much more diverting. For my part, I could scarcely wait to escape it as soon as I could.”

"Did you grow up here?" Louis asked, curious.

"I did," Sir Gregory said with a sweeping glance around the room. "The Collingsworth noble and ancestral home, with nothing to boast of but drafty halls and endless greenery."

“Well, it makes perfect sense to me,” Lestat said with the faintest hint of irony. “My mother has always found the society of trees and animals far less taxing than that of human beings. She would gladly pick a cold, rainy forest over any ballroom in London.”

Sir Gregory leet out a booming laugh. “That is true indeed. Consider yourself lucky, Louis, that she even deigned to join us this evening. I daresay it is a rare thing.”

Louis, who was no stranger to the great value of solitude, found himself fighting an unbidden smile. “You travelled here from London?” he asked Lestat, momentarily forgetting his resolve to ignore him.

Lestat nodded, seemingly just as shocked that Louis had addressed him directly.

Sir Gregory gave Lestat a meaningful look. “Yes, a rather last-minute trip. Lestat turned up at my door this morning, insisting that we must set off to Kent without delay.”

Lestat fidgeted with his port glass, his cheeks colouring slightly. “I was merely overdue for a visit. And when I received Sevraine’s letter, it seemed like the perfect opportunity—”

“Oh, indeed,” Sir Gregory replied dryly. “And naturally, it required rousing me at five in the morning.”

“I’m certain it wasn’t that early,” Lestat protested.

“Oh, it was. I recall it vividly.”

“I thought servicemen were accustomed to keeping early hours,” Louis supplied, unable to keep from smiling.

“Not when they are on a well-earned holiday,” Sir Gregory replied with a wink, downing the rest of his port in a single gulp.

Lestat laughed, a soft sound that twisted something in Louis’s chest. He hadn’t realized he’d missed it so much.  Somehow the port tasted more bitter in his mouth after that.

“Come, Lestat, play for us!” Lady Sevraine exclaimed once they joined the ladies in the drawing room. “I do so miss hearing you play.”

“You will not be saying as much when he wakes us all up with it tomorrow morning,” Lady Gabrielle murmured, lifting her gaze from a thick book just long enough to level her son with a wry look.

Lestat, ever eager to entertain, obliged at once, moving to the grand piano with a dramatic flair. Moments later, the room was filled with a lively tune, his fingers dancing over the keys in effortless, practiced grace.

Like a moth to a flame, Louis found himself drifting closer, fascinated by the way Lestat’s long elegant fingers darted across the keys, an expression of pure, unselfconscious joy on his face.

Lestat glanced up, briefly startled when he saw Louis standing so close. But very quickly, a mischievous smile spread across his face, his blue eyes alight with amusement. “Do you mean to frighten me, Mr. du Lac, by coming in all your state to inspect my performance?”

Louis scoffed, crossing his arms. “I am well enough acquainted with you, Mr. de Lioncourt, to know that I cannot shake your relentless self-assurance even should I wish it. No, I merely wished to ascertain for myself that your talents truly measures up to the boasts you have so often made of them.”  

Lestats’s grin stretched wider as he met and held Louis’s gaze. The melody continued on, undisturbed, a glimmer of playful defiance in Lestat’s eyes as his fingers moved flawlessly over the keys, playing the complex piece entirely from memory.

The moment was broken when Lady Sevraine joined them, coming to stand at Lestat’s side with an affectionate hand on his shoulder, her face alight with pride.

“Tell me, Mr. du Lac,” she said with a warm smile, “what was our Lestat like in Hertfordshire? I do hope he made a favorable impression.”

“I am sitting right here, Sevraine,” Lestat said, looking up at her with feigned vexation, “Surely you can wait until I am out of earshot to start gossiping about me.”

“Oh, hush, you!” she chided, playfully patting his blond head. “I want to hear what our friend has to say.”

Louis observed the exchange in awe, feeling like he was intruding. Here, surrounded by his family and close friends, Lestat seemed markedly different—lighter, freer, as if he felt less of a need to put on airs. This version of him was a far cry from the brash arrogant stranger Louis had met in Tom Anderson’s ballroom. “Very well, Your Grace,” he said with exaggerated solemnity, “but I must warn you, prepare for a most dreadful account.”

Lestat’s fingers froze on the keys, and he turned to look at Louis with a dramatically appalled expression. It was so comical that Louis had to suppress a smile.

“The first time I saw him was at a assembly,” Louis began, “where he promptly declared the music unworthy of his standard and refused to dance at all, despite the fact that gentlemen were scarce, and more than one young lady was eyeing him hopefully.”

“The music was, in fact, dreadful,” Lestat protested primly, though his cheeks had colored slightly. “And besides, I was newly arrived and knew no one beyond my own party.”

Louis tilted his head, his smile placid as he fixed Lestat with an unwavering gaze that made him blush further. “As I recall, you had just been introduced to my family, and my cousin Lily had more than hinted that she wanted to dance with you.”

Lady Sevraine let out a small laugh, evidently unsurprised by this revelation. “Yes, shocking behavior indeed! But alas Lestat is quite stubborn when it comes to music.”

Just then, Sir Gregory called her back to the card table, where he had settled over a game of whist with Lily, Paul and Doris, insisting that he was losing abominably and required her guidance. With an indulgent smile, Lady Sevraine left the them alone again, and Lestat resumed his playing, though his movements were somewhat more subdued.

After a moment, he murmured, without looking up, “I apologize if I offended you, Louis. I’ll admit I was not at my best that evening.”

Louis, refusing to be swayed by such hollow words, merely inclined his head, keeping his tone light. “If anyone deserves your apology, Mr. Lioncourt, I believe it would be my cousin.”

Besides, they both knew that slighting Lily at the Meryton assembly was the least of Lestat’s offences in Louis’s eyes. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of regret when he caught the flicker of hurt in Lestat’s expression. He walked away, feeling a small pang of guilt as Lestat turned back to the piano, his shoulders stiff and his playing lacking its former enthusiasm.

At some point in the evening, Louis found himself drawn back to the large painting above the mantelpiece. It was mesmerizing, all soft, muted colors and delicate brushstrokes that gave the impression that the figures were alive, and might shift on the canvas at any moment. The young shepherd was the centerpiece of the scene, striking, even among the exquisite nymphs that surrounded him. Perhaps it was the unguarded, vulnerability in his expression, the joyful wild abandon as he played his harp, a look of ecstasy that almost bordered on indecent. It was, Louis realized with a jolt, exactly the same expression Lestat wore when he played the piano—the same expression he had worn when he came in Louis's hand, eyes wide and lips parted on a sigh.

Louis’s gaze lingered on the shepherd’s lean thighs, visible beneath his daringly short white tunic. He wondered absently how close of a likeness it was. He’d had the chance to admire Lestat’s bare chest as they changed together in the study, but not his legs; their brief, ill-fated tryst had abruptly ended before they’d reached that point. Louis shook his head, mentally chastising himself—this was an utterly unhelpful train of thought given that he was quite determined to dislike Lestat.

“Do you like it?” Lady Sevraine’s voice said from right behind him.

He’d been so absorbed in the painting that he hadn’t noticed her approach. He cleared his throat, scrambling to produce a coherent reply. “Er. Yes, it’s—” He floundered, trying to recall some of the usual platitudes cultured people trotted out about art. He finally settled on, “It’s certainly very intriguing.”

Lady Sevraine chuckled lightly. "Thank you. I shall consider that the highest of compliments."

The realization dawned on him—something that Paul had mentioned about the Dutchess being an accomplished artist. “Did you paint this yourself, Your Grace?”

She smiled, her face softening with fondness as she looked up at the painting. “I did. Many years ago. Lestat was barely nineteen here, still willing to indulge my artistic whims. These days, I’m hard-pressed to get him to sit still long enough for a sketch.”

“It is most impressive, Your Grace,” Louis said, his tone mercifully more composed this time.

Lady Sevraine waved a dismissive hand. “Please, call me Sevraine. We are practically family now—there’s no need for such formalities.” Louis was uncertain how she’d come to that conclusion after only an evening’s acquaintance, but before he could ponder it further, she begun studying his face with a keen, scrutinizing gaze that left him feeling strangely exposed. “Have you ever been painted yourself?” she asked.

“No, I have not, Your—Lady Sevraine.”  

“Well, then it’s settled.” She clapped her hands, a gleam of excitement in her mist-colored eyes. “You must sit for me. With such exquisite features, it would be a waste not to capture them on a canvas.”

With a last, enigmatic smile, she floated back toward the rest of the party, leaving Louis feeling both utterly charmed and deeply unsettled.

The evening at Rosings stretched on well past midnight, filled with music, cards, and conversation so engaging that Louis was forced to admit that despite the lingering awkwardness with Lestat, he hadn’t enjoyed himself so much in a long time.  

When it was finally time to bid their hosts goodnight, Lady Sevraine insisted on lending them a carriage, ignoring Louis’s protestations that it was unnecessary for such a short distance. Lestat personally escorted them outside, offering his arm to help Lily and Doris into the carriage, with a gallantry that made Doris blush profusely.

Louis had to admit the attentiveness was rather charming and when he thanked Lestat, he tried to sound as sincere as he could manage.

Later, when Lily came to his room to bid him good night, she confided that Lestat had taken her aside and apologized for his slighting her at the assembly.

“He was utterly charming about it,” she said with a coquettish smile, “so eager for me to think well of him. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought he was courting me.” She gave Louis a meaningful look. “He must really like you, Louis, to go to all this trouble.”

“Or perhaps he simply wishes to keep the peace, now that he knows my brother lives so near to his relations. Regardless of how lowly he thinks of us, it would hardly be convenient to be openly at odds considering we’re now inevitably bound to cross paths.”

Lily gave him a skeptical look. “I doubt he is as high in his instep as you insist, Louis. Lady Sevraine certainly wasn’t, and neither was his mother. And he was far more civil than you were tonight, not to mention considerably more entertaining. You hardly spoke a word all evening.”

Louis usually appreciated Lily’s blunt honesty, but tonight he found it excruciating. His mind was already buzzing, and all he wanted was to crawl into bed and not think about Lestat, or his family, or anything at all really.

His thoughts must have been visible on his face because Lily’s expression softened, and she put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I don’t understand why you’re so determined to dislike him, Louis. But will you at least try to be civil, if only for the duration of our visit? I like Lady Sevraine, and I would very much like to be invited back.”

Louis nodded reluctantly, and Lily smiled, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before leaving with her candle.

Louis curled up beneath the blankets, feeling utterly drained. Seeing Lestat again had stirred up raw, confusing emotions he had tried so hard to keep buried. Seeing Lestat smile and play, so at ease among his eccentric family made it difficult for Louis to remember why he was so resolute in his dislike—why he fought so hard to resist when it would be so much simpler to yield, to let himself be swept up in Lestat’s blue eyes and radiant smile.

Chapter Text

ouis was sat at the small writing desk, quill in hand, staring at the half-written letter to Grace. With Paul at the church, and Lily and Doris having taken the cart into the village for some errands, he’d had the parlour to himself all morning. He had already filled one page with trivial pleasantries—descriptions of the cottage and the garden, the repairs on the church roof, and the imposing grandeur of Rosings Park. But now he faltered, uncertain of how much to reveal to his sister, especially since it was all but certain that their mother would be reading over her shoulder.

He sighed, looking out through the dewy window. The lush garden was bathed in an early morning light, and in the far distance, he could see the looming shape of Rosings. Perhaps a walk would grant him some inspiration. There were a few lovely trails in the park, and the weather, though grey, was mild with no hint of rain.

A sudden ringing of the doorbell startled him from his reverie. He looked up, perplexed. Paul and Doris had made no mention of any upcoming visitors, and he’d heard no sound of carriage wheels or hooves coming up the drive.

Moments later, Mary, Doris’s young maid, came in, her freckled cheeks flushed with excitement. “A gentleman caller for you, sir,” she announced breathlessly.

“Show him in,” Louis replied, tucking the unfinished letter into a drawer.

Louis’s eyes widened in shock when Lestat entered with his usual confident gait, his smile faltering slightly as he noticed Louis was alone in the parlour.

Louis rose abruptly as Lestat bowed. “Pardon the intrusion,” Lestat said. “I assumed everyone would be at home,”

“No. My brother is at church, and the ladies have gone into the village,” Louis replied stiffly.

“Shall I bring tea, sir?” Mary asked timidly from the doorway.

“Yes, thank you, Mary,” Louis said, giving her a small nod, before turning back to Lestat as he added, “Please, have a seat.”

They settled into an awkward silence, Lestat’s gaze drifting around the room with a curiosity that Louis found both irritating and hard to ignore. Before long, Mary returned with a tray of tea things, which she set before them, and then took her leave, glancing back curiously at Lestat as she closed the door.

“I forgot to inquire last night, how are Mr. Frenière and his sister?” Louis asked, breaking the silence. He couldn’t help the slight edge to his voice. He was still furious about the Frenières’ rude abrupt departure, and the pain it had caused Grace. “You all left so suddenly after the ball, and we’ve hardly had any news since.”

Lestat seemed slightly uncomfortable at the question, his pale gaze dropping momentarily to his hands, folded on his lap. “They are well, thank you. They send their greetings and were quite pleased to hear that you and Miss Lily are in Kent.”

Louis raised an eyebrow. He sincerely doubted that, just as he doubted the effusive sentiments in Caroline’s sporadic letters to Grace. If the Frenieres had cared at all about them, they would have at least given them the courtesy of a proper farewell.

“I understand they don’t intend to return to Hertfordshire anytime soon,” he said in an icy tone.

“No,” Lestat confirmed, his tone equally guarded. “Caroline and Babette are quite set on remaining in town for the rest of the season. They likely won’t return to Hertfordshire often, if at all.”

“Then perhaps it would be best for Mr. Frenière to relinquish the property altogether if he means to be there so little,” Louis remarked, unable to keep the anger from his voice.

Lestat’s gaze dropped again, and he let out a sigh that very much sounded like frustration. “No. I believe Levi still means to keep the property, however rarely he intends to use it.”

Louis scoffed bitterly. The hubris of rich men—owning country estates they had no intention of residing in, simply because it was fashionable and well seen. It was both wasteful and absurd.

“I thought of writing to you, you know, all these past months,” Lestat said, his voice softer now, though his mouth was stretched in a bitter smirk. “But I feared that my letters would be no better received than the ones I sent to you before. I see now that I was correct in my assessment.”  

Louis looked away, unable to bear the intensity of Lestat’s piercing gaze. He had kept the letters—a bundle of crisp white envelopes tied with a ribbon at the bottom of his drawer, filled with words from Lestat that he had never dared to read. He’d taken them out countless times, never quite summoning the resolve to toss them into the fire, as he had once intended.

For months, he had carefully trained himself to avoid thinking about Lestat, pushing aside memories of him that surfaced more often than he cared to admit. But now, knowing that Lestat was here, living less than a mile away, made such restraint nearly impossible. How could he ignore his feelings when Lestat was right here in front of him, and all he would have to do would be to take one small step across the room to close the distance, to touch him, to taste his lips again, to let his fingers slide through that silky blond hair, tugging just enough to hear him gasp.  

Louis cleared his throat, finally meeting Lestat’s gaze, hoping his expression conveyed nothing but calm detachment. “How long will you be staying in Kent?” If he had to endure this constant torment, at least he wanted to know how long it would last.

Lestat shrugged his shoulder nonchalantly, the simple movement more seductive than it had any right to be. “I have no set schedule. At least a month, perhaps more.”  

Louis raised an eyebrow. “Can you afford to absent yourself that long? I would have assumed you have matters in London to attend to.”

Surely even idle aristocrats had things to do—if not business, then at least a great deal of money to spend and lavish parties to attend.

“Nothing that my lawyer cannot handle,” Lestat replied with a dismissive wave. “He’s far more competent at that sort of thing than I am.”

Before Louis could think of a sharp, bitter response, the sound of hooves and lively laughter drifted through the window. He felt an odd mix of relief and disappointment as Lily and Doris entered the room a few moments later, their faces lighting up with surprise at the sight of Lestat.

Lestat was irreproachable polite as he stood to greet them, and he even stayed for another half an hour, quickly charming both ladies with his effortless manners. By the time he finally departed, Doris was utterly smitten, and Lily was even more fervent in her defence of him.

“I’ve never seen a man so charming in all my life,” Doris gushed, her cheeks flushed. “And so handsome too, I daresay.” She added with a giggle. “It was very amiable of him to call on us so soon.”

“Yes,” Lily agreed, casting Louis a pointed glance over her teacup. “Mr. Lioncourt is a perfect gentleman indeed. Though some stubbornly refuse to admit it.”

Over the following days, as if some cruel and mischievous game of fate was at play, Louis found himself crossing paths with Lestat more often than he cared to count. His long, meandering evening walks in the park—intended to grant him solitude and a much-needed respite from Paul and Doris’s lively but often overwhelming company—were disrupted by the maddeningly familiar figure of Lestat, appearing at the bend of a path or along the shaded trails by the lake at the precise moment Louis did.

Each time, their encounters seemed to follow a peculiar dance of distance and intimacy: a brief nod, a civil greeting, followed by the exchange of a few polite inquiries. But never more. Their brief exchanges were punctuated by lingering, awkward pauses—moments in which Louis was acutely aware of Lestat’s lingering gaze, of the soft longing in his open expression. It was impossible in those moments to reconcile his previous anger and resentment with the pleasure he felt at these random—or perhaps not so random—meetings. Lestat’s continued alluring presence stirred a heady rush of want that always, inevitably, overwhelmed Louis’s better judgment.

With each passing day, his attempts to suppress his conflicting feelings grew increasingly more pathetic. A sharp thrill of excitement shot through him every time he slipped on his coat to go out, both dreading and anticipating when he might see Lestat again.

It was Friday afternoon when Louis finally finished his letter to Grace. He made his way to Rosings to deliver it to Mr. Martin, the stable master, for posting. The stables were a sprawling building at the back of the house, made of grey stone and timber. Large arched doorways opened to the spacious stalls, each with a gleaming brass nameplate. The imposing size and impeccable spotlessness were a clear indication of the wealth of the owners. It was certainly a far cry from the modest, rustic barn that served to house the handful of horses at Pointe du Lac.

As Louis entered, he was greeted by the familiar scent of fresh hay and saddle leather, mingling with the earthy musk of the horses. It was peacefully quiet, only disturbed by the occasional shuffling of hooves and light snorts.

His intent was to find this Martin quickly, hand over the letter, and be back on his way before any of the other Rosings inhabitants noticed his presence. But as he wandered deeper into the vast room, a soft murmur caught his attention. He followed the voice, his heart thudding in his chest as he recognized the unmistakable lilt of an accent. He stopped in his tracks as he rounded the corner, his breath catching in his throat.

There, illuminated by a shaft of afternoon light, stood Lestat, looking stunning and uncharacteristically dishevelled. His white shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, his golden curls slightly mussed, a faint flush colouring his cheeks. He was tending to a chestnut mare, his hands moving in slow, soothing strokes over her glossy coat, murmuring French endearment that Louis could not quite discern.

As if sensing a gaze upon him, Lestat glanced up abruptly. His blue eyes widened in surprise. “Louis?” he exclaimed, straightening. He dusted off his hands and walked closer, a slight tension in his deliberately slow pace, as if he was worried Louis would bolt away in fear if he made any sudden movements. And perhaps Louis would. He’d just been caught intruding on a private moment, staring at Lestat from a shadowy corner like some peeping Tom. A swift escape would have been the ideal solution. Lestat stopped a mere few steps away, and the air filled with the smell of lavender soap, mixed in with the scent of leather. “Can I help you with something?”

Louis cleared his throat, his pulse thudding in his ears. “I—apologize for the intrusion. I’m looking for a Mr. Martin…I have a letter for him to post.”

A tentative smile stretched on Lestat’s face, and he inclined his head toward a door at the back of the room. “You’ll find him in his study.”

Louis nodded his head in thanks, clutching the letter with nervous fingers as he slipped past Lestat, acutely aware of his gaze trailing after him.

Mr. Martin was a ruddy, tall man in his mid-forties. He greeted Louis with polite, affable manners, assuring him that his letter would be dispatched with the utmost haste the following morning.  

Lestat was still there when Louis came out. He was now occupied with saddling the mare, his naked forearms flexing as he tightened the straps, a display of strength that didn’t fail to catch Louis’s eye.

Without thinking, Louis moved closer, extending a hand to stroke the animal’s sleek, dappled coat. “Is she yours?” he asked in a soft murmur as the mare turned her head to smell him curiously.

Lestat’s face brightened with pride as he patted the mare’s muscular flank. “Yes. Sevraine gifted her to me when she was a filly. I raised and trained her myself. It is always a pleasure to be reunited.”

A smile flickered across Louis’s face despite himself, captivated by the unselfconscious joy in Lestat’s expression. “Well, she is quite the beauty,” he said softly, his fingers brushing against Lestat’s as they both stroked the mare’s carefully trimmed mane. The touch was a fleeting one, but it sent a jolt of warmth coursing down Louis’s spine.

“My mother and I were about to head out for an excursion into the hills,” Lestat said, his gaze holding on to Louis’s. “Perhaps you could join us. The view from the top is quite spectacular.”

Before Louis could formulate a response, Lady Gabrielle herself walked in, attired in practical and sturdy-looking men’s riding clothes. Louis was once again struck by how much Lestat resembled her, though their temperaments seemed to be the complete opposite. Where Lestat possessed a boisterous, exuberant charm, she exuded a calm, stoic reserve. While Lestat loved flair and elegance, she seemed to prefer efficiency and practicality.

“Mr. de Pointe du Lac,” she greeted him, a faint but perceptive smile gracing her lips. Her accent was more pronounced than Lestat’s, and she exchanged a pointed look with her son before continuing. “Will you be joining us on our ride?”

“I would not wish to intrude upon your outing, My Lady,” Louis quickly protested, a little flustered. “Besides, I am hardly dressed for riding—”

“It would be no intrusion at all,” Lestat protested, his tone earnest.

“Martin will find you something suitable to wear,” Lady Gabrielle said, more pragmatically. “We keep coats and boots here for such occasions.” A young groom appeared, guiding an impressively large black stallion out of his stall. The horse snorted happily as Lady Gabrielle patted his muzzle. “You can take Biscotte—she is gentler with unfamiliar riders,” she added briskly as she tugged on her leather riding gloves.

Less than half an hour later, Louis found himself astride a light grey mare, bundled into a borrowed wool caped coat. It was a little stiff from disuse and smelled faintly of smoke, but it fit surprisingly well, so he didn’t voice any complaints.

He had always prided himself in being a more than tolerable rider, but as they set off at a leisurely trot through the park, Lestat and his mother quickly put his skills to shame. Lestat moved in a saddle with as much grace as he did on foot, and his mother, while her riding would have been described as fierce more than graceful, seemed to be one with her stallion, directing him effortlessly with a tiny nudge of her reins.  

Lady Gabrielle was more than an exceptional rider—she was altogether captivating. She possessed a vast knowledge of the natural world, and a sharp wit that often caught Louis off guard. Before he realized it, he found himself conversing with her freely, their discussion flitting effortlessly between topics as varied as the local vegetation, literature, and the shifting politics of the country. She had a dry humour and a keen observation of the society around her, coupled with a complete disregard for convention that Louis found utterly refreshing. Lestat, though mostly silent for much of the ride, seemed perfectly at ease, watching their animated conversation with a soft, tender expression.  

When they reached the summit, Louis drew a sharp breath. Lestat had not exaggerated; the view was spectacular. Louis’s mouth dropped in silent awe as he looked down at the endless stretch of fields, lakes and forests, their early spring colours shimmering vividly. 

Lady Gabrielle wandered off towards a small creek in the distance, while Lestat rode up beside Louis, peeling off his gloves to rest his hands casually on his saddle. Bathed in the late afternoon sun, his profile looked sharper and somehow more delicate, cast in soft shades of gold and amber.

He dressed differently here, Louis noticed. No less refined by any means, but now there was nothing explicitly extravagant about him. He favoured more muted hues and simpler fabrics instead of the bright colours and richly embroidered silks he’d worn in Hertfordshire. Even his ornaments were minimal—a signet ring, and an emerald one on his middle finger. Nobody could have mistaken him for a country farmer, of course, but he was simpler, more subdued, perhaps seeking less to impress with his dress and more to be comfortable. It was a softer, more pared-down version of Lestat, and Louis found that he liked it quite a lot.  

“Mr. Lioncourt,” he began, breaking the peaceful silence, “I’ve been meaning to ask—”

“Lestat, please,” Lestat interrupted, his mouth quirked in a pout. “I’ve had your cock in my mouth, Louis. I think that warrants us calling each other by our given names.”

Louis gasped, his face heating up as he cast a quick, alarmed glance around them. But Lady Gabrielle was way out of earshot, a faint silhouette in the distance, as she knelt beside her stallion by the creek. When he turned back to Lestat, his smile had morphed into a mischievous grin.

“Well, your given name is ridiculous,” he retorted playfully. “Besides, it’s a bad habit to get into for when we’re in public, where, I’m meant to give monsieur le marquis all his due honours—” Lestat levelled him a vexed look, and Louis laughed, softly rolling his eyes. “Very well then, Lestat. I wanted to ask, what is your relation to Lady Sevraine? You all seem quite close.”

Lestat tilted his head, considering the question. “You could say we’re family, though perhaps not in the traditional sense. She’s my mother’s companion and, in many ways, a second mother to me.”

Lestat paused to gaze at him, assessing his reaction.

Louis did his best to keep his face neutral. “I see,” he said, not seeing at all. It was easy to deduce that there was something more than a mere close friendship between the two ladies—if one knew what to look for. But it was still astonishing to hear Lestat say it so casually, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for two women to be in love and live together openly.

“And how long have she and your mother been… companions?” Louis asked hesitantly.

“More than a decade,” Lestat replied, his gaze softening. “I first met Sevraine when I was thirteen. My father had sent me off to Paris, ostensibly to further my education, though I think he was simply glad to be rid of me. Sevraine was one of the few people there who showed me kindness. She looked after me when no one else would.” A shadow crossed his face, and his gaze grew distant. He looked so young suddenly, his shoulders rounded defensively, his hands flexing and unflexing around the reins.

Louis realized that it was the first time he was hearing Lestat speak so openly about his past, beyond the fleeting, bitter remarks he’d made at that long-ago dinner. Somehow, it felt profound to be the recipient of such confidence.

He wanted to ask more, to find out what dark memories could put such a haunted look on Lestat’s face, but the moment passed quickly, and Lestat straightened, assuming his usual nonchalant demeanour.

“I introduced Sevraine to my mother when she visited,” Lestat continued. “They took to each other immediately. After Sevraine’s husband died, the three of us travelled together for a time. She inherited this estate from him, and she and my mother decided to settle here. The rest, as they say, was history.”

“I’m glad for them,” Louis said sincerely. “Glad that they found each other, I mean.”

“As am I,” Lestat replied, his gaze lingering on Louis, as if there were something else he wanted to say.

Louis shifted, clearing his throat. “And I am pleased that Paul found this position. He is happier here than I have ever seen him.”

Lestat chuckled. “Yes, Sevraine is quite fond of him. She finds his fervent zealotry amusing rather than grating, and she enjoys his long-winded theological debates.”

Louis smiled, recalling the heated clash between Lestat and Paul during that unfortunate dinner. “Well, she could not have bestowed her kindness on a more grateful subject. Paul speaks very highly of her. And of your mother too. I think the proximity to them will help broaden his mind—that and the finally being away from our mother.”

Lestat let out another soft chuckle, and when Louis turned to look at him, his eyes were bright with a fond, longing look, so unguarded that Louis was glad no one else was there to witness it. Then, Lestat seemed to catch himself, and he made a vague, sweeping gesture across the park, his rings flashing in the sunlight. “I supposed you will be visiting quite often then, with your brother settled here.” His nonchalant tone was betrayed by the intensity of his gaze.

“Yes, I would like to,” Louis replied sincerely. The unassuming statement carried the air of a promise, and the quiet reverence of a prayer.

Lestat’s answering smile was brighter than the sun shining on the valley below.

Chapter Text

ver the following week, Louis found himself in Lestat’s company with continued regularity. Lestat called at the cottage nearly every day, and he came at various times of the morning, sometimes accompanied by Sir Gregory, but more often alone. Remarkably, he had managed to even get along with Paul, who seemed to have softened considerably in his opinions of the man. Louis suspected that this change was largely due to the discovery of Lestat’s connection to Lady Sevraine—in Paul’s eyes, anything even remotely associated with his patroness was all good and agreeable.

On those rare evenings when the Pointe du Lacs were not invited to dine at Rosings, Lestat still found his way to Louis’s side, joining him for his customary evening strolls through the park. They walked together in comfortable silence, or conversing animatedly about one topic or another. Lestat talked mostly of music, theatre, and the opera—which seemed to be his favourite pursuit. Louis knew almost nothing on the subject, but he was happy to listen to Lestat ramble on about it. The only Opera singers he'd ever seen were the ones occasionally invited at Tom Anderson’s club in Meryton. Their talent had been middling, to put it politely. Lestat would have probably fainted at the sound of their renditions of Handel and Rossini.

Lestat chuckled when Louis told him as much. “If they are as bad as those musicians he hired for that dreadful assembly, then I have no doubt of it. I will take you to the royal opera when you come to town. The resident soprano is quite a marvel. She also has other…many talents besides her singing.” He gave Louis a meaningful wink.

“Is that how you pass your time in town then,” Louis asked with a smile, “attending operas and bedding singers?”

“Well, yes. Though not always in that order. I consider it my solemn duty as a fervent patron of the arts.”

Louis laughed, shoving him away playfully. His breath caught when he realized what was happening; they were trading flirtatious banter and laughing together. They were genuinely enjoying each other’s company—not with bitterness or thinly veiled resentment, but with a simple, unguarded ease. Louis realized that he had missed this most of all—even more than their brief trysts. He had missed having Lestat as a friend. He had missed Lestat’s sharp wit, his irreverent humour, and his relentless brightness, that easily burned through all of Louis’s reservations and uncertainties.

Lestat spent the rest of the walk listing off all the amusements he couldn’t wait to take Louis to when he came to town. His face was lit up with excitement, his hands moving animatedly as he described the Ascot horse races and the weekly masquerade balls at Vauxhall. Louis didn’t have the heart to tell him that none of it sounded particularly appealing to him.

At first, Louis was so far too happy and too absorbed in their daily conversations to notice that Lestat had significantly ramped up his casual affection. But once he started paying attention to it, it became nearly impossible to ignore.

It was never anything overt or improper, but Lestat was always standing or sitting closer than decorum dictated, his breath ghosting over Louis’s skin as he leaned over to whisper to him during dinner or tea, where they coincidentally always happened to be seated next to each other. Lestat was dotingly attentive, his hands always at the ready to help Louis with a book, a door, a cup of tea. And when there was nothing to assist with, his hands were on Louis—lingering on his shoulders, his lower back, a hand on his waist as Lestat passed by. These small and seemingly unconscious gestures always sent a thrill of want and excitement down Louis’s spine, though Lestat never sought to initiate anything beyond this subtle, casual intimacy.

Lestat’s constant presence and attentions made it harder for Louis to remember why he had been so angry in the first place. The carefully rehearsed reasons for his righteous anger, which had seemed so monumental months ago, now felt trivial and petty in the face of Lestat’s irresistible charm.

It wasn’t until Louis received the response letter from Grace that he was sharply reminded of his bitter resentment. Grace was cheerful enough in her lines, recounting evenings spent with Lady Williams, who had made it her mission to coax Mrs. du Lac from her forlorn mood by visiting daily. She also spoke of the progress on the estate and mentioned the scandalous gothic romance novel she was reading, promising to lend it to Louis as soon as he got back. But Louis knew his sister too well not to sense the pain between the lines—in the way she casually inquired if Lestat had shared any news of Mr. Frenière, the way she carefully danced around her own feelings by focusing on everything and everyone else. Time, it seemed, had done little to ease her unhappiness and it broke Louis's heart to realize it.

The letter also made mention of her chance meeting with the lieutenant in Meryton, who had asked after Louis. The news left Louis feeling even more conflicted. He still wasn’t ready to entirely discount Armand’s version of events as Lily had so easily done, but he was now more inclined to believe that there had to be some kind of misunderstanding.

Louis found it impossible to reconcile the cruel and spiteful version of Lestat that Armand had so vividly described with the man he was now coming to know in Kent—a man who adored caring for his horses and spoke for hours of music and art with unbridled passion. How could such a man be so utterly cold and heartless?

His own initial impression of Lestat as a haughty, disdainful aristocrat no longer seemed to fit either. How could Lestat have disdained Armand for his low birth when he was so charming to Doris, and content to sit in the cottage’s modest parlour for hours without a trace of discomfort? How could Lestat be greedy and selfish when Lady Sevraine, who was like a mother to him, showed such generosity toward Paul and his parishioners? Louis simply couldn’t make sense of it.

He spent a restless night grappling with these thoughts, but by morning, he was no closer to clarity. While Lestat couldn’t reasonably be blamed for the actions of Levi and his sisters, he nevertheless remained a constant reminder of it. The Frenières, along with any mentions of Armand, were still contentious topics that they carefully avoided discussing. Grace’s letter cast a shadow over Louis’s mood. His happiness was now tinged with guilt, that he was here, enjoying himself, while his sister suffered. 

If Lestat noticed Louis’s melancholy, he showed no sign of it. He continued to spend an inordinate amount of time at the cottage, always striving to engage Louis in conversation and to coax a smile from him with a well-timed quip or comment.

Despite his unabashed and sometimes shocking openness on most topics—even highly inappropriate ones, Louis noticed that Lestat was reluctant to discuss his past with any great length. One afternoon, as they rode along the rugged coastline, they stopped at a small grassy cliff overlooking the sea.

“When the weather is clear, you can see France on the other side,” Lestat remarked, gesturing toward a hazy line on the horizon, where the roiling, restless blue met the pale grey sky.

“Do you ever think of going back?” Louis asked. “To France, I mean.”

Lestat’s answering laugh had a strange, bitter ring to it. His pale eyes filled with a remote coldness that made Louis shiver. “No,” he said finally. “There is nothing left for me there.” Then, his expression softened, and he reached out, his gloved hand brushing Louis’s, their fingers tangling together briefly. “Everything I care about is here.”

It was a lovely sentiment, but Louis felt the urge to press, his curiosity getting the better of him. “Do you still have family there?” He asked. From what little Lestat had shared, he had surmised that Lestat’s father was long dead, and that Lestat felt none the worst for it. But perhaps he still had siblings, cousins—people whom he loved and cared for as much as Louis did his family.

He regretted the question almost instantly when Lestat’s face darkened, and he withdrew his hand, clenching it tightly around his reins. His expression was unreadable—a mix of sadness, anger, and weariness, all battling on his chiselled, windswept face. After a tense pause, he shrugged with a careless detachment that shocked Louis. “None that matter. My mother is all I have left now. Shall we start heading back?” He turned his mare inland without waiting for an answer and began trotting away. Louis scrambled to follow, silently cursing himself for ruining the moment.  

But Lestat’s dark moods rarely lingered, and the next day he was back to his cheerful, charming self.

During dinner at Rosings, Lady Sevraine had reminded Louis that he’d promised to sit for her. The following morning, Lestat came to the cottage early to fetch him, insisting that the Dutchess had talked of nothing else since breakfast.

Lady Sevraine’s studio occupied the east wing of the house, perfectly situated to capture the best light. The walls were covered in large, unframed paintings, in hues of blues, greys and greens; Kentish landscapes, wintery seascapes, verdant misty forest. There were also a few portraits, mostly of Lady Gabrielle and other women Louis didn’t recognize. Other paintings seemed to be purely fantastical, filled with strange mythical creatures, half human and half beast. Louis had the odd feeling he was stepping into Lady Sevraine’s whimsical, eccentric mind.

Lady Sevraine herself stood by the window, a delicate cigarillo holder balanced between her lips as she mixed paint colours. She was dressed in a richly embroidered silk banyan, her unbraided hair falling in a silver-blonde cascade down her back. When she noticed them, her face brightened in a delighted smile. “Ah, Louis.” 

“I bring you your muse,” Lestat announced, presenting Louis with a grand flourish.

She abandoned her mixing and came to embrace him affectionately, and he was suddenly enveloped in a thick cloud of her soft, powdery fragrance and the tangy, earthy scent of her cigarillo. “Everything is almost ready. You can have a sit over there.” She gestured to a chair set against a backdrop of green velvet drapery, with flowers and fruit arranged artfully around it.

“Don’t let her talk you into wearing a tunic,” Lestat teased, though his gaze lingered on Louis in a way that suggested he wouldn’t mind if she did.

Sevraine cast him a playful glare. “Out, Lestat. You’re making him nervous. I do my best work one-on-one.” She patted Louis on the cheek reassuringly, and he swallowed, already half regretting having agreed to this.

Lestat chuckled but departed, giving Louis a small encouraging smile before he closed the door.

Lady Sevraine did, indeed, attempt to talk Louis into wearing a tunic, but he dug his heels in as politely as he could manage. They compromised on him stripping off his coat and waistcoat. The keen way her misty gaze studied him was entirely professional, but it was still painfully awkward to be sitting in front of a high-ranking lady in nothing but his breeches and linen.

“Chin up. A bit higher. Look serious,” Sevraine instructed, her charcoal scratching over the canvas. “Now glance up—perfect. You have remarkable features. Lestat wasn’t exaggerating when he spoke of your beauty.”  

Louis felt his face heat up embarrassingly, but he did his best to remain still.

“He wrote to me about you, you know,” Sevraine said absently, her eyes focused on her work.

“To inform you that he was acquainted with my brother?” Louis ventured. He could easily imagine that it had been a shock for Lestat to discover that his mother’s new curate was none other than Paul—just as it had been for Louis to discover Lestat’s connection to Lady Sevraine. Come to think of it, the coincidence was rather an odd one.

“No, about you,” Lady Sevraine clarified with a soft chuckle. “It was right after he first saw you at some public assembly. I had never heard him so captivated by anyone.”

Louis’s mouth dropped open, and for a moment, he was at a loss for words. “I—we barely knew each other then. And I daresay we didn’t get off to a great start.”

Sevraine laughed. “Ah, but Lestat is the kind to know exactly what he wants. And he is quite persistent, as you’ve no doubt discovered.”

The rest of the session proceeded mostly in silence. Louis distracted himself by looking at the paintings in the room. Sevraine’s talent was undeniable—she could have easily rivalled any of the masters he’d seen displayed in galleries. If she had ever needed the money, she could make a fortune in commissions.

At some point, Lady Gabrielle came in to ask if they needed anything, and Sevraine unceremoniously shooed her away “We’re nearly finished. I just need another hour to add the colours. The finer details I can complete later.”

“Very well, I’ll leave you to it,” Gabrielle said. “But don’t make poor Louis sit for too long, even if he’s far too well-mannered to object.” Louis politely averted his gaze as she leaned down to kiss Sevraine before quietly departing.

By the time Lady Sevraine said he was free to go, Louis felt as though he was emerging from a deep trance. He took a few steps down the quiet hallway to stretch his stiff legs, and he nearly collided with Lestat as he turned a corner.

He stumbled backwards, but Lestat’s firm hand caught him by the elbow, steadying him.

"How did it go?" Lestat asked, his gaze playful.

For a moment, Louis was too distracted by their sudden proximity to respond. “It was… fine,” he managed at last. “Didn’t have to do much besides sit still.”

"I can't wait to see it once it’s done," Lestat said with a grin. "Now, come—let me give you a proper tour of the house.”

They strolled through the sprawling manor, Lestat leading Louis through one grand room after another. With each room they came to, Lestat offered anecdotes about the décor or shared amusing tales of past incidents that had taken place there. Most of the stories seemed to involve inebriated house guests or scandal-prone servants with easy virtues.

“Sevraine had to replace the previous carpet after catching the Duke of Somerset on it with his valet," Lestat said with a chuckle as they left one of the drawing rooms. "She was quite furious. It was a priceless Persian rug Gregory had brought her back from his travels. Somerset hasn’t been invited back since.”

"Does the Duchess entertain often?" He could easily imagine the lavish balls that must have filled these halls, the sort of decadent gatherings that stretched on for days.

"Not for some years now. My mother detests parties, and Sevraine can’t bear strangers traipsing around her precious collections. But you’re welcome to stay, of course…when you next visit Kent—” he trailed off, his fingers playing nervously with his signet ring.

Louis didn’t see why he ever would need to, what with Paul living so close by, but he thanked Lestat with a smile as they moved on to the picture gallery, which span the entire length of the topmost floor.

As they entered, Louis halted in awe. Sunlight streamed through the tall, arched windows, casting a warm glow over rows of grand portraits in ornate gilded frames. Unknown ancestors stared down at them with solemn, dignified expressions. Marble busts lined the floor, their features frozen in quiet reverence. Louis felt himself shrinking, humbled by the history and grandeur around them.

"I’ll admit, I don’t know most of them," Lestat said with a shrug as they wandered slowly through the gallery. "I doubt Sevraine and Gregory do either." He gestured toward a portrait of a dark-skinned man with a magnificent beard. "That there is Sevraine’s late husband, the seventh Duke Collingsworth—not quite as impressive in real life."

Louis was barely listening; he’d stopped, suddenly finding himself face-to-face with a marble reproduction of Lestat. He instinctively reached out, his fingers brushing lightly over the statue’s cold, smooth cheek.

“Ah, I’d forgotten this was here,” Lestat said, coming to stand beside him.

“The artist captured you perfectly,” Louis murmured, tracing the sharp line of the jaw, the generous curve of the mouth.

Lestat tipped his head, inspecting his replica with mild amusement. “You think so? I think it makes me look austere and rather serious—two things I would never describe myself as.”

Louis chuckled. “Oh? How would you describe yourself then?”

Lestat turned to face him fully, and Louis’s pulse quickened with the awareness of how close they were, their faces now mere inches apart. A radiant, mischievous smile spread across Lestat’s lips. "At this very moment? Exceedingly, incandescently happy."

Louis’s breath caught as, for a suspended moment, the world outside the quiet gallery seemed to fall away, receding to Lestat’s eyes, burning with a familiar hunger, and to his lips, glistening and slightly parted.

A small surprised noise escaped from Lestat’s throat when Louis kissed him. It was a gentle press of the lips, almost tentative—nothing like the urgent, demanding kisses they had shared before—but it was enough to make Louis’s heart race. Lestat tipped his head back a little, and Louis leaned in, lost in the thrilling sensation of soft lips moving against his, the faint rasp of stubble against his skin, the touch of Lestat’s tongue grazing the seams of his lips. He snaked a hand up into Lestat’s hair, kissing him more insistently. He tugged a little, and he felt Lestat moan in response, his warm tongue instinctively sliding into Louis’s mouth.

Lestat got an arm around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer, and suddenly it was wild, all hungry mouths and urgent hands grasping at each other, glorious and overwhelming. Louis kissed him frantically, blood thundering through his veins. Nothing had felt so good in months. It was exhilarating to finally let himself have this—to let himself want and feel without stopping to overthink it, just succumbing to the sizzling current of desire that had never stopped thrumming between them.

He let his hands roam down Lestat’s back and up again to his broad shoulders, feeling the muscles tense under the layers of clothing. He wanted nothing more than to lay Lestat down on a bed, strip him bare and spend hours exploring him from head to toe, preferably with his tongue…

But they didn’t have a bed—not even a conveniently located bookshelf this time. They were in the middle of a gallery, where anyone could walk in at any moment. Louis pulled back reluctantly, panting. Lestat’s eyes opened in a flutter of golden lashes. They were hazy and unfocused, pupils wide with arousal. He swayed with Louis, their noses bumping together as he rested his forehead against Louis’s. He let out a shaky, giddy laugh, and then he tugged Louis’s hand, pulling him towards a door to the left.

They entered, and Lestat shut the door behind him, giving Louis a mischievous look. “We won’t be bothered in here; hardly anyone ever comes to this part of the house.”

The room was a sizeable parlour, with a low fire burning in the grate and comfortable-looking upholstered sofas. It was not a bed, but it would do well enough.

“Did you lure me here to have your way with me, Mr. Lioncourt,” Louis teased, a callback to their previous encounter.

Lestat scoffed, and his blue eyes widened in an air of candid innocence that was nearly believable—nearly. “I merely wanted to show you the picture gallery, sir. I think it is rather you who wanted to have your way with me.”

“Is that right?” He pulled Lestat closer, earning a startled groan of pleasure that melted through him. He could feel Lestat’s hard length pressing up against him. He reached down, palming him through the soft fabric of his breeches. Lestat groaned, instinctively pressing up against Louis’s hand. For a man who had no doubt had countless lovers before, he responded with the hunger and eagerness of someone being touched for the first time. It was both flattering and exhilarating.

Lestat nodded, and Louis leaned closer, whispering against his lips. “And have you any objections to it, my lord?” Beneath the quip, Louis was quite earnest. Lestat seemed to be enjoying himself well enough, but a lot had passed between them since their last encounter, and Louis didn’t want to make any presumptions.

The look on Lestat’s face made Louis’s breath catch, so open, raw, and yearning. “None whatsoever,” he said with disarming earnestness. “I’m all yours to do with as you please.”

For a moment, Louis was at a loss for words. He took Lestat’s face in his hands, feeling the warm, smooth skin on his jaw, barely prickled with light stubble. He grazed his thumb over Lestat’s plush lower lip, and Lestat sighed, his breath ghosting Louis’s skin. He was the most beautiful thing Louis had ever seen, and all his—at least for a while. He indulged himself in another slow, languid kiss, before letting go of Lestat to strip off his coat, the warmth of it suddenly unbearable.

Lestat was watching him with hungry eyes. He stripped off his coat, too and unknotted his pristinely folded cravat, casting it carelessly aside. But he made no move to advance, evidently waiting for Louis to dictate what happened next. He went easily when Louis pushed him down onto the sofa, and he let his legs sprawl wide, the posture highlighting the sizeable bulge in his breeches. The smug look on his face suggested that he knew exactly how mouth-wateringly good he looked.

Louis chuckled lightly as he sank to his knees on the thick carpet, taking a moment to run his fingers up Lestat’s thighs, enjoying the way the muscles tensed beneath his hands. He undid the buttons with deliberately slow care, and he pulled out Lestat’s cock, already hard, the tip flushed red and glistening.

“Someone’s eager,” he teased, though his own cock was straining just as painfully against his breeches.

Lestat smiled, replying in a strained voice. “I have thought of nothing else these past months.”

Louis gave him a few slow, loose strokes, just to wear him whimper, squirming to thrust up in his hand. “And here I thought you only liked me for my stimulating conversation.”

Before Lestat could reply, Louis bent down and took his cock into his mouth. Lestat moaned, winding a hand in Louis’s tight curls, not so much pulling as just absently petting at him, his head tipped back in pleasure.

Lestat’s cock was rather impressive, warm and velvety soft in Louis’s mouth. Louis got his own hands to work along with his mouth, stroking and fondling Lestat’s balls, caressing with his lips and tongue.

He’d meant to draw it out, maybe to show off a little by performing every impressive cock sucking trick he had ever learned. He could have happily spent hours like this, with Lestat at his mercy, so open and unguarded, writhing under his touch. But Lestat was already panting and delirious with pleasure, his thighs straining as he held himself back from thrusting into Louis’s mouth. He wasn’t going to last long. Louis did his best to make it good for him nonetheless, taking his cock deeper in his throat, sucking hard as he worked his fingers. Lestat moaned breathlessly, whispering a string of incoherent encouragements. “Yes, yes, yes. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop. Louis, Louis!”

Lestat’s eyes flew open to meet his, and they were hazy and dark with arousal. He came hard, bucking and shivering as he pulsed into Louis’s mouth. Louis rode the waves of pleasure till they subsided, feeling thoroughly smug as he swallowed around him, licking his shaft clean before sitting back on his heels.

Lestat was panting, his face beautifully flushed, and he shifted to fully lay down on the sofa. “Come here,” he rasped, his hands reaching blindly for Louis.

Louis obliged, rising to settle himself on Lestat’s lap, one foot on the floor and the other leg straddling him. Lestat pulled him down for a kiss, wet and open-mouthed, his movements made languid by his climax. He still managed to undo Louis’s breeches, wrapping a warm hand on his aching cock, the other running lazily down Louis’s back.

Louis moaned, and he braced himself on his hands to nuzzle his way through golden hair to get to Lestat’s neck, kissing right onto the sensitive spot beneath his ear. He’d never previously looked at necks with any great attention, but he was quite sure Lestat’s was a particularly lovely specimen, beautiful and graceful, just like the rest of him. And he very much liked the way Lestat arched, throwing his head back to give him more access. He used it, kissing and licking his way up to Lestat’s sharp jawline, and down again onto his exposed collarbones.  

He groaned when Lestat tightened his grip. “Come up here,” he ordered in a raspy voice. Louis braced himself on the back of the sofa as Lestat’s hands came to his hips to pull him closer, so that he was half-kneeling, half-standing over Lestat’s face, the head of his straining cock resting against Lestat’s parted lips. Louis groaned in pleasure when Lestat sucked him down, his tongue teasing the underside of his shaft. Lestat’s hands were now resting fully on his ass, caressing him, encouraging him forward. Unable to hold back anymore, Louis tentatively thrust into his mouth. Lestat moaned around him, his eyes half-lidded in obvious enjoyment.

Louis had gotten his cock sucked plenty of times in his life, but this was by far the most decadent thing he had ever done—a gorgeous man lying under him, and Louis fucking into his mouth, taking his pleasure in such a wanton way. It was far beyond anything he could have imagined, even in his wildest fantasies, which perhaps betrayed how little he knew about this.

Lestat pulled off with an obscene plop, and he gave Louis a sultry look from under his lashes. “Come for me, my Louis,” he said, his voice a raspy whisper. He took Louis down his throat again in one swift movement, and Louis cried out, his arms straining as he braced himself to thrust into Lestat’s mouth faster, the last vestige of his self-control melting away in blinding, pleasure.

His climax washed over him in a searing wave, and Lestat moaned, swallowing around him. Louis shuddered, his hand clutching the sofa as sparks of pleasure ripped through him.

“Do you think Lady Sevraine will have to replace the sofa?” Louis asked in a muffled voice. He was slumped against Lestat’s chest, head buried in the crook of his neck, bright wisps of curls deliciously tickling his face.

Lestat chuckled softly, and Louis felt the sound resonating in his own chest. “Well, what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.”

With a reluctant sigh, Louis pushed himself up, bracing his arms to sit upright. “I should go. I promised Paul that I would help him with some weeding. He wants to build Doris a herb garden.” He frowned when he saw the sorry, rumpled state his shirt was in. His hair probably looked equally dishevelled. He would need to wash and change before Paul saw him to avoid any uncomfortable questions.

Lestat nodded, sitting up too. His shirt had gotten lost at some point, and his hair was beautifully tussled. He nuzzled into Louis’s neck, purring softly when Louis stroked his naked back. “Can I see you tomorrow?” he whispered, and there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice that tugged at Louis's heart.

“I have to be at mass for most of the morning, but we can go for one of our walks afterwards—if you’d like.”

Lestat’s face brightened, his lips stretching into a wide grin. "Yes, I'd like that very much."

For the rest of the afternoon, Louis was still floating on a cloud of bliss, quietly humming under his breath as he and Paul worked on rooting out the stubborn ground elder.

His bubble of happiness persisted well into the evening, as they sat down for a quiet dinner with Lily and Doris. It was only when Lily casually mentioned that she was eager to be back home and to see Grace and Claudia again that Louis was abruptly brought back to reality. He’d been so caught up in his time with Lestat that he had forgotten that their stay in Kent was coming to an end. The day after tomorrow, he would be going back to Hertfordshire, and he likely would not see Lestat again for a very long time.

“Are you all right, Louis?” Lily asked, a worried frown creasing her brow.

Louis quickly schooled his expression, managing a small, reassuring smile. "Yes, just a bit tired, that is all."

Chapter Text

ouis had never been a devoted churchgoer by any measure, but since his arrival in Hunsford, he dutifully attended Sunday mass. It was mainly for Paul’s sake—out of a sense of familial obligation—but also because, frankly, there was little else to do in Hunsford on Sunday morning. His devotion usually entailed sitting in the back pews, preferably in the darkest corner, where he was free to let his mind wander—or, on less virtuous mornings, discreetly page through the cheap salacious novel he kept hidden in his coat pocket. Paul’s sermons, while more than fervent enough and even, on rare occasions, engaging, tended to be overlong. Louis appreciated having the option for other distractions to pass the time.

The church this morning was unusually full. A small hum of hushed conversations ran over the room as the assembly of modest parishioners—mostly weather-worn sheep farmers, and their ruddy-cheeked wives and daughters—settled into their seats. Louis lingered at the entrance, surveying the crowded pews. He internally cursed himself for not following Lily’s example and pretexting needing to pack his trunk as an excuse to remain home.

Paul was already at the pulpit, looking very grave and dignified in his vestments, his watchful eye following the young altar boys arranging the wine and bread. Doris was sitting at the front, gazing up adoringly at her husband. With a resigned sigh, Louis stepped inside, intending to slip unnoticed into his usual quiet corner.

His plan was quickly undone when he spotted Lestat, his unmistakable golden curls catching the morning light filtering through the narrow, arched windows.

Louis’s eyes widened in surprise. Lestat had made his disdain for the church abundantly clear—on more than one occasion. It was nothing short of a miracle that he had roused himself from bed this early to be here. He looked like an angel in his cream-coloured overcoat and crisp white cravat—though Louis could scarcely imagine a less angelic disposition. He smiled when his gaze met Louis’s, and waved him over with a casual ease entirely inappropriate to the setting.

Louis made his way down the aisle, feeling suddenly more awake than he had been a few moments ago. He glimpsed Sir Gregory and Lady Sevraine, sitting in the first row as befitting their rank—unlike Lestat who had somehow managed to position himself conspicuously in the second row, while still partially hidden behind a column.

Louis slid into the pew next to him, torn between amusement and astonishment. “What are you doing here?” he murmured in lieu of a greeting.

“I woke up with an irrepressible yearning to hear the good word,” Lestat replied with a smirk.

“Did you now?”

Lestat clasped his hands together in a gesture of mock piety. Louis bit back a smile, shaking his head, even as his treacherous heart thudded in his chest as though it might burst. He didn’t dare flatter himself in thinking that Lestat was here solely to see him. More likely, the man was simply bored out of his mind, and as everyone knew, there was little else to do in Hunsford on Sunday morning.

The congregation rose as the first strident notes of the slightly out-of-tune pipe organ rang out. Lestat leaned closer, ostensibly to peer over Louis’s shoulder at the hymn book. Louis was acutely aware of the faint brush of their shoulders, the delicious warmth radiating between them. He caught the faint scent of Lestat’s cologne—the intoxicating mix of sandalwood and lavender that now permeated his very soul.

He did his best to follow along Paul’s sermon, but an hour or so in, he found his mind inevitably drifting, mainly to the man beside him. Lestat’s handsome face had all the appearance of impassive calm, but his hands were fidgeting restlessly on his lap, his shoulders tight with barely contained tension. He did not enjoy being here, that much was evident.  Louis leaned in, pitching his voice to a low whisper. “Are you afraid you might combust Mr. Lioncourt?”

Lestat sniggered, earning a few disapproving glances from nearby parishioners. He raised his handkerchief, pretending to cough, before replying in an equally low tone, “Quite possibly. It’s been years since I last set foot in a church.”

“Right. A disagreement with some monks as I seem to recall.”

“Non, not at all,” Lestat retorted with a pout. “The monks were fine—quite charming in fact. It was rather their blind, feeble, non-existent god that I took issue with.”

Louis shot him a mock-scandalized look. “For shame, Mr. Lioncourt! Such blasphemy in the house of the lord. Now I’m quite certain you’ll be struck down at any moment.”

Lestat smiled, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Believe me, mon cher, I’ve done far worse things in a church.” His voice dropped, a conspiratorial whisper that sent a shiver down Louis’s spine. “I used to be a choirboy as a child. We got up to all manner of things.” His brow quirked suggestively as his hand brushed against the seam of Louis’s trousers, the touch fleeting yet electrifying.  

Louis swallowed, heat rising to his face. He could easily imagine what a menace Lestat had been as a boy. He certainly was a menace now—a delicious distraction that Louis couldn’t seem to get enough of. He turned back toward the pulpit, fighting to maintain his composure. He did his best to pay attention to what Paul was saying—which, apparently, was something to do with intercourse.

A ripple of murmured shock and amusement spread through the congregation as Paul stuttered, quickly correcting himself. “Forgive me, through the intercourse of friendship or civility…”

Louis’s lips twitched as he fought a smile. He glanced back at Lestat, expecting to find him delighting at Paul’s blunder,  but Lestat’s gaze was trained on him, a strange intensity in his pale eyes.

“If it’s amenable,” Lestat whispered, his voice soft but intent, “I wish to speak with you privately after the service.”

Louis blinked, caught off guard. “Yes, of course,” he murmured.

The remainder of the service passed in a haze, the anticipation of whatever Lestat intended to say crowding out all other thoughts. Perhaps Lestat simply wanted them to have a private goodbye, and that exhilarating thought made Louis’s heart race with reckless excitement.

As much as he was eager to see Grace and Claudia again—and even his mother to a lesser degree—he could hardly stand the thought of being parted from Lestat again, of spending long dull months without seeing that dazzling smile, or hearing that seductive drawl.

But he and Lestat would surely see each other again when he came to visit Paul. And perhaps they could even keep a steady correspondence—if novels were to be believed, epic romances had subsisted on far less. Louis shook his head, chastising himself for such childish thoughts. Despite the lovely interlude they’d had this past month, the undeniable fact remained that he and Lestat existed worlds apart, even if those worlds sometimes intersected in the most thrilling and delicious ways.

Lestat had no opportunity to speak privately with Louis after the service, as Lady Sevraine and Sir Gregory quickly joined them outside the small church, and Lady Sevraine, in her usual commanding yet graceful manner, insisted on inviting Louis to luncheon at Rosings. The party walked back together, Louis and Sir Gregory strolling slightly ahead, while Lestat gallantly offered his arm to Lady Sevraine.

As they walked, Sir Gregory fell into step beside Louis, his habitual, easy smile firmly in place. Leaning slightly closer, he murmured conspiratorially, “I have a great secret to share with you, Louis…”

Louis’s brows arched in mild curiosity. “Oh?”

Sir Gregory cast a quick glance over his shoulder before replying, his voice lowered for effect.  “Lestat means to invite you to come visit us in London. He has spoken of little else all morning, quite to the detriment of my peace of mind. You did not hear this from me, of course. And when the offer is made, be sure to look sufficiently surprised.” He punctuated his revelation with a playful wink.

“Thank you for alleviating my suspense,” Louis replied with a small laugh. “I was in agony through the entire service, pondering what it was he so intently wished to discuss.”   

“Will you accept then? I certainly hope you do. It would greatly lessen the pain of your departure to know that we might see you again very soon.”

Louis hesitated, his steps slowing slightly. “Perhaps,” he said tentatively. “It would depend on my obligations at home, of course, but I’m…not opposed to the idea. I’ve only visited London a handful of times, and always on matters of business.”

He had only a hazy memory of those long-ago trips. He’d been just a boy then, barely thirteen, but Papa had insisted he needed to learn the trade and so Louis had gone, excited to finally see the world beyond the fenced boundaries of Pointe du Lac. He remembered the tense and impassioned meetings with the merchants, the long, dreary hours spent in noisy and stifling auction rooms, and the solitary evenings in the damp lodgings in Cheapside, waiting for Papa to return from the gaming tables. 

“I take it you don’t travel out of Hertfordshire much then,” Sir Gregory said.

Louis shook his head, deciding to answer honestly. “I would love to travel more, but unfortunately, my obligations and lack of means prevent me from it.”

Gregory gave him a compassionate pat on the shoulder, that would have likely felt patronizing coming from anyone else. “Yes, I can understand that perfectly.”

Louis scoffed softly, glancing at him in disbelief.  “Forgive me, Sir, but how could you possibly understand? You’re the son of a duke, a baronet in your own right, with wealth and status enough to do as you please. I doubt you’ve ever been prevented by want of money from going wherever you chose.”  

To his surprise, Gregory let out a booming laugh that echoed through the park. “I must say, Louis, you seem to think the wealthy hold a prejudice against you, but I daresay it is you who are prejudiced against us.” His tone was teasing, but his expression grew contemplative as he continued, “I suppose you’re right in some respects— I cannot claim to have known the same hardships as others have. But I am the younger son, and my parents never looked beyond my elder brother. Whatever wealth and status I have now, I assure you I acquired entirely for myself.”

He paused, his expression growing pensive as he looked out at the verdant expanse of Rosings Park. “My brother squandered our family’s entire fortune. He died penniless, crippled with so many debts that he had to be buried in a pauper’s grave. Sevraine was just twenty-five then, a foreigner with no family and no connections. She found herself utterly destitute.”

Louis remained silent, stunned by this unexpected candidness. Gregory’s usual lighthearted demeanour gave way to something raw and earnest as he continued, “It’s nothing short of a miracle that we managed to hold on to Rosings, and turn it from the neglected ruin that it was into what it is today, a magnificent estate upon which the livelihood of hundreds of people depends.”

Louis looked down, feeling utterly chastised. “I apologize. I should not have presumed to understand your circumstances—”

Gregory’s hearty laugh returned, and he clapped Louis on the shoulder again. “It’s all right Louis. You’re still young and filled with fiery ideals of rich and poor, good and evil. In time, you will learn, as I did, that life is not painted in stark blacks and whites, but in endless shades of grey.”

Louis nodded, quietly falling back into step with Sir Gregory as they crossed the small bridge that led out of the church courtyard.

“Will you be remaining in Kent for long?” he asked, eager to steer the conversation toward a less fraught topic.

“As long as Lestat chooses. I am entirely at his disposal,” Sir Gregory replied with a wry smile. “Though I suspect his sudden attachment to Kent will wane considerably after your departure.”

Louis raised an eyebrow, both flattered and amused by the reflection. “Right. I imagine he dragged you here solely to have a travel companion at his disposal. He strikes me as the kind who does not enjoy being alone.”

“You’re quite right about that. Lestat is a social creature. He cannot bear to be without company.”

Louis chuckled. “Then perhaps he should marry and secure a more lasting convenience of that kind.”

“Well, whoever he would choose would be very lucky,” Sir Gregory said, with a suggestive wink that Louis was not sure how to interpret.

“Really?” he said drily. In his opinion, Lestat was far too much of a hedonistic rake to make a suitable husband to any lady of good breeding. Though even he had to admit that Lestat made for the perfect eligible bachelor on paper; wealthy, indecently handsome, and descended from a great and noble family. Besides, from what he had surmised from their conversations, Lestat’s inclinations did not preclude him from enjoying the company of women. There was, therefore, nothing preventing him from securing a good match if he ever wished it.

Louis quickly chased the thought away. The idea of Lestat marrying someone else was too unbearable for him to contemplate at any great length. He shuddered to imagine Lestat wed to some naïve, doe-eyed debutante or, far worse, to someone like Babette Frenière, an ambitious and calculating woman, who would care for nothing but his wealth and status.

Sir Gregory, oblivious to Louis’s inner turmoil, replied cheerfully. “Absolutely. Lestat is a most generous and loyal companion. In fact, on our journey here he was telling me that he had recently rescued one of his friends from a most imprudent match.”

Louis’s steps faltered, his lungs constricting painfully as the words struck him with the force of a sudden blow. He looked up at Sir Gregory, trying to maintain a detached and politely curious expression. “Oh? Who was the man?”

“His good friend Mr. Frenière,” Gregory said. “They were together in Hertfordshire, perhaps you know the man?”

Louis felt as if the ground was suddenly shifting beneath his feet, and he was about to fall at any moment. Levi. Of course, it had to be Levi. And the imprudent match could only be Grace. He inhaled sharply, the cool air stinging his throat. “I do,” he said, his voice taut. “We were briefly acquainted. Did Lestat give a reason for this interference?”

Gregory hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly as he noted Louis’s sudden change in demeanour. “He told me there were strong objections to the young lady.”

“What objections? Louis realized his voice had risen and he forced himself to lower it. “Her lack of fortune, I presume?”

Gregory blinked, startled by the sudden intensity of Louis’s tone. “I believe it was her family that was considered unsuitable,” he said carefully.

Louis stopped in his tracks, utterly stricken. He turned to look back at Lestat, who was now trailing several paces behind—no doubt on account of Lady Sevraine’s delicate slippers that were not at all suited for walking outdoors. Lestat’s eyes caught his, and he smiled that maddeningly familiar smile—sweet, self-assured, and utterly untroubled. Louis turned away sharply, his voice low and trembling when he spoke again. “So Lestat separated them?”

“I believe so,” Gregory replied, now watching him with a concerned expression. “I’m afraid I do not know all the details on the matter, but I’m certain Lestat would be happy to tell you all about it.”

“There is no need,” Louis said curtly. “I believe I have heard quite enough.”

He quickly mumbled some excuse about remembering an urgent matter he needed to attend to at the cottage. Sir Gregory seemed taken aback, but he graciously bid him goodbye. Louis bowed quickly and turned, his legs carrying him as if by instinct. He ignored the perplexed look on Lestat’s face as he quickly strode away.

He walked blindly across the park, hardly caring where he was going. The betrayal struck him in waves, each one fiercer than the last. He had never, even for a moment, suspected that Lestat had been involved in the drastic and cruel measures taken to separate Mr. Frenière and Grace. He had always attributed to Miss Frenière and Lady de Clermont the design and arrangement of it all. But now, to discover that Lestat had been the one to do it…it was unbearable. The man in whose arms Louis had spent the previous morning was the same one who was the cause of all that Grace had suffered, and still continued to suffer. Louis felt sick thinking of it.

A chilly breeze stirred the leaves, and a few thick drops began to fall, but Louis barely noticed. His steps quickened, his boots stumbling over the uneven terrain, as he absurdly tried to outrun the flood of emotions rising within him. Anger, confusion, and something far worse—something perilously close to heartbreak.

He wondered if he’d imagined it all—those little moments with Lestat when it had felt like they understood each other perfectly, in a way that no one else could. Those thrilling hours where it had felt like it was just the two of them in the world, like nothing else mattered besides their kisses and touches, and the air they breathed together.

But how could it have possibly been real? How could Lestat possibly care for Louis when he disdained his family so profoundly? It was the height of arrogance and hypocrisy. Lestat, had all but openly courted Louis, while denigrating his family and ruining his sister’s happiness behind his back.

The rain was falling more steadily now, seeping through his coat and numbing his naked fingers, but Louis did not care. Hellfire could have rained down from the heavens as he had playfully whispered to Lestat in the church—what did it matter? None of it mattered anymore.

Unsuitable, that was the word Sir Gregory had used. It kept pounding in Louis’s head like a hammer. Lestat considered Louis’s family unsuitable for his friend to marry into. It was indeed true that the Pointe du Lacs lived in a semi-genteel poverty, with barely any money to spare and far too many expenses to spend it on. But they were a respectable family, with as much dignity and good breeding as any noble house in the country. And yet Lestat had, with all his arrogance, thought it his right to decide their fate and condemn them.

Grace was the very embodiment of kindness and sweetness, and Frenière was a fool for having been swayed so easily into refusing her. But as it now stood, Louis was almost grateful for it. If she and Levi had married, their family would have been even more entangled with Lestat, and Louis could think of no worse fate. He wished nothing more than to never gaze on Lestat’s arrogant, treacherous face ever again.

Chapter Text

ours later, Louis was still in a turmoil of misery and fury, and his coat was thoroughly soaked through. He spied a Grecian summer house in the distance, perched on the lake’s edge. It offered only the barest refuge; a domed roof supported by elegant carved columns, open on all sides. Still, it would be a welcomed reprieve from the rain. He quickened his pace, the icy water lashing at his face.

He collapsed onto one of the stone benches facing the lake, heart racing and breath ragged. The rain was bucketing down, creating a shivering mosaic of endless ripples on the water, making the tall willow trees sag under its weight. Louis thought distantly that it was a cruelly apt reflection of his own mood.  

A shadow shifted at the far edge of the park and Louis squinted through the rain, trying to get a clearer view of it. His breath hitched when he recognized the unmistakable blond hair of the fast-approaching figure. He shot to his feet, glancing around for any means of escape. But it was too late; Lestat had already seen him and was now striding purposefully toward the summer house. Louis would have no choice but to face him head-on.

Lestat was breathless and drenched when he arrived under the rounded dome. His blond hair was soaked through, a few errant strands curling on his forehead. His coat was equally sodden, his usually impeccably starched cravat hanging limply around his neck. But maddeningly, even in this state, he remained breathtakingly beautiful.

Louis stood stock still, his gaze expectant and defiant. But Lestat was far too agitated to notice the open hostility. His shoulders were set in a tense line, a faint trembling on his lips. He took a step toward Louis, his arm outstretched in a movement that seemed almost reflexive.

“Louis—”

He seemed to finally register Louis’s glacial stare and he faltered, halting in his tracks. A tense silence stretched between them, strained and brittle, like the calm before a storm. Finally, Lestat took another step forward, more determined this time.

“I was searching for you,” he began, his voice breathless. “I went to the cottage, but your brother said he hadn’t seen you since service.” His hands clenched and unclenched nervously at his sides, but Louis remained impervious, his silence sharp with indignant outrage. “Louis, I do not understand what happened earlier.” Lestat's tone was softer now, more measured. “Sir Gregory would tell me nothing, but I know you leave tomorrow, and there is something I must ask you before you go.” He paused, wiping the water on his brow in an uncharacteristically clumsy gesture. “I must tell you that I came to Rosings with the single object of seeing you. I had to see you. The long months we spent apart were a torment. I felt so wretched about the cold manner in which we parted. Once my anger subsided, I realized that I was the one at fault. I should have sought to explain myself. Instead, I let my temper get the better of me—”

Louis’s heart lurched painfully, his anger briefly giving way to astonishment. “I don't understand.”

Another step brought Lestat unbearably closer, close enough that Louis could have counted the raindrops shimmering on his pale lashes. “I love you,” Lestat whispered, with a fervour that made Louis's breath catch in his throat. “Most desperately. From the moment I first laid eyes on you in that tawdry ballroom, I knew that I had to have you, that I would never know true happiness until you were mine. These fleeting weeks with you have been the happiest in all my life, and I never wish to be parted from you again.” His fingers, warm and trembling, closed around Louis’s frozen hand. “Be my companion, Louis. I know I can offer you neither my name nor my title, but I promise you my love and devotion if you will have it.”

Louis wrenched his hand back, his chest heaving as a wave of nausea surged inside him. A few hours ago, Lestat's words would have filled him with an intoxicating thrill—to know that Lestat desired him so fiercely, even if it was as a mere possession to be coveted and acquired. Now, those same words only stocked his anger and contempt.

“You would be amply provided for of course,” Lestat added hastily. “As would your family. And I am certain the connection would only vastly improve your sisters’ prospects…”

And there it was, the truth of it. Louis scoffed bitterly. “And I would be what,” he asked, his voice sharp as a blade. “Your kept man? Your whore?”

Lestat flinched as if struck. “Non, of course not, Louis! You would be my companion, my lover, my hus—”

“I may not be as wealthy or as well connected as you, Mr. Lioncourt,” Louis cut him off, tone biting, “but I am no less a gentleman. I am not some Vere Street harlot whom you can pay a few shillings to sit in your drawing room, awaiting your pleasure.”

Lestat’s face twisted with a mixture of hurt and confusion. “You misunderstand me entirely, Louis. Perhaps I failed to express myself properly—”

“Believe me, Mr. Lioncourt, you could not have made that insulting offer in any manner that would have prompted me to accept it. It is always the same with your kind, thinking wealth and status grants you dominion over all things, even people. But I regret to inform you that I am not for sale, no matter how high the price.”

Lestat blinked, stunned, as though he could not fathom the situation. No doubt, in his arrogance, he had imagined Louis would be flattered by such an offer, that he would swoon with delight and gratitude at being bestowed such a favour. “You are a library of confusion, Louis,” he said finally. “One moment, you’re tender and affectionate, the next you are hurling insults at me and twisting my every word into the worst possible interpretation. I cannot keep up with whatever game it is that you’re playing.”

Louis felt his anger flare up anew. “No, it is you who are playing a game, My Lord, and a sordid one at that. Even if I were desperate enough to lower myself to your proposal, do you truly think anything could ever tempt me to accept the regard of a man who has ruined, perhaps forever, the happiness of my sister? Do you deny it, Mr. Lioncourt, that you had a direct hand in separating Mr. Frenière and my sister? And I suspect it was also under your guidance that the Frenières hastily departed from Hertfordshire, without so much as a farewell.”

“I do not deny it. I did voice my opinion in favour of a separation. But it was merely—”

“How could you?” Louis spat, his finger jabbing accusingly into Lestat’s chest. “You wish to entertain a liaison with me but my sister is not good enough for your friend? Perhaps if Mr. Frenière had offered to keep her as his mistress, then you would be satisfied. After all, that is all we are in your eyes, is it not? Mere playthings to be toyed with and then cast aside the moment we no longer amuse.”

Lestat sighed, growing visibly more frustrated with each passing moment. “I only did it because I believed your sister indifferent to him.”  

“Indifferent?”

“Yes! I watched them closely during our time in Hertfordshire. It was quite clear that Levi’s attachment was much deeper than hers.”

“That's because she’s shy!” Louis protested sharply. “My sister hardly ever shares her true feelings with me! She loved Levi and she was devastated when he left without a word.”

“Levi too is quite reserved. And yet he was persuaded she did not feel strongly for him.”

“No doubt because you and Miss Frenière suggested it! Do you think so lowly of me, Mr. Lioncourt, to believe I would foist my sister onto a man she didn’t love for the sake of money?”

“Non, Louis. I would never do you the dishonour of suggesting such a thing. Though it was made quite clear—”

“What was?”

Lestat sighed wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If you truly must know, Babette and I overheard your mother at the ball. She was boasting—rather loudly I might add—about a most advantageous match she had recently secured for her eldest daughter, and how such a grand marriage would undoubtedly throw the younger ones in the way of other rich men.”

Louis’s next retort died on his lips, his anger briefly giving way to an unwelcome wave of guilt and shame. The accusation only stung harder because he couldn’t possibly deny it, not when he had so often quarrelled with his mother over the matter. How ironic that in the end, his mother’s relentless schemes were what had ruined the very match she had so desperately sought to secure.

He kept his back straight, refusing to cower under Lestat’s piercing gaze. “My mother’s machinations are her own,” he gritted out. “My sister had no part in it, and neither did I. Yet it is she that you punished, and I suspect you punished Levi by the same account.”

“I only acted out of concern for my friend,” Lestat replied, his voice sharper. “I had no intentions to hurt your sister, any more than I wish to insult you now. Why is it you are so determined to think the worst of me, Louis?”

“Because you have never given me reason to think otherwise!” Louis snapped. “From the moment I met you, your arrogance, your disdain for those you deemed beneath you, made me realize that you are the sort of selfish, contemptible person who cares nothing for the feelings of others, nor for the harm you inflict upon them.” Lestat recoiled, but Louis pressed on, glad to have the upper hand again. "You can pretend your actions were noble, but I know how little regard you have for your friends. Tell me, where was all this solicitude and empathy for the Lieutenant? You seemed to show no concern for his fate.”

He watched with bitter satisfaction as Lestat’s face twisted into a mask of fury, as it always did at any mention of Armand.

“Assez!” Lestat said. “I refuse to listen to this nonsense one more time. If you knew the truth about your precious Lieutenant, you would be ashamed to have ever crossed his wretched path, ashamed that you allowed him to poison your ears with his venomous lies—”

“And yet he has shown me far more respect and consideration than you ever did! It is you who should be ashamed, My Lord, that in spite of all your wealth and noble lineage, you cannot boast of having more grace or civility than a mere penniless lieutenant.”

Lestat’s mouth tightened into a hard line, and for a moment, Louis was certain he would scream or lash out. But instead, Lestat took a measured step back, his expression shifting into a derisive sneer.  “So that is your opinion of me? Thank you for explaining it so fully. But I suppose all these grave offences might have been overlooked had your pride not been hurt by my honesty in admitting misgivings about your family. Should I have rejoiced at your mother’s greedy schemes? Should I have offered up my friend on a silver platter to the first wanton debutant seeking to ensnare him? Would that have won your approval, Louis? Would you have deigned to condescend to my insulting offer then?”

“And these are the words of a gentleman?” Louis shot back. “Proclaiming to love me while insulting my mother and questioning my sister’s virtue. But since you think so little of my family, then I trust your reservations will help you in overcoming your inexplicable desire to be further connected to it.”

A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by the steady, rhythmic patter of the raindrops on the water. Louis held Lestat’s gaze defiantly, his chest heaving as he fought the wave of emotion threatening to break through. For a short, breathless moment, it seemed as though Lestat might crumble, his face softening with anguished vulnerability.

“And is this,” he said quietly, “your final reply?”

“It is,” Louis said firmly, ignoring the way his heart was pounding, as if it might burst from his chest. “I have no interest in your offer, nor do I wish to maintain any connection with you. In fact, after today, I will endeavour to ensure our paths never cross again.”

Lestat sucked in a sharp breath and closed his eyes as if bracing himself against a hard blow. When he opened them, it was like watching an actor performing on the stage. His expression was cold, remote, his face blank of all emotion. “Very well,” he said stiffly. “Forgive me, sir, for taking up so much of your time. I shall trouble you no longer.”

With a curt bow, he turned, striding back into the rain without a single glance behind.

Louis stood motionless, watching Lestat’s blurry silhouette until it faded into the misty tree line. Far from feeling relieved, he felt strangely drained. His anger crumbled, like a shield that he was too exhausted to hold up. He tried to remind himself that this was what he wanted—that he wished to forget Lestat’s very existence. But the bitter assertions rang hollow, even in his own mind, and the gnawing ache in his chest only seemed to grow sharper.

Chapter Text

ouis groaned, shifting to find a more comfortable position. His head was throbbing painfully, and he could feel the beginnings of a fever—which was the last thing he needed at the moment. The house was draped in a rare and blissful silence, which was a small relief. The rest of the family had gone up to Rosings for a farewell dinner, and Louis had pretexted a migraine to get out of it—a lie which, by cruel irony, had quickly become truth. The thought of facing Lestat again, and having to feign politeness and civility after their earlier confrontation, was a torment he couldn’t bear.

Lily had fixed him with a knowing, inquisitive look, but her sympathy for his miserable appearance had spared him further questioning. She had urged him to get some rest, promising to pass on his goodbyes to Lady Sevraine. Louis knew that sooner or later, she would wheedle the full truth out of him—she always did.

He had spent the rest of the evening alone in his bedroom, attempting—and failing—to drown his sorrows in a bottle of French brandy, pilfered from Paul’s modest wine cabinet. The brandy was exquisite, with a rich, warm honey flavour. It was almost certainly a gift from the duchess and likely worth a small fortune, but Louis reasoned that his brother rarely drank, and would scarcely notice its absence.

He shifted on the bed again, cradling the half-empty bottle as he took another swig. The amber liquid burned a warm trail down his throat. It did little to ease the tightness in his chest, but it helped numb the sharp edge of his thoughts.

The sudden clatter of hooves on the gravelled path jarred him from his stupor. He frowned, pulling out his pocket watch. Half past seven. It was far too early for Paul, Doris, and Lily to be returning, and certainly too late an hour for casual visitors.

A moment later, the bell rang. Louis heard the front door creak open, followed by a brief, muffled exchange, then shut again. His curiosity piqued, he rose unsteadily to his feet and crept to the window, making sure to remain well hidden behind the thick curtain. His breath caught when he recognized Lestat’s retreating figure. His shoulders were rigid, his silhouette framed in the dimming twilight as he urged his chestnut mare into a brisk trot, the hem of his riding coat snapping in the wind.

Before his thoughts could spiral with suppositions about why Lestat had come, a gentle knock came at the door.

“Come in,” he called, his voice hoarse.

Doris's maid, Mary, came in, her eyes wide with quiet bewilderment as she presented a silver tray. A letter rested on it, folded and sealed with precise elegance. Louis immediately recognized the neat curling handwriting.

Mary’s freckled cheeks coloured. “The gentleman was most insistent that you read it, sir. But he specified that no reply was required.”

Perplexed, Louis took the letter. “Thank you, Mary.”

Mary gave an awkward curtsy, and then she hastily departed, closing the door behind her.

Louis sighed and broke the red seal, stamped with the now familiar Lioncourt family crest. He unfolded two sheets of paper, both covered entirely in Lestat’s hand. What more could the man possibly have to say?

With apprehension and reluctant curiosity, Louis sank back onto the bed and began to read, the bottle brandy utterly forgotten.

Dear Louis,

Do not be alarmed upon receiving this letter. I shall not renew the sentiments, nor the offer which were so insulting to you. But if I may, I wish to address the offences you have laid against me, not in the hope of altering your opinion, but simply because I believe I owe you the clarity of an explanation.

 On your first accusation that, in disregard of the sentiments of either, I aided in detaching Mr. Frenière from your sister, I only have this to say; I have known Levi for several years and regard him as a dear friend. He is a most agreeable young man with a gentle disposition, unaccustomed to the rigours and machinations of society. With his considerable fortune, he is precisely the kind of compassionate and naïve young man upon whom penniless women often prey.  

 As I stated previously, I bore no ill will toward your sister. Quite the contrary; I found her to be a charming young woman, though perhaps too susceptible to your mother’s influence. Her lack of fortune, as you suggested earlier, was never a deterrent for Levi, much less a cause of concern for me.  

 It was not until the masquerade ball that I began to have apprehension about Levi’s attachment to her. That evening, your mother spoke quite openly of her ambitions for an advantageous match, and it became evident that she viewed Levi as the perfect prospect for her designs. I also observed your sister carefully throughout the evening, and noticed her increasing discomfort, and her apparent reluctance to remain in Levi’s company.

 Elizabeth, who was far more intimately acquainted with your sister than I, surmised that she was motivated more by familial duty than by any true affection. I undoubtedly agreed with her conclusion that any union that would have resulted from such a match, would have surely made both parties unhappy. Elizabeth’s uneasiness was such that she immediately resolved that we should all return to London, to remove her brother from any further danger.

 Had I known of your sister’s genuine attachment, I would never have supported Elizabeth’s plan to dissuade Levi from the match. I will also add that though Levi often looks to me for guidance, I do not think any of my entreaties would have prevented him from his attachment, had they not been seconded by his own conviction of your sister’s indifference.

 Though the motives which governed me may appear insufficient to you, my actions were in service of a friend, and with the sincere belief that I was preserving him from future unhappiness, and relieving your sister from the burden of an unwanted match, imposed by an ambitious mother.

 If I have caused your sister pain, then allow me to apologize unreservedly. It was never my wish to demean you or your family, nor do I think lowly of you as you seem so determined to believe. I would not love you half as much as I do if I did not hold your character in the highest esteem.

 As for the second matter, that of my dealings with Armand—or whichever name he chooses to call himself these days—know that my history with him is a dark and painful one. Perhaps one day I will recount to you the full tale, should you wish to hear it, but suffice it to say that he is not a trustworthy man. His account of me, just like everything else that comes out of his mouth, is erroneous at best, if not pure fabrication.

 He and I were never lovers, we were merely fostered together in Paris. At sixteen, Armand was dismissed by our mentor—a man hardly deserving of that title. Upon our mentor’s death, Armand demanded a share of the inheritance, to which he had absolutely no claim. Despite this, I agreed to his demands, out of the brotherly affection I still held for him. He was provided a considerable sum, as well as our mentor's Parisian house, all of which he proceeded to gamble away within months. He then wrote to me demanding more money, which I refused. We severed all acquaintance shortly after that.

  A year later, our paths crossed again under the most painful circumstances. I had since moved back to Auvergne to care for my dying father, and I received the most distressing news. Armand had managed to connive a relationship with my childhood friend Nicholas, whose worst vices and self-destructive tendencies he encouraged as a means to manipulate him. By that time, Nicholas and I had long since parted ways, and he had clearly expressed his desire to never see me again. Armand only sought to use him as a means to extort more money from me, and when that plan failed, he abandoned Nicki. As heartbroken as I was to hear that Nicki had gone down the wrong path, there was nothing I could do. It was only years later that I learned of his death and the sordid role Armand played in it. I cannot convey to you how devastated I was. I still carry the pain of it to this day.

  I hope your mistrust and disdain for me, which you so vividly expressed earlier, will not make my assertions utterly valueless to you. But if that is the case, you are welcome to seek corroboration from Lady Sevraine and my mother, who were both with me at the time and were unavoidably acquainted with every particular of this matter.

 I regret not relating all this to you on the night of the ball, but I was far too alarmed by Armand’s sudden reappearance to think clearly. The thought of you falling prey to his deceit in the same way Nicki did, angered me beyond measure. If this letter accomplishes nothing else, I hope it will at least serve as a warning.

 Lastly, I wanted to thank you for the beautiful moments we spent together. Being with you awoke in me feelings that I thought buried forever. This past month with you was the happiest I have ever been, and I will cherish every memory for as long as I live. Although your departure pains me more than I can say, I hope you have a safe and timely return to Hertfordshire, and I wish you nothing but happiness in your future life.

  Yours always,

A sharp, pained gasp tore from Louis’s throat as he read the final words. He clutched the pages, shame and regret twisting in his chest until he could barely breathe. How blind, how foolish he had been! The sting of his own cruelty, the cold distance he had maintained with Lestat—all of it surged back, relentless and unforgiving.

The letter blurred in front of him as tears filled his eyes. What have I done?  

He collapsed onto the bed, the room spinning in a haze of guilt and brandy-soaked despair. He pressed his face into the pillow as low, ragged sobs tore through him. You foolish, foolish…Idiot!

He heard Paul, Doris and Lily return at some point, but mercifully, no one came to knock on his door. Soon their muffled voices faded as they went to bed, and the house settled into silence once more.

He wept until his entire body felt drained, until at last, agony gave way to exhaustion.

The next morning, Louis awoke feeling even more wretched than the night before. He had fallen asleep atop the covers, Lestat’s letter still clutched in his hands. The lingering effects of the brandy and the chill from the rain were making themselves known—his stomach churned with sharp, dizzying nausea.

He was tempted to close his eyes again, to surrender to the sweet oblivion of sleep for just a little while longer. But he had promised Paul they would take one last walk in the park before the carriage arrived. With a groan, he forced himself upright, carefully folding the crumpled letter and tucking it into his travel bag before moving to the washbasin.

His reflection in the glass was pitiful—swollen, red-rimmed eyes, and hair that resembled a dry haystack. Another groan escaped him as he splashed his face with ice-cold water.

He forced himself to take small nibbles of his breakfast, doing his best to ignore Lily’s probing and concerned looks. Mr. Martin came in briefly to deliver a letter to Doris, and he informed them that both gentlemen at Rosings had ridden back to town the previous night.

“They set off right after dinner,” Martin said cheerfully. “I reckon they’ll be in town by now.”

Louis felt the news like a new blow. Of course, Lestat had already gone—he had no further reason to linger. I came to Rosings with the single object of seeing you. Was it truly only yesterday that Lestat had uttered those words? It felt like a lifetime ago.

Perhaps it was better this way—that he and Lestat would never see each other again, no matter how much the thought of it made Louis feel like his heart was being ripped out of his chest. If he ever saw Lestat again, what could he possibly say? How could he possibly ever make up for all the bitter insults he had thrown at Lestat? No apology would ever be sufficient to undo his cruel words. No gesture could ever be enough to mend the rift he had so carelessly torn between them.

The air outside was crisp, the sky glooming grey over the vast park as he and Paul set off for their walk. None of it seemed to dampen Paul’s high spirits though. He chatted cheerfully as they walked, undeterred by the fact that Louis contributed little to the conversation.  

"Do you still remember the name of that one?" Paul asked, pointing to a cluster of bright pink wildflowers.

A faint smile tugged at Louis’s lips. “Digitalis purpurea, commonly known as foxglove.”

Paul grinned proudly, and for a fleeting moment, it was like nothing had changed, like they were still foolhardy, carefree boys, hunting down rare blooms for Louis’s journal.

“Are you happy here, Paul?” Louis asked, his gaze lingering on his brother’s serene profile.

“I am,” Paul replied without hesitation. “I miss you all dearly, but I’m far happier here than I ever was at home. I don’t have Mama fussing over me every moment. I have Doris, my parishioners, and a patroness who is kind and generous. I am as content as any man could hope to be.” His smile faltered slightly as he added, “I know it isn’t the grand future Mama imagined for me, but even she had to admit I’ve done well enough for myself.”

“You have,” Louis said earnestly, giving Paul’s shoulder a reassuring pat. “I’m happy for you, Paul. Happier than I can say.”

Paul grinned again, sweet and carefree, as he had been in their youth—as he had been before the accident. Louis smiled back, a familiar ache pressing at his heart.

“What about you then?” Paul teased, nudging Louis’s shoulder. “Still cavorting with the lieutenant, or has Mr. Lioncourt reclaimed your affections?”

Louis’s steps faltered, and he looked at Paul with astonishment. Evidently, behind his aloof manners, Paul was far more observant than Louis had given him credit for. He had always suspected that Paul knew about him and Jonah; they had grown up together, after all, and spent all their idle summer afternoons together. It was not surprising that Paul was aware of Louis’s preference for men. But Louis had always assumed that like their mother, Paul greatly disapproved.

“Isn’t it improper for a clergyman to speak of such things?” Louis deflected with a nervous laugh, giving Paul a shove.

Paul frowned, as he briefly considered it. “No, I don’t think it is. You’re my brother. There can be no sin in wanting to see you happy.” He looked up at Louis, and there was no trace of judgment in his eyes, only fondness. “I love you, Louis. Just as you are—just as God made you. I hope you know that.”

Louis gave a shaky nod, and he swallowed against the knot that had formed in his throat. “I love you too, brother.” He grasped Paul’s shoulders and gave him a playful shake. “The proximity to Lady Sevraine has really done wonders on you.”

Paul’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Indeed, it has. She is exceptionally knowledgeable on all manner of things. I trust her guidance unreservedly.”

“Well, I’m glad you’ve found such an exceptional patroness.” Louis hesitated, then continued more lightly, “And to answer your question—it is neither the lieutenant nor Mr. Lioncourt. I’m companion enough for myself at the moment.”

Paul seemed to consider it for a moment, and then he said most unexpectedly, “Well, should you change your mind, you should choose Mr. Lioncourt. He’s far more handsome.”

Louis let out a startled laugh. “And here I thought you utterly detested the man.”

Paul shrugged. “He improves greatly on better acquaintance. Besides, how could I possibly detest him when I owe him my happiness.”

Louis stopped short, gaping at him. It was not unusual for Paul to speak in riddles and nebulous sentences. Louis had a lot of practice ignoring most of it. But for some odd reason, this felt crucial to try and decipher.

“What do you mean by that Paul?” he asked, his voice gone tense. “What does Mr. Lioncourt have to do with your happiness?”

Paul rolled his eyes, as if Louis was being particularly dense. “It was Mr. Lioncourt who wrote to his aunt to secure me the living. Without his aid, I would likely still be at home, waiting for poor Father Mathias to croak. I wouldn’t have any of this. I wouldn’t have been able to marry Doris—”

“How do you know that it was his doing?” Louis cut him off, his heart racing.

“Because Lady Sevraine told me so.” Paul tilted his head, studying Louis with growing concern. “Are you all right? You’re behaving even more strangely than usual.”

Louis forced a weak smile. “Perhaps, I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep much last night.”

Paul gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Let’s head back, then,” he said, turning toward the narrow trail that led to the cottage.

Louis followed absently, his steps heavy. He felt even worse now than he had after reading the letter. It was dumbfounding—that Lestat had done this remarkable kindness for Paul, and had made no mention of it or even sought gratitude for it.

Louis had been so blinded by his pride and anger that he had misjudged Lestat entirely. He felt so ashamed that he wished the ground would open up and swallow him.

He was startled out of his dark reverie when Paul cleared his throat, his expression suddenly nervous.

“There’s a reason I asked you to walk with me this morning,” Paul began, wringing his hands. “I have some news to share.”

“Oh?” Louis raised a curious brow. It seemed today was destined to be full of revelations.

“I have reason to believe there will soon be an addition to the Pointe du Lac family.”

Louis gasped, his eyes filling with tears. “Doris is with child?”

Paul nodded, a beaming smile stretching across his face. “The midwife says she’s only a few months along, but I wanted you to be the first to know.”

Speechless, Louis pulled his brother into a tight embrace.

Paul’s joyful news lightened the journey back to Hertfordshire, momentarily keeping Louis’s mind from darker thoughts. Paul was going to be a father, and Louis was going to be an uncle. It seemed almost too wonderful to be true—and yet, it was.

At least one of them had found his happy ending, and Paul, more than anyone, deserved all the happiness the world had to offer.

Chapter Text

ife at Pointe du Lac carried on in its usual dull monotony. The estate finally had some funds to spare, and Louis busied himself with the arduous task of improving the tenants’ cottages. Many were in a sorry state, a result of years of his father’s neglect and Finn O’Shea’s greedy idleness. Louis felt a twinge of shame as Rashid—the reserved but diligent young man he had hired as Finn’s replacement, detailed the leaky roofs, crumbling walls, and collapsed footbridges, all of which had been left unattended for years.

Overseeing the repairs was tedious work, but Louis welcomed it. It provided him with a much-needed sense of purpose, something tangible he could focus on—something to drown his other thoughts. He returned home late each evening, too exhausted to do more than pick at his dinner before collapsing face-down onto his pillow.

But no amount of self-imposed exhaustion could silence his mind at night. Again and again, he found himself replaying his final conversation with Lestat. Stripped of all his previous anger and self-deception, his mistakes stood stark and inescapable. He had been a fool, misguided, stubborn, and too blinded by pride and self-doubt to see the truth until it was too late. He despised himself most of all for believing Armand, for allowing his softly whispered lies to take root and fester.

In the quiet of the night, with nothing to do but think, feel, and remember, he tormented himself with visions of what could have been—if only he had chosen differently, if only he had not been so wretchedly proud. Perhaps he and Lestat would be together at this very moment, in some undefined but warm and bright place. Perhaps they could have been happy together, despite all their differences. He felt Lestat’s absence like a physical ache, a phantom sensation lingering at his fingertips. At times, he could almost convince himself that if he reached out, he would feel the warmth of Lestat’s hand in his own, hear the low rumble of Lestat's voice, murmuring something irreverent and unbearably tender.

In the early mornings, he sat on the veranda with his coffee, watching the misty countryside slowly awaken around him. Despite the open flat landscape that stretched for miles, the humid air always felt oppressive, the horizon too close. The girls would eventually follow in Paul’s footsteps, marrying and moving away to build lives of their own. But Louis would remain here, the lone keeper of a crumbling legacy of dirt and shrubbery.

Louis had always known this would be his fate. His path had been set from the day Daddy handed him the keys to the drawer where the estate ledgers were kept. And yet, after the heady freedom he had known in Kent, the weight of his inheritance felt heavier than ever. Being with Lestat had made him believe, however briefly, that anything was possible. That the world could be his if he only dared to reach for it.

Was it better, he wondered bitterly, to have never known happiness at all, or to have tasted it, only to lose it forever.

Louis had carefully avoided Meryton since his return, dreading any chance encounter with Armand. After weeks of relentless pestering from Lily, he finally confided to her and Grace the chief of what had transpired between him and Lestat in Hunsford.

To his relief, their teasing about Lestat’s unexpected proposal was swiftly eclipsed by their astonishment at the revelations in his letter—which Louis had reread so often now that he could have recited it from memory.

Grace, upon learning the true reason for the Frenières’s departure, was utterly dismayed and, true to her kind nature, took all the blame upon herself. “I cannot believe Levi thought me indifferent to him,” she murmured, tears welling in her eyes. “And all this time, I was convinced he never cared for me.”

Louis drew her into a sympathetic embrace, unsure of how to console her, any more than he knew how to alleviate his own bitter heartbreak.

Lily’s concerns, however, were far less sentimental and more pragmatic. When she heard the true extent of Armand’s lies and treachery, her expression darkened. “I always suspected he was dishonourable,” she said, anger sharpening her voice, “but I never imagined him to be such a despicable scoundrel.”

“Indeed,” Grace said, brows furrowed. “There is such an air of kindness in his demeanour, such openness and gentleness in his manner. That he could be so cruel is almost beyond belief.”

Louis closed his eyes, a wave of nausea churning in his stomach. He could still vividly recall his conversation with Armand as they had walked back to Pointe du Lac. He remembered how freely Armand had spoken of his past with Lestat, and he was now struck by the impropriety of such private confessions, shared so casually with a stranger. How had he not noticed it before? Pleased with Armand’s empty flattery and stung by Lestat’s perceived neglect, he had let prejudice and resentment cloud his judgment. He, who had always prided himself on his discernment, had been so easily fooled by a pair of wide brown eyes and wind tousled curls. It was a humiliating realization.

“I scarcely know what to do with all of this,” he admitted at last. “Should I make his true character known to all our acquaintances, or is it better not to meddle in affairs that don’t directly concern me?”

Grace’s eyes widened in horror. “Surely there can be no reason for exposing him in such a cruel, dreadful way. We will simply sever all connection with him. That ought to be enough.”

“He would deserve nothing less,” Lily said bitterly. “But even if you were to caution people against him, few would believe you. He is quite beloved in Meryton, and so far, he’s given no public cause for reproach.”

Grace grabbed his sleeve, her brows knit in an anxious frown. “Louis, to have his past errors made public would ruin him forever. Perhaps he regrets what he’s done and is trying to rebuild his character. We must not make it unnecessarily difficult for him."

Louis exhaled, frustrated. To remain silent did not sit well with him, but he saw no way to expose Armand without divulging Lestat’s private affairs, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. He had wronged Lestat enough as it was, without adding the cruelty of revealing publicly painful things Lestat had shared with him in confidence.

The only comfort in his irritation was the regiment’s impending departure. In less than a fortnight, all the officers would leave for Brighton, Armand along with them. With any luck, it would be the last they would ever hear of the man.

“It’s no matter,” Lily said, jostling Louis out of his dark thoughts. “I’m sure he will reveal himself sooner or later. Those kinds of people always do.” Then, without preamble, she turned to Louis with a scrutinizing look. “But what of you. What will you do about Mr. Lioncourt?”

Louis stiffened. “There is nothing more to say on the matter,” he replied, his tone carefully measured. “I regret my conduct towards him, but it doesn’t matter now. I doubt we’ll ever speak again.”

Lily sighed. “Louis, I’m sure if you were to write—”

“I will not,” he interrupted sharply. “And I doubt he would welcome it. Besides, I have neither his address nor the faintest notion of his whereabouts.”

It was a feeble excuse, and he knew it. But the truth was that he was far too ashamed to know what to say to Lestat. No words could possibly be enough to mend the rift that Louis had so carelessly torn between them. As painful as the idea of never seeing Lestat again was, it was preferable to the confirmation that he now hated Louis beyond repair.

Grace’s misery only seemed to grow following the revelation that Levi’s had once reciprocated her feelings. While propriety prevented her from writing to him directly, she had written to both Babette and Lady Caroline, inquiring about their continued stay in town. She had received no reply. Louis reasoned that either they had grown tired of boasting to an indifferent audience, or, having successfully severed their brother’s attachment, they had simply lost all interest in Grace. Either way, his simmering disdain for them only increased further.

He tried to cheer Grace up as best as he could, engaging her in conversation and keeping her occupied with whatever administrative tasks Rashid’s fastidious meticulousness had not already seen to.

To his great surprise, Lily was the one to receive news from town, through an unexpected letter from Sir Gregory. It arrived during breakfast, and Lily, uncharacteristically flustered, attempted to conceal it as she hastily excused herself. Hours later, when she finally emerged from her room, Louis cornered her, determined to coax her into revealing the contents of the letter.

“It makes no mention of Mr. Frenière or Mr. Lioncourt if that’s what you’re after,” Lily said at last, exasperated by his relentless probing.  

“Since when have you and Sir Gregory been corresponding?” Louis asked, skeptical.

The two had seemed cordial in Kent, perhaps even friendly, but Louis had noted nothing that suggested an attachment. Then again, perhaps he had been too distracted to notice.

Lily fixed him with a stern look, even as a faint blush crept over her cheeks. “He promised to write when we were in Hunsford, and now he has. There is nothing more to it.”

Louis reluctantly let the matter drop, reasoning that if there had been anything of true significance in the letter, Lily would have shared it.

At the end of April, a report arrived which made Louis reconsider his decision to not expose Armand’s true character. It was the regiment’s last week in Meryton, and Grace, who was a close friend of Miss Mary Fenwick, learned upon a visit that the engagement between her and the lieutenant had been broken.

Claudia was in the room when Grace shared the news, preventing her from revealing the true cause of the abrupt separation. But her hints allowed Louis to infer that Sir Fenwick had made it abundantly clear Armand would never have a penny of his niece’s ten thousand pounds—after which, unsurprisingly, Armand had lost all interest.

“How dreadful,” Lily exclaimed in outrage. “Poor Mary.”

“On the contrary,” Louis muttered. “She is far better off than if she had made the mistake of entering into such an imprudent marriage.”

“I told her as much,” Grace said. “But she assured me there was no strong attachment on either side. Her only concern is what people will say.”

Claudia let out a snide giggle. “There was certainly no attachment on his side. He never cared three figs about her. Who could about such an ugly little freckled thing?”

“Watch your tongue, Claudia,” Lily admonished sharply. But Claudia merely rolled her eyes, unrepentant.

“I only speak the truth,” she said, her mouth quirked into a mutinous pout. “He was far too handsome for her. Everyone said as much.”

“Well, looks aren’t everything,” Lily replied wisely, which Claudia equally ignored.

“I wonder what he will do now,” Grace mused.

No doubt try to ensnare some other naïve young woman for her fortune, Louis thought bitterly. Thankfully, the ladies in Brighton were none of his concern.

But the definitive answer to Grace’s question arrived rather unexpectedly a few days later. Lady Williams had come over for tea, and she was eager, as usual, to acquaint Mrs. du Lac with the latest gossip from the county.

“Have you heard the news?” Lady Williams asked, her voice brimming with excitement as she took a hearty bite out of her tea cake.

Mrs. du Lac’s face lit up as she looked up from her embroidery. “Well, tell me quickly, my dear. You know I love a good tale. There is so little else to entertain oneself.”

Lady Williams leaned forward conspiratorially. “Last night, I dined with Sir Fenwick and his wife. The usual plain affair—poor woman has no notion of setting a proper table. In any case, Colonel Thorne and his officers were in attendance, which helped enliven things. It was their last evening in town, as you know, and the poor colonel was in a sour mood. When I enquired, he revealed he had just recently been forced to dismiss one of his young officers for poor conduct.”

Mrs. du Lac raised her brows in astonishment. Louis exchanged a knowing glance with Lily, who sat beside him on the sofa.

“It seems the young man had run up a fortune in debt with every tradesman in town,” Lady Williams went on, delighted to have a captive audience. “He had left a scandalous ledger at Mr. Anderson’s gaming tables, among other places. I heard whispers of intrigue, debauchery, seduction. It seems there is scarcely a tradesman in Meryton whose sons or daughters he did not meddle with.”

“Good heavens!” Grace gasped. “Did Colonel Thorne say who the officer was?”

“No, but he mentioned the young man was newly arrived in the regiment and had fled without a trace the next morning. The Colonel was left to settle as best he as could with the shopkeepers.”

Mrs. du Lac huffed. “If you ask me, I’m glad we are finally rid of the lot of them. A pack of idle men in uniform, running amuck in the village—drinking, gambling, and doing lord knows what else. It is bound to cause all manner of trouble.”

Lady Williams giggled coquettishly. “The young ladies of Meryton would certainly disagree with you, my dear. The regiment left behind quite a few broken hearts.”

Claudia and her friend Kitty had been among the most distraught. The two girls had been overly fond of the officers, and Claudia was so devasted by their departure that she had taken to her bed, refusing food or drink in the throes of melodramatic despair. But Louis strongly suspected that, like all her tantrums, this one too would pass the moment she found some new object of obsession.

The conversation between the two matrons soon meandered onto other idle gossip, and by an unspoken agreement, Louis, Lily, and Grace moved to the window, out of earshot.

“Do you think it was the lieutenant?” Lily asked in a hushed murmur.

“I have no doubt of it,” Louis replied bitterly.

“How awful,” Grace said, her expression filled with quiet sadness.

Louis suspected she had still been clinging to the hope that the lieutenant had turned over a new leaf. She always insisted on seeing the best in people, even those wholly unworthy of it.

“It is the merchants I feel sorry for,” Louis said, his voice edged with anger. “Tom Anderson is wealthy enough not to lose sleep over a few unpaid shillings, but the innkeepers and tavern owners are not so fortunate.”

“Where will he go now,” Grace murmured, her tone still full of sympathy that Armand did not deserve. “He is ruined—and, by the sound of it, without a penny to his name.”

“I don’t care where he goes,” Louis said in a low, angry whisper. “So long as it is far away from here.”

He must have spoken louder than he intended, because Lady Williams suddenly turned her attention to him, a mischievous gleam in her eye. “Oh, now I must know what you three are whispering about,” she demanded.

Grace’s eyes widened in alarm. “Not a word to her, Louis,” she implored in a hurried whisper. “It’s bad enough that poor Mary is already the subject of derision in the entire county—”

Louis chuckled. “Of course not. Do you think me an idiot?”  

“Come, Louis,” his mother interjected smoothly, her brow quirked expectantly. “Tell us all what you are discussing. You seem quite engrossed.”

“We were speaking of London, Aunt,” Lily said, making up the lie with astonishing quickness while maintaining a perfectly neutral expression. “We were remarking on how lovely it must be this time of year.”

As far as lies went, it was a rather flimsy one, but Lady Williams’ face lit up nonetheless, and she clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, how marvellous! Your mother and I were just discussing the very thing. I have devised the most delightful plan, you shall simply adore it. I leave for London shortly, and I insist that you, Louis, and both the misses accompany me.”

Louis raised his brows in surprise. “That is exceedingly kind, Lady Williams, but—”

“No, no, I shall brook no refusal,” she cut in with cheerful authority. “My wretched children have decided to abandon me for Bath this season, and I must have company. Your dear mama has already agreed to it.”

Louis knew little of the Williams children. They had spent most of their youth in boarding schools abroad, and both had married and moved away long before he had come of age. However, he could easily imagine why they preferred the peaceful sea air of Bath over enduring a season in their mother’s company.

“You can use the opportunity to call upon the Frenières, dearest,” Mrs. du Lac said, giving Grace a meaningful look. “I am certain they will be delighted to see you again.”

Louis cast a wary glance toward Grace, expecting her dismay—but to his astonishment, she did not look in the least perturbed. Rather, she was gazing at Lady Williams with something closer to wonder, her lips trembling slightly with barely contained emotion.

“I shall convey you all to my house in Mayfair,” Lady Williams declared grandly, “and together, we shall taste all the delights of the Season. And mark my words—if I do not have the three of you married by summer’s end, it shall not be my fault.

Louis cleared his throat and made another attempt at a polite refusal. “You are exceedingly generous, Lady Williams, but we could not possibly impose. I cannot leave the estate unattended, and I am sure Mama cannot spare the girls for so long.”

This was not entirely true. The work on the tenants’ cottages was completed, and Rashid’s quiet efficiency was such that Louis often went days with nothing at all to do except read and take long meandering walks in the countryside.

He ignored Grace, who was now staring at him like he had grown a second head, focusing instead on meeting his mother’s cold and unflinching gaze.

“Nonsense, Louis,” Mrs Du Lac said, her clipped tone smothered beneath a veil of sweetness. “I can spare you all very well. Everything has already been arranged. The girls are long overdue for a season in town, and it is your duty to accompany them and see them properly introduced to society—just as your father would have done had he still been here.”

Louis scoffed bitterly. It was just like her to invoke his father whenever she wished to highlight his perceived inadequacies.  Still, he resigned himself to the inevitable trip. Any further refusal without a valid reason would have appeared exceedingly rude.

Grace gave a curtesy to Lady Williams, her face beaming. “Thank you, my Lady. We would be delighted to be your guests.”

“You seem in high spirits,” Louis remarked, throwing a sidelong glance at Grace’s serene profile, bathed in the soft, muted daylight.

It was the morning after Lady Williams’s invitation, and Grace had joined him on his final inspection of the newly repaired cottages, using the occasion to deliver a basket to one of their tenants whose child was ill. The predawn air was chilly, though soon, as the sun climbed higher, it would give way to the sweet, tentative warmth of late spring.

Grace smiled, nudging him playfully with her basket. With a pang of guilt, Louis realized he had not seen her this happy in a long time. Suddenly, his own childish reservations about the trip seemed petty in the face of her pure, infectious joy.

“I know you think me silly for still hoping,” she said, a delicate flush warming her cheeks. “But I think I would resent myself forever if I gave up on happiness so easily—if I didn’t at least attempt to fight for it.”

For a moment, her words and the quiet resolve in her expression left Louis speechless. His sister had always been stronger than him, braver too—in her own gentle, unassuming way. For what could be braver than continuing to face the world with kindness and cheerful optimism in spite of so many disappointments?

“But is your Mr. Frenière truly worth chasing all the way to London?” he asked, his voice laced with bitter skepticism he couldn’t entirely suppress.

He was still firm in his opinion that Frenière was a fool for having been swayed so easily into giving Grace up. He had certainly done nothing to prove himself worthy of the love and devotion Grace had nurtured for him for months on end.

Grace let out a small, knowing sigh, adjusting her grip on the basket. “It is certainly preferable to remaining here, wallowing in misery, and forever wandering what could have been.”

She turned to Louis then, meeting his gaze with an intensity that made him feel strangely too exposed, flayed open.  He was once again struck by how perceptive she was—how attuned she remained to the emotions of those around her, often at the expense of her own. He looked away, feigning a sudden interest in the distant outline of the first cottage ahead.

“Very well, then. We shall go to London,” he said, keeping his tone light. “And I will help you get your Mr. Frenière. Even if that means enduring an entire season under the same roof as Lady Williams.”

Grace laughed, a bright sound that echoed through the morning stillness, and then she nudged Louis again, chastising him about speaking ill of their generous hostess.

At breakfast, Claudia waltzed into the dining room, her eyes wide with excitement, seemingly fully recovered from her earlier melancholy. As she sat down, she helped herself to a bun from the bread basket, biting into it happily.

“London!” she exclaimed, turning towards Mrs du Lac, her eyes wide with excitement. “Oh, Mama, you have to let me get new dresses. All my old ones are hopelessly out of style—I’d be laughed out of any ballroom.”

Mrs. du Lac glanced up from the society paper she was reading, her brow creasing slightly. “Only Louis, Lily, and Grace will be going, dearest. You will remain here with me.”

For a moment, Claudia sat frozen, the half-eaten bun suspended in her hand. Then, as comprehension dawned, her expression crumpled in sheer disbelief, her chest heaving. Louis sighed, already bracing himself for what was sure to be an epic tantrum.

“But why can’t I go?” Claudia demanded, pushing back from the table with so much force that the silverware rattled, the flower vase at the centre swaying dangerously. Her green eyes welled with tears, her voice mounting with indignation. “Why am I never permitted the least bit of enjoyment? Are you punishing me, Mama? If so, then tell me at once what I have done wrong.”

Mrs. du Lac, unaffected by the tirade, gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Of course not, Claudia. But you are not yet out in society. We may occasionally disregard such things here, but in town, the rules are quite strict.”

“But I’ll be seventeen in four months!” Claudia’s voice had climbed several octaves, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. “Kitty is going, and she’s younger than me!”

Mrs. du Lac’s lips pressed into a thin, bitter line. “Catherine Anderson’s father can afford to squander money on a London season with little hope of a match. We, alas, are not so fortunate. You, my dear, must wait until your sisters are married before you can come out.”

Claudia let out a strangled sound of protest, her hands balling into fists at her sides. Louis, weary of the theatrics, finally interjected.

“Lady Williams chose to invite us, Claudia,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “Otherwise, I assure you, we would not be going either.”

Grace, ever the peacemaker, went to Claudia and slipped an arm around her shoulders to lead her away, murmuring gentle reassurances and promising to write to her every day. Claudia, though momentarily subdued, remained visibly disgruntled, her lower lip quivering as she cast one last scornful look at their mother.

Louis sighed and poured himself another cup of coffee under his mother’s piercing gaze. As usual, she had no doubt conceived of some way in her mind in which this was all his fault.

The next two weeks passed in a whirlwind of preparations. Louis spent long hours locked in his study with Rashid, ensuring that nothing on the estate would suffer during his absence. Grace and Lily busied themselves with ordering new summer wardrobes from the modiste—a costly indulgence that left a significant dent in Louis’s expense book, though he refrained from voicing any complaint. Even Claudia was permitted to have a new bonnet and gloves, though this small concession did little to temper her simmering resentment at being left behind.

On the morning of their departure, Lady Williams’s carriage came to fetch them at Pointe du Lac early in the morning. She stepped out to bid Mrs. du Lac goodbye as her groom set about loading their trunks. She was attired in her usual extravagant manner for the journey, in an opulent fur-trimmed pelisse and matching hat, adorned with a cascade of white feathers that bobbed dramatically as she spoke.

“Do not worry yourself, my dear,” she said to Mrs. du Lac, pressing her hands warmly. “I shall take excellent care of them. And if I have my way, they shall all be wed by Michaelmas.”

Claudia lingered in the doorway, her small frame tense, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen from crying. Louis felt the familiar pang of guilt settle in his chest as he bid her goodbye. He hated leaving her behind, but there was little choice in the matter. Even with Mrs. Williams’s generosity, the trip was an extravagance they could barely afford. Claudia’s turn would have to wait.

After more drawn-out farewells, the carriage finally set off, its large wheels creaking over the uneven dirt road. The countryside stretched before them, a familiar blur of misty green fields and scattered cottages. Lady Williams chattered on happily, outlining the elaborate schedule she had planned out for them —balls, evenings at the opera, endless house calls to her many acquaintances in town.

Louis barely suppressed a sigh. He could already feel a migraine coming on just thinking about it, but across from him, Grace and Lily listened with rapt attention, their eyes bright with delighted excitement. He tried to ignore the chatter and settle into his book, but he found himself reading the same lines over and over, his mind too restless to absorb the words.

When they finally reached the outskirts of London, the scenery transformed. Rolling fields gave way to cobbled streets, the air thickening with the mingling scents of horses, fresh bread, and coal smoke. Grace leaned forward eagerly, pressing a gloved hand against the windowpane and craning her neck to look out at the bustling streets.

Louis shifted on the cushioned bench, his stomach tightening as the distantly familiar hum of the city rose around him—the shouts of street vendors, the clatter of hooves and carriage wheels against stone, the distant trill of laughter floating in from an unseen balcony.

His pulse quickened, his heart pounding with both dread and excitement. He was not sure which he feared most—not seeing Lestat at all, or worse still, meeting his pale gaze across a crowded ballroom and finding it filled with nothing but cold, indifferent disdain.

Chapter Text

heir first engagement of the season arrived scarcely two days after they had settled into Lady Williams’ boisterous and extravagantly decorated home. Quite determined to show her precious country charges all the city had to offer, Lady Williams had declared that not a single moment should be wasted in initiating them to the murky and treacherous waters of ton society.

Their first plunge was to be a grand private ball—one of the most coveted of the season. The hostess, Lady Pandora, was an Italian heiress of renowned beauty and even more renowned connections. An invitation to one of her soirées was said to be worth its weight in gold, and rumour had it that the prince regent himself counted among her regular guests. Lady Williams, who proudly boasted of having a long-standing friendship with the lady, had managed to secure all of them a place on the coveted guest list.

On the evening of the ball, the weather was wet and grey, as was typical of late spring. But something as trifle as rain would not deter the ton from their amusements. As their carriage approached Lady Pandora’s home—an imposing three-story facade, perched right on the most coveted street in Mayfair—the courtyard was a riot of clattering hooves, bustling carriages and shouting coachmen, fighting for the best spot at the entrance. Footmen in silver livery stood at the ready, wielding large black umbrellas with grim determination as they rushed forward to usher the guests safely inside.

Grace and Lily giggled with excitement, while Louis distantly surveyed all the commotion, his shoulders instinctively curling inwards. The large windows blazed with light, an impressive feat in a town where wealth was often measured by how much wax one could afford to burn in a single evening. Laughter and music spilled out, adding to the dizzying cacophony.

Louis sighed, bracing himself as the carriage jolted to a halt, and two footmen surged forward, umbrellas held high.

“Isn’t this splendid my dears,” Lady Williams exclaimed as the groom helped her down, careful not to step on her long taffeta train. “Mark my words; this shall be the most talked about ball of the season.”

Louis’s heart was palpitating uncomfortably as they ascended the wide, rain-slicked steps. Grace looked calm and composed, but she hung on to his arm with the fervour of a marooned sailor clinging to the last piece of driftwood. Since their arrival, she had written several, increasingly anxious notes to Babette Frenière and Lady Caroline, all of which had gone unanswered.

Louis interpreted the continued silence from the Frenière sisters as the deliberate slight it undoubtedly was, but Grace had simply waved it off, refusing to let it shake her obstinate faith. She had practically jumped with joy when Lady Williams presented them with the invitations, with assurances that everyone of note in town would be in attendance.

As Louis looked at her, at her wide eyes drinking the glittering splendour around them, he dreaded the inevitable moment when her stubborn optimism would be met with the cold, unyielding reality that her Mr. Frenière was probably lost to her forever, and that this entire journey had been a complete waste of time.

Lady Pandora greeted them at the entrance of the ballroom, her gaze lingering on Louis with unsettling intensity as Lady Williams performed the introductions. She was indeed a strikingly beautiful woman; willowy and statuesque, with pale skin and ink-black hair, pinned up into an intricate braid. Her features were sharp, almost gaunt, but it only lent an even more piercing quality to her pale eyes. She was dressed with effortless elegance, in a gauzy white gown that hinted at her charms without displaying them too obviously. Louis offered her a deep bow, doing his best not to flush under her intense scrutiny.

“Fresh country blooms,” she said with a faint, feline smile as she examined them with the detached interest of a collector observing a new curiosity. “How utterly charming.”

Lady Williams, blissfully oblivious to any subtext, beamed with pride. “Aren’t they lovely, my dear? I told their mama that such beauty was wasted in the country. You mark my words, I shall have them all wed by the end of the season.”

Thankfully, before Lady Williams could embarrass them further, they were swept inside with the wave of arriving guests, all attired in their finest silks and jewels.

The ballroom was a study in tasteful, understated opulence; white marble floors and sweeping columns, tall painted ceilings and gilt crown mouldings. Elegant fragrant arrangements bloomed on every table and alcove, so many that Louis imagined every florist in town must have been pillaged bare. A full orchestra played from the balustrade, and painted dancers pirouetted and twirled across a raised stage, their costumes just daring enough to titillate without offending the delicate sensibilities of genteel company. Liveried footmen moved nimbly through the crowd, serving wine and small delicacies on silver platters.

The guests were mostly gentry, with a handful of merchants and bankers— who made up for their lack of lands and titles with enough coin to buy the entire city twice over. Louis felt absurdly out of place, but he easily imagined this was the kind of gathering Lestat spent his evenings at, surrounded by opulence and finery—and just enough hint at debauchery to hold his attention.

Lady Williams seemed to be acquainted with nearly every person in the room, and she insisted on parading them around, introducing them to each one. Louis soon lost track of names, the unfamiliar faces blurring together. He did his best to smile politely, nodding along at appropriate intervals to appear like he was engaged in the conversation.

Before long, a gaggle of doe-eyed and pastel tule-wearing debutants flocked to their circle, their ambitious mamas in tow, ogling Louis hopefully. Louis stifled a sigh as the familiar dance began; poorly disguised inquiries about his income, followed by even less subtle attempts to flaunt the mundane accomplishments of their daughters. Thankfully, Lily played her customary role of buffer to perfection. With cool wit and the tactical brilliance of a seasoned general, she redirected the pointed questions and intercepted the most brazen advances, claiming Louis for her own dance card when nothing else would do to deter them.

“Have I ever told you how much I love and appreciate you,” Louis murmured as they danced the first set together, mainly to avoid a skittish, red-faced debutant, whose mother had all but flung at Louis, dance card brandished like a knife.

Lily smirked, not falling for the flattery. “Oh, how taxing it must be for you, dear cousin,” she said, her tone dripping in sarcasm, “having to fend off hordes of suitors in every room you enter.”

Louis chuckled darkly. He had never much cared about the attention he always attracted at such events. It amused him in an ironic, detached sort of way. Especially when he imagined the shock of these marriage-hungry mothers if they had an inkling of just how little interest Louis had in their insipid daughters, let alone that he barely had a penny to his name.

“Alas,” he said, his tone growing more bitter, “it is never the ones I want.” He spun Lily around, using the opportunity to scan the dancefloor. The one person Louis wanted to be chasing after him was notably absent.

Louis had the honour of dancing the third with Lady Pandora herself. It was impossible to decline when she silently approached him and extended her satin gloved hand imperiously, like a goddess deigning to bestow her favour upon a mere mortal. This unexpected distinction earned him the notice of every eye in the room, but Lady Pandora bore the attention well, with the effortless grace of someone who was accustomed to it. She looked almost regal as she led Louis to the centre of the ballroom for the quadrille.

“I hear we have a close acquaintance in common, Mr. du Lac,” she said, her tone cool and eyes assessing.

The pointed remark threw Louis momentarily, his thoughts scrambling to anticipate where this inquiry was leading. “Yes, Lady Williams is a close friend of my mother,” he replied cautiously.

He let go of her slim hand and took two steps back, so they could both do a turn and exchange partners with the neighbouring couples. When they came back together, Lady Pandora’s gaze was still sharp on his face.

“Yes, I’ve been made aware of that,” she said. “The Dowager is very good at making all sorts of friends. But I was referring to Mr. Lioncourt.”

Louis blinked, quickly suppressing the flicker of surprise. “Yes, he and I were briefly acquainted,” he said in what he hoped was a neutral tone. “Are you a relation of the gentleman?”

Lestat had never made any mention of family beyond his mother and Lady Sevraine, and Louis certainly saw no resemblance.

“No, Lestat and I are old friends,” Lady Pandora said, her smile far too icy to be mistaken as genuine. “He has spoken quite highly of you. Usually, I consider him a rather poor judge of character, but in this instance, I have to agree—you are quite… fascinating.”

The praise was said with unmistakable mockery, her cold gaze assessing Louis as if to gauge his reaction.

Louis’s eyes didn’t roll, but it was a near thing. He could see now the game that was being played—the subtle assessing of a rival, in the hopes of finding them lacking. He almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, that a woman like this would even consider him a rival, or feel threatened enough to stage this little display. But not for the first time, he wondered what Lestat had told his friends about him. That Lestat even spoke of him at all was baffling.

They parted again, and his new partner—an adorably plump red-haired debutant—blushed violently and nearly tripped on her yellow train. Louis was by no expert at ballroom dancing, but he’d endured years of enforced classes as a youth and luckily, possessed enough natural grace not to completely embarrass himself.

He straightened his posture to perfection and made his movements fluid as he guided the debutant in a graceful twirl. She flushed even deeper, and a ripple of appreciative murmurs went through the spectating crowd. If Lady Pandora was hoping to expose him as a clumsy country bumpkin, she would be sorely disappointed.

When they rejoined, Lady Pandora took his hand with a small, cryptic smile. In a brief moment of arrogant fury, Louis was tempted to tell her that Lestat had never mentioned her at all—that evidently whatever fleeting affair they had shared held no significance for him. That only a few months ago, he had declared his love for Louis, blue eyes earnest and pleading. That he had offered himself to Louis—setting aside his rank and reputation to toss his heart at Louis’s feet—and Louis had thrown it all back in his face.

But what would purpose would that serve? Lestat was not his to claim anymore. Lady Pandora was mistaken; Louis was not her rival because Lestat was not his lover. Lestat was not even his friend. Lestat was not his anything.

“You are very kind, my lady,” he said instead, maintaining a casual, detached tone. “But I know the gentleman only a little. I’m therefore not sure how accurate his assessment of my character, however flattering, could possibly be.”

It was as much of a peace offering as he could manage. Lady Pandora assessed him cooly, considering it.

“Whatever the case may be,” she said, the thin smile on her lips finally reaching her glacial eyes. “Lestat was certainly right about one thing—you do have exquisite features. I can see why he is utterly besotted.”

She was wrong about that too, but Louis did not bother to correct her. Thankfully, the music drew to a close with one final, lingering note. He stepped away, bowing impeccably before raising her gloved hand to his lips without touching, as was appropriate.

“Thank you for the honour of this dance, My Lady.”  

Another flinty smile stretched on her lips, and she gave him a sweeping glance, trailing downwards and upwards again. “Oh, I’m sure the pleasure was all mine.”

He turned stiffly to rejoin his small party, gratefully accepting a glass from a passing footman. The wine was exquisite—rich and delicately sweet, nothing like the tart, watered-down fare they served at country dances. Whatever her flaws, Lady Pandora was an excellent hostess.

Louis sipped it begrudgingly as he glanced around the ballroom, scanning the crowds for a familiar yellow head.

“What was that about?” Lily whispered at his side, her gaze following Lady Pandora’s retreating figure.

Louis shrugged, draining his glass and reaching for another. “An appraisal of some kind, I suppose.”

“Oh? Whatever for? Are you to be auctioned off later, like a prized piglet? I hear these wealthy sorts get up to all manner of things.”

Louis shot her a sideway glance, but he couldn’t help joining in her muffled, derisive laughter.

The ballroom was abuzz with lively conversation and laughter, the stiffness of propriety and decorum loosened by the wine and the swell of music. Grace was on the dancefloor, her face composed in a flawless mask of polite interest while her dull-faced partner droned on about some topic or another. But Louis noticed her gaze drifting now and then across the room, a faint crease of disappointment between her brows.

It was oddly comforting to know she too felt as he did—that he had, at the very least, a companion in his misery. Grace bore it far better, of course, with far more fortitude than Louis was capable of. When she returned to their little circle, delicately declining a second dance with Mr. Dull-Face, Louis gave her a small, knowing smile.

Lady Williams, meanwhile, was entirely in her element, chatting and laughing with the other matrons, her champagne sloshing perilously as she gestured with unrestrained glee. Louis tensed when her gaze landed on him, and her smile stretched ominously.

“I see you’ve caught the attention of our illustrious hostess, Louis,” she sang out. “Now, she may no longer be a fresh-faced maiden, but she’s no less an excellent party.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, as it always did when she was about to impart some gossip. “Her late husband—rest his wicked soul—was an Indian Maharaja. Left her enough money and jewels to make even the Queen turn green, I dare say. And there is something to be said for an experienced woman—”

The woman beside her—whose daughter Louis had rather curtly declined to dance with earlier—let out a pointed snort. “Her revolving door of young lovers can certainly attest to that.”

Louis exchanged a longsuffering glance with Lily, who smirked, her eyes glittering with amusement. He sighed and downed his glass before signalling a footman for another. He was already eager for the evening to be over.

As the night wore on, more guests waltzed in and out of their circle—more of Lady Williams’ friends, eager for the latest piece of gossip, more flustered debutantes unsubtly steered in Louis’s direction, and a procession of gentlemen trying to entice him into joining their inane investment schemes in railway and mining. And all of them had the unmitigated gall of not being Lestat—the only person Louis had any interest in speaking to.

Louis bore the droning conversations with resignation, a polite smile plastered on his face, so tight that his cheeks were beginning to ache. Mercifully, an hour later, the party drifted away at last, following Lady Williams’ cheerful suggestion for a round of whist in the card room.

Finally, blissfully alone, he pulled Lily a few steps away to one of the small alcoves, where they could quietly observe the glittering tide of silks and velvet. They were soon joined by Grace, who was taking a respite after another tedious bout of dancing.  

“I don’t think I can bear this for an entire season,” Louis said glumly. “I should have never allowed you to talk me into it.”

Grace patted him on the arm. “Cheer up, Louis. It is not so bad. You’d have a far better time if you tried dancing more instead of sulking in a corner all night.”

Louis rolled his eyes and ignored her. The three or four glasses of wine he had downed in rapid succession were beginning to make themselves unpleasantly felt. A faint nausea was curling in his stomach, and his temples throbbed with the beginnings of a headache. It was incomprehensible how members of the Ton managed to sustain this for months without collapsing from exhaustion or going completely mad.

“Louis!” Grace’s urgent whisper cut through his dark musings. She clutched his arm with such force that he flinched. “He’s here—Louis, he’s here!”

Louis’s heart lurched. He followed Grace’s gaze to the entrance of the ballroom, where there was a slight commotion as a group of four gentlemen entered. A shocked, disapproving murmur went through the crowd—it was a scandalously late arrival, even by fashionable standards.

The crowd shifted, and Louis was finally able to get a clear view of the new arrivals. His breath caught painfully as he recognized Lestat among them, unmistakable even at a distance. Mr. Frenière hovered beside him, wearing a sheepish smile as he allowed Lestat to do most of the talking.

It was too far to make out any of their conversation, but Lestat was all dazzling charm as he seductively kissed Lady Pandora’s hand, murmuring what was no doubt some outrageous flattery to smooth over her reproachful frown.

Lily had turned as well, craning her neck to get a better view, and Grace was still speaking in a hushed whisper, her face glowing with barely contained excitement—but Louis heard none of it.

His mind could register nothing besides the glimmer of Lestat’s hair in the candlelight, the teasing curve of his smile as he easily subdued Lady Pandora, the outrageous confidence with which he moved through the room, utterly unaffected by the whispers his arrival had stirred.

Lestat was here, a mere few feet away.

Louis couldn’t breathe.

It was Frenière who spotted them first, his eyes lighting up in surprised delight as he looked at Grace. He signalled to Lestat, who also turned, and for one breathless moment, his eyes caught on Louis’s.  

Louis had pictured this moment in a hundred different variations, ranging from tearful confessions to heated, passionate embraces. He’d imagined what he would say—what well-placed witticism he would use to capture Lestat’s attention. But now that it was happening, he found himself completely tongue-tied, his throat dry, all his thoughts scattering like dandelion seeds in the wind.

Lady Pandora, who had looked slightly mollified under Lestat’s persistent charm a moment ago, now seemed greatly offended as the gentlemen hastily excused themselves and made their way towards them. Louis steeled himself, schooling all his expression into a neutral, impassive mask. Grace stood stock-still at his side, her hand clinging to his arm in a vice grip.

“Mr. de Pointe du Lac, Miss Grace!” Frenière exclaimed cheerfully as he reached them, Lestat and the two other gentlemen trailing behind him. “How lovely to see you all!”

Grace smiled shyly, her face flushing as he bowed over her gloved hand.

Louis’s eyes remained fixed on Lestat, as if in a trance, noting every infinitesimal change in him. His hair was longer, falling in loose waves past his shoulders. It softened his sharp features, lending him a very debonaire air that Louis liked.

Frenière was introducing the other two men, whom Louis recognized as the duke de Clermont—Frenière’s unfortunate brother-in-law, and his younger brother, Alphonse, a red-faced gangly young man with the same thin yellow hair and weepy blue eyes as his brother.  

Louis barely spared them a glance. His attention was still chained to Lestat, who was smiling charmingly as he greeted Grace and Lily.

Then, finally, Lestat’s gaze turned to him, but there was no hint of emotion—no longing, no relief, not even anger, just…nothing. He looked at Louis as though they were strangers as he inclined his head politely and said, “Mr. de Pointe du Lac.”

Louis felt the shock of it like icy water flooding his lungs, even as he responded with a curt nod.

Frenière was speaking again, responding to something Grace had said. “I apologize; my sisters didn’t tell me you were in town.” His voice was a little choked off, and he glanced at Lestat—something tense and unreadable passing between them. “We…we were on a hunting trip in the country, you see. We’ve only just gotten back.”

“Then perhaps they have not yet had the opportunity to inform you of my letters,” Grace conceded, her tone indulgent.

“Nor to compose a reply it would seem,” Louis added cooly. Grace shot him a sharp look, but he didn’t care. His heartbeat was rushing loudly in his ears, his attention fixed on Lestat who still wouldn’t look at him.

Frenière, to his credit, had the decency to look mortified. But he rallied quickly, flashing Grace another cheerful smile. “It is a blessing then, that you here now, and we were able to meet.”

“Indeed,” Grace replied, grinning brightly.

Within minutes, Frenière had whisked her away to the dance floor, and the de Clermonts drifted off too, no doubt to find more worthy entertainment. Lestat remained, still not looking at Louis as he exchanged a few meaningless pleasantries with Lily.

Louis stood stiffly, his heart constricting painfully in his ribcage, his hands growing clammy around the half-empty wine glass he was still clutching. Lily kept glancing at him, in a clear invitation for him to join the conversation, but he couldn’t—not when Lestat was standing only a few feet away, pointedly ignoring him.

Louis wanted to confront him, to scream at him look at me! Why won’t you even look at me? But he already knew why. Worse than being angry at him, Lestat simply didn’t care about him anymore.

He did not see Lady Pandora approach until she was standing beside Lestat, her hand resting possessively on his arm. Her gaze lingered on Louis again, cold and assessing.

“Such a lovely party, Pandora,” Lestat said, his charming smile firmly back in place. “Your little soirées never disappoint.”

She arched one of her perfectly shaped brows. “Is that so? I find it difficult to believe given that you arrived late and seem to be hardly enjoying any of it.”

Lestat’s smile stretched wider. “Oh, but the night is still young, ma chère,” he murmured.

Louis felt himself responding to the teasing lilt in Lestat’s voice, the sound of it hitting him with a painful wave of recognition. It was the same playful, seductive drawl Lestat had always used when he wanted to be persuasive, or simply contrary. It was excruciating to hear it again now, directed at someone else.

The air in the ballroom suddenly felt too stuffy, the music too loud. He desperately needed to leave. He turned to Lily abruptly, speaking in a clipped tone. “It’s very hot in here; you must be parched. Come, I’ll fetch a lemonade.”

He offered a stiff bow to Lady Pandora and took Lily’s arm, ignoring her bewildered look as he pulled her away, shouldering through the crowd. Thankfully, she didn’t voice any complaints as Louis led them outside, to the wide dimly lit terrace that overlooked the gardens.

The cold air was like a balm after the stifling heat of the ballroom. Louis breathed it in deeply, trying to calm his racing thoughts.

“I believe the refreshment table was in the other direction,” Lily observed in a mild tone.

“We can return in a moment,” Louis muttered, massaging his temples. “I just…needed some air.”

Lily came closer and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “We can stay here if you want. I doubt we are missing much.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Beyond the terrace’s archway, the rain was still falling in a thin, grey drizzle, its faint pitter barely audible over the distant sound of the music and murmur of conversations.

“You should just go talk to him,” Lily said quietly. “Things needn’t always be so complicated.”

“He did not wish to talk to me,” Louis said, his voice tight. “You saw him in there; he could barely stand to look at me.”

“Oh? Is that what happened? Because from my perspective, it looked like two idiots who would rather sulk and suffer silently than admit they care for each other.” Louis cast her a waning look, but she ignored it. “I mean, he came all the way here, and rather hurriedly by the looks of it.”

Louis scoffed bitterly. “I suspect that was rather for Frenière’s sake than mine. The man is so biddable he seems incapable of drawing breath without his friends dictating it to him.”

Lily snorted, rather unladylike. “Such an ungenerous assessment for a man who may very soon be our brother.”

“Perhaps, but it is an accurate one!” He exhaled in a frustrated huff. “I am happy for Grace, but that does not mean I have to overlook the man’s flaws as she does. Frenière is a bumbling fool, and far too easily lead for his own good.”

Lily shrugged. “I rather like him; I think they are well suited to each other. But I know what you are doing, Louis. You will not trick me into changing the subject. As I recall we were discussing you, not Grace and Mr. Frenière.”  

Louis let out a startled laugh and looked at her sideways. “You’re enjoying this aren’t you.”

“Immensely!”

He gave her a playful shove, unable to repress the fond smile that stretched on his lips. He was more grateful for her presence than he could say, and the distraction had helped. His throat was no longer tight with the urge to scream or cry, though the sharp pain in his chest remained, like a bruise that throbbed with each breath.

When they returned to the ballroom, Lestat was holding court, surrounded by a gaggle of debutants that were gazing up at him adoringly and drinking in his every word.

Louis couldn’t help stealing frequent glances at him from across the room, hoping that—just once—Lestat would turn. That Lestat would look at him.

But he never did.

Chapter Text

ave I mentioned? Levi is coming to call this afternoon,” Grace said, her low voice brimming with excitement.

They were seated in the guest parlour for a rather late breakfast, and Grace was in a sunny mood, which Louis tried very hard not to begrudge her as he nursed a pounding headache. Lady Williams had already departed for her morning calls—a small mercy. Louis was not sure he could have endured her play-by-play retelling of the previous evening in full scandalous detail.  

“That’s wonderful, Grace,” Lily murmured groggily, pouring herself more tea. Her eyes were puffy, and her hair looked as if a family of birds had nested in it overnight.

“And he wants me to meet his mother,” Grace continued, undeterred. “Can you believe it? His mother! Poor man, he was so mortified by his sisters’ behaviour—I thought he would never stop apologizing. He swore he knew nothing of my letters, that this entire time, he still thought me indifferent to him. Can you imagine?”

“Unfathomable,” Louis said, an indulgent smile tugging at his lips. Even in his current dismal state, it was impossible not to be swept up in Grace’s joy.

“He told me they were all quite settled at the Clermont estate, intending to stay at least a fortnight. But they rushed back the moment they heard we were in town. Mr. Lioncourt belatedly received her ladyship’s invitation, with a note specifying our attendance. I can scarcely believe it—that Levi interrupted his trip and inconvenienced all his friends, just for a chance to see me—”

Louis’s brows lifted in shock, his cup suspended midair. “Lady Pandora?”

Grace chuckled, shooting him an amused glance. “Yes, brother—the woman whose ball we attended last night. Surely you remember her.”

Lily smirked. “How could he forget? Their dance was the talk of the evening.”

Louis ignored their teasing, retreating back to his bitter coffee. But the thought gnawed at him for the rest of the morning. He couldn’t fathom why Lady Pandora would orchestrate such a thing. Surely, if she saw him as a rival for Lestat’s affections, the best course would have been to keep them as far apart as possible, not force them together. Unless, of course, it was some cruel taunt that Louis had yet to decipher—another move in the odd game of chess she and Lestat seemed to be playing, with him as an unwitting pawn.

Mr. Frenière arrived in the early afternoon, bright-eyed and seemingly none the worse for wear from the previous night. Louis felt a sharp pang of disappointment when he saw that Lestat was not with him, and quickly chastised himself for it. Of course Lestat hadn’t come. It was foolish to think he would after his cold demeanour the previous night.

Considering that Lady Williams and Lily provided enough chaperoning, Louis excused himself, taking the side door that led out to the small private stables at the back of the house. He was happy for Grace, but an entire hour of her and Frenière gazing adoringly at each other was more than he could endure. 

The bay mare he favoured was an excellent mount, quite spirited and yet surprisingly responsive. She had taken to Louis readily from the start, and she whickered eagerly as he led her out of the stall, as impatient for their daily outing as he was.

Hyde Park, for all its grandeur, was a poor substitute for the sprawling hills and open fields back home. But the view of towering spruce trees and duck ponds was pleasant enough, and the exercise eased some of the itching restlessness Louis felt from too much time spent cooped up indoors.

The grey, damp weather was not particularly inviting for promenades, and the winding paths were largely deserted. Louis still passed the occasional rider, exchanging polite nods, but he recognized no one—which was unsurprising given that the only people he had known in London were his father’s old connections, gruff tradesmen, with little time or interest for leisurely riding.

As he paused by a murky pond to watch a family of ducks paddling happily, his thoughts, inevitably, drifted back to Lestat. He wondered where Lestat was now. Likely still abed, sleeping off the night’s revelry in the perfumed arms of some starry-eyed debutante, to whom he had whispered sweet promises that he had no intentions of keeping. Or perhaps he had rekindled his tryst with Lady Pandora, and they had laughed together now at Louis’s ridiculous attempts to insert himself into their glittering, exclusive world.

Louis had always known about Lestat’s reputation as a seducer. He had even laughed at it at times. But it had always seemed a vague, distant notion that had no bearing on what he and Lestat shared. It was something else entirely to witness it up close, to know it for certain.

A sharp sting was building at the corner of his eyes, blurring his vision into an imprecise green haze. He shook his head, fiercely blinking it away. He turned away from the pond, urging the mare into a faster gallop, focusing on the comforting rhythmic movements of her powerful muscles beneath him.

At Levi’s insistent invitation, they called on Lady Caroline at the week’s end. Lily had managed to wriggle her way out of it with the convenient excuse of visiting an aunt who lived in town—her late mother’s sister, with whom she would be staying for a few days. Louis, alas, had no such luck.

As irony would have it, they soon discovered that Lady Caroline resided only a stone’s throw from Lady Williams’ house. The proximity made her previous disregard for Grace all the more infuriating.

Levi, like most young men of the ton, maintained separate bachelor lodgings, but both Babette and his mother lived with the de Clermonts. Grace and Louis chose to walk the short distance, taking advantage of the unseasonably dry weather. The air was still brisk, and by the time they arrived, they were a little chilled but pleasantly invigorated.

An elderly butler admitted them into the grand entryway, taking their coats and gloves with impassive efficiency. The house was every bit as ostentatious as Louis had expected, with gilded furnishings and walls papered in bright florals that assaulted the senses. He counted at least three crystal chandeliers by the time they reached the drawing room.

Levi sprang to his feet when they were announced, his face alight with boyish excitement. Both his sisters were present, as well as an elderly woman whom Louis presumed to be their mother. She set aside a half-finished piece of embroidery with practiced grace as she rose to greet them. Babette remained seated, a sour but resigned expression on her face.

Lady Caroline was draped over a chaise longue by the screened fire, her round belly prominent under the delicate printed muslin of her dress. She greeted them with a theatrical shriek of delight, extending a languid hand without bothering to rise. “Oh, how lovely to see you all again! It’s been an age.” She recoiled with a dramatic shudder when Grace’s fingers brushed hers. “Good heavens, Miss Grace, your hand is cold as ice!”

Grace offered a polite smile. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I’m afraid this spring sun is not quite as warm as it appears through the window.”

Lady Caroline’s eyes widened in horror. “Don’t tell me you had to walk here. Had we known, we would have sent one of our carriages for you.”

Babette let out a derisive laugh. “But Caroline, you forget—Mr. du Lac is quite fond of walking.”

Louis’s jaw tightened, and he levelled her a cold look. “I assure you, it was not much of a walk. We’re staying with Viscountess Williams, and she lives just down the street.”

The sisters exchanged a glance, sharp with unspoken calculation.

Babette’s brows rose, her tone offensively sceptical. “You’re acquainted with a viscountess?”

Grace laid a subtle hand on Louis’s arm and smiled politely. “Yes, Lady Williams is a close family friend.”

To Louis’s relief, Mrs. Frenière proved nothing like the snob he had expected. She looked to be in her late fifties, with soft grey hair and a kind face, weathered enough to suggest she hadn’t always lived such an overly pampered existence. She resembled her youngest daughter the most, with the same smooth dark skin and delicate features, and a graceful, generous figure that had maintained even in her old age. After Levi made the customary introductions, she embraced Grace with surprising warmth, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners. “It is a delight to finally meet you, Miss du Lac. I have heard so much about you.”

Grace flushed happily, casting a fleeting glance at Levi, who watched the interaction with unguarded pride. “Good things, I hope, ma’am.”

“Oh, the very best.”

“Sit, sit!” Lady Caroline commanded, waving a hand toward a vibrant green upholstered sofa. “Let’s get you some tea to warm you up. We have so much to catch up on.” She made no move to fetch it herself, of course, but merely lifted her chin from her reclined pose and called out to her sister.

Babette’s expression soured even further, but she did condescend to stand and tug the tasselled bellpull by the door to ring for a servant.

They sat down, sinking into the plush cushions, and soon, tea was brought in. Lady Caroline did most of the talking, asking them a few perfunctory questions before proceeding to lament at length about her dreary existence in town.

“You must promise to visit often, my dear Grace. I am desperately starved for stimulating company.” She rubbed her belly with a theatrical sigh. “My dear Thomas is content to spend all his days at White’s with his friends, and in my current state, I can do little besides lie here and be utterly wretched.” The complaint rang a little hollow, coming from a woman who was currently sipping tea and nibbling biscuits, feet propped comfortably on a velvet stool.

“You are with child, Caroline, not terminally ill,” Babette muttered. “You managed to endure Lady Ashford’s recital just fine last night.”

“Yes, but I had a dreadful time,” Lady Caroline whined. “I could scarcely stand to stay more than an hour. How lucky you are, Babette, that your only worries consist of ton gossip and the latest fashions. You can’t possibly fathom what we married women suffer.”

The pointed jab was delivered with a candy-sweet smile. It was common knowledge that Lady Caroline had managed to secure a duke in her first month of being out, while her elder sister was still unmarried after trudging through five seasons.

Babette’s lips pressed into a thin line, and she retreated into a sullen silence as Lady Caroline prattled on.

“I suffer dreadful spasms all day, and the morning sickness, oh how odious I find it! I am wasting away to nothing. I have absolutely no appetite.” She punctuated the statement with a hearty bite into the fluffy tea cake she was holding.

Mrs. Frenière patted her knee indulgently. “It is but a fleeting discomfort, my dear. Joy follows soon enough.”

“But children are such a nuisance, Mama. I daresay I shall be no less weary when it is born than I am now.” She turned to her sister with a saccharine smile. “Babette, could you ring for the maid again. I feel a sudden chill.”

Babette shot her a venomous glare, but luckily Levi quickly intervened, standing up himself and painstakingly adjusting the painted fireplace screen until his sister was satisfied.

Louis sighed, his eyes twitching as he valiantly suppressed the urge to roll them.

Lady Caroline continued to monopolize the attention throughout the rest of the visit, with the remarkable skill she had for carrying on conversations without requiring the other party's involvement. But despite all the theatrics, Grace still managed to shine and make a good impression with her poise and serene patience.

By the time they departed, Mrs. Frenière was thoroughly charmed, and she promptly invited Grace for tea the following morning. Levi insisted on escorting them back all the way to Lady Williams’s house, his grin bright enough to light an entire room.

Under Lady Williams’ enthusiastic guidance, they continued their whirlwind through the ton’s endless social gauntlet—afternoon strolls at Vauxhall, horse shows at Tattersall’s, and an array of interminable balls and garden parties hosted by her innumerable friends. The frenetic pace was exhausting, to say the least, but Louis did his best to endure it for the girls’ sake, plastering on a charming smile through yet another quadrille or stilted conversation about the weather.

Letters from home arrived sporadically. Mama’s were curt, mostly complaining of the damp weather, and Mrs. Fenwick’s insufferable company, that she was obligated to tolerate for lack of alternatives. She also lamented about Claudia’s increasingly wild behaviour, and her frequent escapades to Meryton with her friend Kitty, urging Louis to write and talk some sense into her. Rashid’s lengthy missives were far more useful, diligently detailing the estate’s accounts and all the preparations he was making for the harvest.

Freed from Finn’s mismanagement and Papa’s wastefulness, the estate was finally thriving, their finances stable for the first time in years. The knowledge eased some of the guilt Louis often felt at wasting his days away in frivolous amusement, and the ever-present knot that had settled firmly in his chest on the day he had visited his father’s banker was finally beginning to loosen.

The relief, however, was greatly tempered by his growing frustration. Lestat was conspicuously absent from every insipid gathering they attended. In fact, the man seemed to have completely vanished since Lady Pandora’s ball, despite Grace’s reliable intelligence that he remained in town and was often at the de Clermonts when she visited.

As days stretched into weeks, Louis could only deduce that Lestat was deliberately avoiding him. It now seemed very unlikely they would ever cross paths again, let alone have a private moment together.

“Oh, I doubt he would come to that sort of thing, my dear,” Lady Williams said when Louis, desperate, ventured as far as to ask—very nonchalantly—if Lestat might be at the next large party they were attending. “An afternoon picnic is far too tame for Monsieur le marquis’s tastes.” She laughed, arching her brows suggestively.

Louis forced a thin smile and made no comment.

In his brief time mingling with the ton, he had heard all sorts of salacious rumours about Lestat. The man’s reputation as an incorrigible rake was well-established in town, and whispers abounded about his many public dalliances, with married women twice his age and timid virgins alike, all effortlessly seduced by his irresistible charm, and with complete disregard for social rules or propriety. He was even rumoured to have fathered an illegitimate child with an opera singer—a boy of twelve, who allegedly bore a striking resemblance to his father. 

Louis told himself that he didn’t care. Gossip was the ton’s currency, traded immoderately and with gleeful embellishment. But with each passing day, Lestat’s continued absence carved deeper into his resolve, and into whatever fragile hope he still harboured that he and Lestat could ever go back to how things were in Kent, where for a fleeting moment, they had existed in their own private bubble, and nothing else had mattered.

He could see it all too clearly now, the momentary fascination that he had been for Lestat—an impertinent and distant country gentleman, who refused to cower to his rank or succumb to his dazzling charm. It must have been a thrilling novelty, for a man who was used to having his pick of lovers wherever he went. Lestat had no doubt relished the challenge, savouring the conquest all the more for Louis’s initial resistance. But Lestat was, by his own admission, an unrepentant libertine, and the idea that he would forsake all others for Louis now seemed utterly absurd.  

Still, Louis was determined to apologize, if only to quiet his own conscience. If Grace married Levi, the connection would be unavoidable, and he refused to live the rest of his life in this painful, awkward uncertainty.

Perhaps, once amends were made between them, he and Lestat could meet in society as civil, indifferent acquaintances. And in time, they could even regain some semblance of friendship. Louis told himself that it would be enough. It would be.

He repeated this assurance like a mantra as he rode through Hyde Park every evening, circling the deserted paths until the sinking sun forced him back home.

Chapter Text

race and Frenière’s courtship had been progressing steadily since Lady Pandora’s ball. They’d been to promenades and open carriage rides in the park, visits to tea salons and pantomime theatre, and all the other absurdities courting couples were expected to do together. It was now customary for Frenière to call daily, and Grace dined with his family nearly as often.   

But it still caught Louis by surprise when, one evening, Frenière lingered after his visit, drawing him aside with an uncharacteristically grave expression.

“Mr. de Pointe du Lac,” Frenière began rather formally, hands clasped tightly on his top hat, “if it’s agreeable to you, I would like to seek a private audience.”

From the corner of his eye, Louis caught a glimpse of Grace and Lily, spying on the exchange from the end of the hallway, poorly concealed behind a column. He stifled the urge to roll his eyes and nodded stiffly, gesturing to Frenière to follow.

They withdrew to the seldom-used study, still bearing the Late Earl Williams’ austere touch with its dark wooden panels and thick leather-bound volumes lining the shelves. Louis sank into a leather chair by the fireplace, while Frenière paced in front of him, his nervousness palpable.

His proposal, when it finally came, was straightforward enough, as earnest and unassuming as Louis had expected from the affable man.

“And of course,” Frenière finished, his gaze earnest. “No matter of money shall ever cross my lips. I would gladly take Miss Grace without a single shilling in dowry...”

Louis sighed, briefly closing his eyes. He was tempted to point out that, contrary to Frenière’s grand assertions, the matter of money had just crossed his lips. “This seems rather sudden,” he said instead. “You’ve only been officially courting for a fortnight.”

“On the contrary, I should have done this months ago.” Frenière halted, his expression pained. “I understand your reservations, Louis. My conduct in the past was…I was… misguided. But I see now what a treasure your sister is, and I do not wish to waste another instant.”

Louis shut his eyes again, swallowing his irritation, his wounded pride, the lingering sting of the Frenières’ past disdain. Grace wanted the man, and her happiness outweighed everything else.

He rose, offering Frenière the best smile he could muster as he extended his hand. “Then you have my permission, Sir, and I very much look forward to welcoming you as a brother.”

It was evident how much the approval affected Frenière. He did not cry, but it seemed a near thing. His throat worked as he swallowed a swell of emotion, and he reached forward to seize Louis’ hand. “Thank you,” he said, voice trembling. “I swear to you, I shall spend the rest of my life endeavouring to be worthy of her.”

An hour later, Grace came to find him, eyes shining as she extended her hand to show the ring on her finger. It was simple and elegant, a testament to Frenière’s keen understanding of her tastes. Louis pulled her into an embrace, feeling strangely as if a weight had finally been lifted off his chest.

“Can you die of happiness?” she whispered, her face buried into his shoulder. “I’m certain I shall.”

Louis chuckled, stroking her back as she hiccupped. “Wait until after the wedding. We wouldn’t want to deprive Mama of the satisfaction of showing you off to the entire county.”

When she pulled back, her smile wavered slightly at the sight of his face. “Oh, Louis, if I could but see you so happy. If there were such a person for you…”

Louis shrugged, forcing a smile. “Perhaps I still have my chances with Babette.”  

Grace clutched his hand, ignoring the quip. “Mr. Lioncourt is still in town, you know. He was at the de Clermonts for dinner just the other night. I’m sure if you wrote to him—”

“No,” Louis cut her off softly. The only thing that information confirmed was that Lestat was indeed avoiding him purposefully. The last thing Louis wanted was to make himself even more ridiculous by chasing after him. “Don’t trouble yourself with that, Grace. You are happy, and that is all that matters to me.”

It was well past midnight when everyone finally retired to bed. Lady Williams had buzzed with triumphant excitement all evening, claiming sole credit for the engagement, and already planning an announcement party.

“We will have a mountain of things to organize on short notice,” she said to Grace as they parted at the top of the stairs. “But I can manage, don’t you worry, my dear. And I will write to your mama first thing. She will be beside herself with joy. Such an advantageous match, and in such a short time as well. You have done wonderfully, my dear.”

Louis bid Grace and Lily goodnight at the entrance of the guest suite they shared, and he gratefully retired to the quiet privacy of his bedroom, shedding his starched evening clothes along the way like an ill-fitting second skin. He washed his face and threw on a loose nightshirt that he didn’t bother to lace up. Against his better judgment, he then found himself drifting toward the writing desk, Grace’s words echoing in his mind.

He wasn’t going to write to Lestat. He wasn’t.

It would have been beyond humiliating to do so, and a useless exercise besides. Lestat had made it a point to avoid him, and a letter would change nothing. What could Louis even say? He had no doubt that Lestat had orchestrated Frenière’s renewed pursuit of Grace, and just as he had done with Paul, he had sought no credit for it at all. But instead of thanking him for any of it, Louis had repaid him with insults and scorn. No letter could ever make up for that.

He sank into the upholstered chair, bare feet curled up under him, and he stared down at the stack of blank writing paper, neatly arranged at the center of the desk. With a frustrated huff, he grabbed the quill, carefully dipping it in the ink pot before scrawling:

Dear Lestat,

He quickly scratched the words out and crumpled the paper. Such a greeting was overly familiar, presumptuous even. He dipped the quill and tried again:

Mr. de Lioncourt,

He scratched that out too, and wrote underneath it with a trembling hand, mirroring Lestat’s own words to him.

I came to London with the single object of seeing you. I had to see you.

A harsh line quickly obliterated the sentence before he ragefully crumpled the paper into his fist.

An hour later, a dozen crumpled sheets of expensive writing paper were smouldering in the fireplace. Louis slammed the quill down, ink splattering on his fingers. He drew his knees to his chest, staring into the dimming fire as a tangle of emotions coiled in his throat, unspooling like frayed threads on a spindle.

For a brief, fierce moment, he allowed himself to feel it—the scorching, impotent anger. At his father, for dying too soon and leaving him shackled with a responsibility he’d never wanted. At his mother, for never thinking him good enough, no matter what he did. At Grace, whose relentless and stubborn optimism only highlighted his own cowardice. And at himself, most of all, for being so proud and so foolish. For sitting here like an idiot, pining for a man who shunned him. For mourning an attachment he had so carelessly broken with his own actions.

He could distinctly picture his mother’s face, twisted in the familiar expression of disgusted disappointment, her voice shrill with resentful anger; selfish, ungrateful child! Why must you always ruin everything?

The house was quiet now, the only sounds the soft crackling of the fire, and the faint patter of the rain outside. Louis closed his eyes, breathing through the tightness in his chest, and slowly, he pushed all the bitter thoughts down, muffling them until they were nothing but a faint buzzing in the darkness of his mind.

He wasn’t sure how long he remained there, posture rigid, eyes stinging from exhaustion, but eventually, as night gave way to dawn, faint sounds trickled into the room; muffled footsteps in the hallway, the hushed murmur of the maids, and the clatter of mops and buckets as they started their usual morning chores.

Louis blinked at the faint light edging through the drapes. He was suddenly conscious of the chill in the room. The fire had long since burnt out, and he was only wearing his nightshirt, his bare feet frozen.

Well, at least the rain had stopped.

He unwound his stiff limbs and stood up shakily from the chair. He wasn’t going to write to Lestat, he resolved firmly. What he needed was some fresh air to clear his mind.

The park entrance emerged from the early morning fog, its tall columns still slick with rain. Louis slowed the mare to a leisurely trot as they passed beneath the stone archway, his gaze drifting over the quiet, misty landscape. Tilting his head back, he let the cool, damp air play across his face. It felt good to escape the frenzy of the house, if only for a few hours. Breakfast would no doubt be a boisterous affair, and afterward, Lady Williams would surely insist on parading Grace about town—with Louis expected to dutifully follow and smile accordingly.

Still, Frenière’s proposal at least meant this farce of a Season could finally come to an end. They could all return to Pointe du Lac, with Grace’s grand wedding to look forward to. Louis had had more than his fill of the ton, of their affected manners and their hollow pleasantries. At home, at least, he would be free to wallow alone in his misery without having to endure an endless parade of pointless social engagements.

The sound of approaching hooves startled him out of his thoughts. He had counted on the park being deserted at this hour. Suppressing a flare of irritation, he guided his mare aside to make way on the narrow earth path and offered a polite nod to the oncoming rider.

They were nearly past one another when recognition struck Louis like a bolt of lightning.

“Lestat?”

The name escaped his lips before he could think better of it. He reined in sharply, turning back. For an unguarded moment, a wave of pure joy sent his mind reeling. It was indeed Lestat, bright yellow hair unmistakable under a black top hat, his blue eyes wide in shock. But then he remembered Lestat had been avoiding him for weeks, and had barely said two words to him during their last meeting, and he fought to school his stupid grin into a more neutral expression.

Lestat also seemed to recover from his shock, his expression growing more wary. “Hello, Louis,” he said, and the use of his given name after the stiff formality of their last meeting sent a warmth curling through Louis’s chest.

“I’m surprised to find you here at such an hour,” Louis managed, striving for a light, playful tone. “I didn’t think you got out of bed before midday at the very least.”

The quip landed like a stone at the bottom of a river. Lestat’s expression remained guarded, his horse shifting restlessly beneath him. He reached down absently with a gloved hand, soothing the animal with a few strokes. “I come here sometimes,” he said finally. “When I wish to think—or rather, not think in this case.” His lips twisted in a wry smirk, but there was a distinct bitter edge to his tone.

“I see,” Louis said. “Then it seems we share the same affliction.”

He only now noticed the dark circles under Lestat’s eyes, the way his usually carefully maintained hair was dishevelled under his hat. Even his riding clothes, while fine, lacked their customary polished elegance, as if he had just thrown on the first thing on hand without much care for the result. Evidently, whatever was troubling him was grave enough to break through his artfully maintained veneer of perfection.

Lestat’s horse shuffled impatiently again, breaking the charged silence. “Forgive me, I’ve interrupted your ride,” Lestat said, gathering his reins. “Good day, Mr. du Lac.”

Without thinking, Louis urged his mare forward, barring Lestat’s path. “Wait—please.” The raw plea hung between them, more desperate and vulnerable than Louis had intended. He saw the flicker of shock in Lestat’s eyes, but he pressed on before he could think better of it. “Would you like to ride with me? That is, if you don’t mind retracing your steps.”

Silence stretched out as Lestat studied him, fingers flexing around the reins. Louis held his breath, pulse hammering. When Lestat finally spoke, his voice was soft. “No, I don’t mind.”

They fell into step, the only sounds the crunch of hooves on the damp earth and the occasional call of morning birds. The chill painted their breath in fleeting clouds as they rode, the simmering tension between them so familiar and yet so different. Louis stole glances sideways, unable to help himself. Lestat still rode with the same mesmerizing grace, effortlessly guiding his mount with the slightest nudge, as if it were a natural extension of his own body.

They halted at a small pond, and Louis loosened his reins, letting the mare drink. He drew a shaky breath, acutely aware of Lestat, a few mere feet away from him. When he finally gathered enough courage to turn, he found Lestat already watching him, his expression inscrutable. He had taken off his hat, and his hair fell in a wild cascade around his shoulders. Louis fought the urge to reach out and touch it, to feel those soft golden strands sliding between his fingers.

“How fares Pointe du Lac?” Lestat asked.

The mundane enquiry shouldn’t have affected Louis so much, but it did. Lestat was speaking to him, and looking at him—really looking at him, for the first time in months.

“Quite well,” Louis said. “I’ve hired a new land steward who is quite efficient. It seems you were right about Finn O’Shea; he’d been stealing from the estate for years, right under my nose.” He hesitated, then added softly, “I suppose I’ll have to add that to the long list of things I owe you thanks for.”

Lestat’s brows rose, a faint grin playing at his lips. “Oh? And pray tell, what else is on this illustrious list?”

Louis briefly considered making a salacious joke, but he chose honesty instead. “I know it's in large part thanks to your efforts that Frenière and my sister are now engaged.”

Lestat shook his head, his hair gleaming in the pale light. “I did nothing but rectify my own blunder. Believe me, Levi needed little encouragement once he saw the situation more clearly.”

“And what about Paul?” Louis pressed. “He told me it was you who wrote to Lady Sevraine to secure him the posting in Hunsford. Why did you never mention it?”

Lestat glanced away, a faint flush blooming on his cheeks. “I don't like to point out my own virtues.” He smirked, “I fear it would greatly interfere with my reputation as an incorrigible rogue. Besides, I assumed you’d deduce it yourself once you discovered our connection.”

“I didn’t,” Louis admitted sheepishly. “Not until Paul told me. I simply thought it a rather strange coincidence.” Lestat chuckled, and Louis joined him, realizing how wilfully blind he’d been. “But why did you do it, Lestat? Why go to such lengths to help Paul when he’d been nothing but rude to you?”   

Lestat tilted his head, giving him a quizzical look, as though the answer was so obvious he feared he had misunderstood the question. “You spoke to me of your brother’s predicament that night at dinner.” He looked down, as if suddenly embarrassed. “I saw how much it weighed on you—how you inexplicably blamed yourself for it. I wrote to Sevraine the next morning.”

Louis stared at him, throat too tight to speak. For so long, he had convinced himself that Lestat’s kindness must have been a calculation, his charm a well-crafted façade. But this—to know Lestat had been so attentive to his feelings even before they’d been anything to each other—left him utterly breathless.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Lestat muttered, his lip stretching into a wry smile. “It wasn’t entirely selfless on my part. You see, I thought—” He broke off, shaking his head in a self-depreciating gesture, and then he looked up again, meeting Louis's gaze with startling directness. “I hoped it would mean I’d see you again. Having your brother living so close to my mother’s house seemed… convenient. A way to tie myself to you, somehow.”

The admission hung between them, fragile and painfully honest. Louis found himself grinning despite the ache in his chest, and the treacherous tears prickling the corner of his eyes. “Well, thank you all the same,” he said softly. “You've changed my brother’s life for the better, and I’m not sure I can ever repay you—”

“Please, Louis,” Lestat cut him off with an impatient wave. “Sevraine is delighted to have a new curate, and quite fond of your brother despite all his flaws. There's no debt between us. The last thing I want is for you to think you owe me anything.” He looked away sharply, turning his horse toward the path. “Shall we head back?”

His expression shuttered off once more, and they rode in heavy silence until the iron gates came into view, far sooner than Louis would have liked. He watched, heart clenching painfully, as Lestat made to leave. Before he could second-guess himself, he called out to stop him.

“Mr. Lioncourt!”

Lestat turned, surprised.

“I seem to recall you promising to take me to the opera when I came to town,” Louis said, the words tumbling out in an awkward rush. “I hope you intend to honour your promise.”

Lestat stared at him with wide eyes, and then he blinked, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. “I…Yes. Of course. If you still wish it.”

“I do,” Louis said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “Next week, perhaps? I believe Lady Williams has left an evening or two unclaimed in her infernal schedule.”

A slow, genuine smile spread across Lestat’s face—the first one Louis had seen in what felt like an eternity. It was dizzying, like staring directly into the sun. “Very well. I shall speak with Levi and arrange it. The program is rather thin at the moment, but we can make do.”

Louis suppressed his disappointment at the mention of Frenière. He had hoped they would go alone, and that he and Lestat might finally have a private moment together. Still, it was a chance to spend an entire evening in Lestat’s company, after weeks of absence. He smiled, bowing slightly in his saddle. “I'll look forward to it then. Good day, Mr. Lioncourt.”

Lestat returned his salutation, touching his gloved fingers to his hat. “Good day, Louis.”

As he watched Lestat ride away into the fog, his golden hair like a beacon against the dull, monochromatic landscape, Louis felt something perilously close to happiness stirring in his chest.

Chapter Text

he invitation arrived the following morning, delivered by a liveried footman, who waited patiently as Louis cracked open the embossed wax seal. The card was thick and expensive-looking, the dark ink stark against the cream-coloured paper. It was written in Lestat’s own hand; elegant, looping letters that seemed to dance across the page. When Louis lifted it closer to his face, the paper had a faint, sweet scent to it, a mix of sandalwood and lavender. For a reckless moment, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, imagining the sweep of Lestat's fingers over each word.

The message itself was rather formal and impersonal, but it still made his pulse quicken:

Mr. L. de Lioncourt requests the pleasure of your company on this coming Friday, at the Haymarket Theatre Royal, for a performance of Handel’s Agrippina, followed by a sit-down dinner…

Louis skimmed lower, his initial excitement dimming slightly. It was to be a group outing, with Lady Williams and the girls included in the invitation, and the Frenières and de Clermonts also set to attend.

It was a far cry from the intimate evening he had hoped for. He and Lestat would likely have little chance for meaningful conversation beyond a few mild pleasantries. But still, Louis's traitorous mind conjured it; a velvet-draped private box, the dim theatre a low, distant hum around them, the swell of music masking the hitch of his breath as Lestat's warm lips found his neck, nimble fingers brushing against his thigh before slowly trailing upwards—

“Is there a reply you wish me to convey, sir?” The footman was looking at him expectantly, a bemused expression on his face.

Louis blinked, his face heating up violently as he realized with dawning horror that he was still standing in the open doorway, the invitation clutched to his chest like a love letter, while half of Mayfair strolled past on their evening promenade.

He cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of dignity. “Yes, please inform Mr. Lioncourt that we happily accept his invitation.”

The footman bowed graciously and departed. Louis shut the door, allowing himself a small, private smile. In just over a week, he would be seeing Lestat again. 

In the long week that followed, Louis told himself—rather unconvincingly—that he was not counting the days. He tempered his brimming excitement with a dull procession of self-imposed distractions. He visited the lending library a few times for fresh reading material and took his daily rides through the park, though, much to his disappointment, he did not happen upon Lestat again.

He found himself reluctantly chaperoning Grace and Frenière to various mind-numbing romantic outings, doing his utmost not to die from boredom or to gag at their sickly-sweet exchanges. In addition to that, he dutifully accompanied Lady Williams and the girls on their innumerable trips to Bond Street in preparation for Grace’s upcoming engagement party. He did his best not to utter a single word of complaint as he silently trailed behind them through modistes, milliners and flower shops, carrying their ever-increasing assortment of shopping boxes.

He also answered his neglected correspondence, which had begun to pile up since his arrival in town. He sat down at his desk, deliberately ignoring the card that now lay on the escritoire, gleaming like a jewel amidst the dull clutter of books, newspapers and ledgers.

The bulk of the letters were from his banker, detailing the latest dividends from his—surprisingly prosperous—investments, and enquiries from Rashid about the summer harvest, and a few tenants hoping to renew their lease.

There was also a letter from Paul, two entire sheets of ramblings about the completion of the roof repairs on his little parish church, followed by a glowing account of the shipment of silver candleholders for the altar, courtesy of his generous patroness, Lady Sevraine. Louis smiled as he penned his reply, marvelling at how enviably simple and wholesome his brother’s life was.

The final letter on the pile was from his mother, written in her usual caustic style. Predictably, she mainly complained about their insipid neighbours, and Claudia’s behaviour. With her closest friend Kitty away in London for her first season, Claudia had taken to spending time with the only other young person in the vicinity—Tobias, the stable boy. Mama, of course, saw this friendship with a bad eye. In her view, servants were meant to be ordered about, perhaps occasionally rewarded if they were especially loyal, but absolutely never fraternized with.

She lamented in her sharp cursive:

You must speak to her, Louis, before she grows positively wild. I fear she takes too much after your father in her heedless quest for constant amusement—a most unfortunate trait for a young girl, as I’m sure you would agree…

He didn’t.

Just yesterday, Lady Fenwick had the singular pleasure of informing me that she saw Claudia from her carriage window, unchaperoned, wandering about the woods in the company of that boy. I reprimanded Claudia, of course, and attempted to explain to her that such conduct is entirely improper for a young lady of good breeding. But it seems nothing I say has any effect. Perhaps she will listen to you, as—for reasons I cannot fathom—she seems to value your good opinion far more than mine…”

Louis rolled his eyes. As far as Claudia’s frequent social transgressions went, this one was rather mild. Toby was the son of one of their oldest tenants, and he and Claudia had grown up together. Their friendship was an entirely harmless one, especially considering Louis knew with certainty that Toby had no interest in girls.

That unexpected revelation had come a few years ago, from a series of clumsy and rather embarrassing advances the boy had made toward Louis in his first months of working at Pointe du Lac. Toby had been barely sixteen at the time, and desperate to prove himself. He’d trailed Louis around the estate like an overeager puppy, eyes wide in admiration, his solicitous hands lingering a little more than they should. Louis had let him down as gently as he could, and fortunately, the childish infatuation had eventually worn off.

Mama’s letter concluded with an equally dramatic flourish:

Now that Grace is soon to be settled, I believe it is time we begin seeking Claudia a suitable match. What better way to discourage these imprudent associations…

Louis scoffed at the ridiculous suggestion. Claudia was far too young for any of that. He would die before he let Mama incessantly hound her about finding a husband the way she had done with Grace. All that Claudia needed was attention and a firmer hand, both of which Mama seemed curiously unwilling to provide.

He sighed, folding the letter. Alas, the matter would have to wait until he returned home.

The evening of the Opera finally arrived, and Louis felt ridiculous for how much trepidation he felt. He spent an absurd two hours getting ready, and another half an hour in front of the tall mirror, turning this way and that to assess the result.

He had chosen his finest waistcoat—silk brocade, cinched at the waist as was the latest fashion, in a deep moss green colour that was a near exact match for his eyes. He had tamed his curls into a slick side part with a liberal application of pomade, and his white cravat was tied in a knot that was simple but elegant. He had no real measure of whether he looked fashionable or enticing, but the result was, at the very least, passable—polished without looking like he’d tried too hard.

“Don’t worry, you look perfectly ravishing.”

Louis started, glancing up to find Lily leaning against the doorframe, watching him with an amused expression. Their eyes met in the mirror, and she offered him a sly, knowing smile.

“Though I suspect he would find you just as beguiling in a burlap sack.”

Louis shot her a withering look, his ears burning, and he finally stepped away from the mirror.

The Haymarket, though not as large or as lavish as the two winter theatres, was an imposing three-story building, with tall Grecian columns and high windows. The place was filled to the brim when they arrived. The wide doors opened to a packed vestibule, teeming with elegant silk gowns and finely tailored evening coats. It seemed that despite the various other amusements available during the summer months, the opera remained a most beloved pastime for the ton—a place not only to be entertained, but to see and be seen. 

Their own rather large party was made up of the three du Lacs and a fur-clad and feathered-hatted Lady Williams, who was most grateful for the inclusion as she kept no private box of her own; Mr Frenière and his two sisters; and the duke and his equally insipid younger brother.

Lestat met them in the entrance hall, resplendent in a dark evening coat that brought out the brightness of his hair, making it gleam like burnished gold under the gaslight. His gaze flickered toward Louis, and their eyes met. And there it was—that look. That fiery intensity that made Louis feel like a parched man, finally being given a tall glass of cool water, like he and Lestat were the only two people in the world.  

Lestat turned away, greeting everyone else with equal charm and warm familiarity. They all made their way up the spiralling marble staircase and into the circular auditorium. Louis’s eyes widened as he took in the vast room. There must have been half a thousand people, at the very least. The gilded balconies were overflowing with the cream of London society, all dressed in their best finery. Their murmured conversations reverberated against the exquisitely painted domed ceilings, blending in with the faint tuning of the orchestra below.

Lestat’s box was on the second tier, well situated close to the stage. It held ten, arranged in two rows of five. The de Clermonts sat at the front with Babette and Lady Williams, who was already eagerly leaning over the balustrade to survey the audience through her lorgnette. Louis, who had thus far held only a middling interest in opera, was content to sit at the end of the back row.

To his surprise, Lestat slipped into the seat right beside him. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically tentative. “I always find that the music sounds much better from the back row. Something to do with the acoustics of the walls.” He cast Louis a sidelong glance, as if gauging his reaction.

Louis smiled before he could help himself, a sudden warmth unfurling in his chest. “It’s your box, Mr. Lioncourt. You may sit wherever you please.”

Lestat nodded, absently flipping through the program. Louis’s gaze reflexively lingered on his hands, on the long, elegant fingers flicking the pages. They were bare tonight, save for his usual gold signet, bearing his family crest. 

When the overture began, Lestat straightened, his attention riveted onto the stage. But his expression quickly soured as the first act progressed, turning into a disgusted moue as the tenor playing Nero croaked out his mournful aria, chest puffed with pride.

Louis leaned closer, keeping his voice low. “What’s the matter? I thought you enjoyed this sort of thing.”

Lestat shot him an arched look, the polished tips of his opera pumps tapping impatiently. “I do enjoy music, Mr. du Lac. What I do not enjoy is listening to amateurs butcher a beloved piece.”

Louis smiled. “He doesn’t sound that terrible to me,” he said just to be contrary.

Lestat gave him a skeptical look just as the tenor’s voice cracked on a particularly high note. Louis winced.

“Alright,” he conceded. “Perhaps not the best.”

“Not even close,” Lestat said, turning to the next page with an indignant huff. “I apologize. This was not at all what I envisioned when I suggested the outing. I can’t even fathom how someone like that can make it onto a stage. I know summer programming is thin, but I wasn’t aware they’d begun recruiting from roadside taverns.”  

“Perhaps the second act will be better,” Louis offered, suppressing a smile at Lestat’s outraged expression.

The second act was indeed better. The young Nero mercifully had little to sing, leaving most of the act to the formidable soprano playing Agrippina. Lestat watched her with marked interest as she pranced seductively on the stage, but his gaze soon returned to Louis. He leaned closer to explain the complex musical arrangements, his voice a low, velvety murmur that sent a warm shiver down Louis’s spine.

“You see, Pallas and Narcissus don’t yet realize Agrippina has tricked them into supporting Nero. That is why the music turns dissonant here.”

Lestat’s fingers hovered reverently over the score, and Louis nodded, feigning understanding. In reality, he was far more taken with looking at Lestat. From this close, Louis could see his face in exquisite detail—his pale lashes, casting faint shadows over sharp planes of his cheekbones; the crease of his brow as he frowned in delight, his blue eyes fluttering shut as if he was overwhelmed by the beauty of the music;  the soft curve of his lips as they quirked into a delighted smile… He had a faint scar at the corner of his mouth that Louis had never noticed before, and it shifted slightly as he spoke, and Louis found himself wondering what it would feel like to trace it with his tongue—

“Do you see it?” Lestat said, finger pointing at a string of notes on the page. “Now the crescendo sweeps in, as the treachery is finally revealed.”

To Louis, the notes all resembled squiggly dots on the page, but he pressed closer, pretending to read over Lestat’s shoulder. Their thighs were now firmly pressed together from hip to knee, and when Louis glanced up, Lestat’s eyes seemed momentarily unfocused, his chest taut as if he too was holding his breath.

When the final curtain fell, Louis felt as though he had woken from a spell. He drew a shaky breath, steadying himself as the illusion of secluded intimacy dissolved, and the crowded auditorium rushed back into focus.

Tepid applause rose as the actors took their final bows, most attendees already rising to leave. Lestat offered Lily his arm with a flourish as they exited the box, merging into the stream of patrons descending the grand staircase.

“Well?” Lestat asked. “What did you think?”

“It was certainly an experience,” Lily mused.

“It sure was,” Louis agreed. “Though I’ll admit I would have been entirely lost without your commentary.” He flashed Lestat a small, private smile.

Lestat preened, his cheeks flushing. “Then I must insist on accompanying you to every opera hereafter.”

The words sent a foolish thrill through Louis—one that only intensified when Lestat’s hand brushed the small of his back as they stepped through the doors.

Most of the patrons hurried out into the rainy night, the hoods of their capes raised and their umbrellas clutched as they darted toward their waiting carriages. Being a sociable member of the ton often required juggling several events in a single evening. The most skilled could even manage to flit between three or four.

Their own party remained with the small crowd still gathered in the vestibule, where light refreshments were being served as they awaited the call to dinner. Lady Caroline was, as usual, making a fuss, lamenting that her feet ached dreadfully and she could not bear to stay a moment longer. Her sister, engrossed in conversation with the younger de Clermont, was ignoring her pointedly, while her unfortunate husband looked on, leaning heavily on his ornate gold cane, an expression of weary resignation on his face.

Louis remained at Lestat’s side, standing slightly apart from the rest of their party. A reckless part of him had half-hoped, half-fantasized that Lestat would lure him into one of the shadowy alcoves and kiss him senseless. But Lestat was uncharacteristically restrained tonight, seemingly content to merely talk endlessly about music.

It was maddening. And yet, Louis also found it inexplicably endearing. He realized that he could listen to Lestat talk for hours, watching the way his hands gestured unselfconsciously, his face lighting up with childlike excitement.

“The best performances are during the winter months, of course,” Lestat said. “The city is quieter then, and the two main theatres are open. Their standards for selecting talent are far more rigorous.” His nose wrinkled at the memory of the tenor. “So perhaps I could tempt you to return for Michaelmas…”

He trailed off as his gaze locked onto Louis’s, and for a heartbeat, the clamour of the room faded to a distant hum. Louis wished, desperately, that they were alone, if only so that he could reach out and tuck that stray curl behind Lestat’s ear. He had never been skilled at this—the slow, torturous dance of seduction, with its nebulous rules and uncertain outcomes. His few past dalliances had always come to him, and one thing had naturally led to another without Louis having to initiate any of it.

“I might be amenable,” he said, fixing his gaze on a vague point past Lestat’s shoulder. “Given the right…inducements.”

Lestat arched a brow, his lips quirking into a teasing smile. “Is witnessing the finest winter ballet in Europe not inducement enough? The tickets are worth their weight in gold.”

“Ah. So this is merely an attempt to buy my affection?”

Lestat’s smile faded. “Not at all,” he said, suddenly serious. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “I would much rather you bestow it freely.”

The scent of Lestat’s cologne curled around him, warm and intoxicating. He desperately wanted to press closer, to chase the scent and bury his face in the curve of Lestat’s neck. Perhaps after dinner, he could suggest drinks at Lestat’s lodgings—

A murmur rippled through the crowd, and to Louis’s irritation, Lestat straightened, his eyes scanning the room for the source of the commotion. A woman was slowly descending the stairs, basking in the attention she attracted. She paused at the bottom, letting a slew of admirers flock to her like moths to a flame. Her crimson lips curved in a self-satisfied smile that twisted Louis’s stomach.

It would have been dishonest to deny her beauty—that is, if one favoured the lifeless kind of beauty that reeked of artifice. Her honey-blonde hair was piled up into an elaborate coiffe, studded with jewelled pins that glittered with every turn of her head. Her cold, sharp blue eyes swept over the crowd gathered around her from beneath artfully darkened lashes. Underneath her lavish fur stole, the neckline of her satin gown was cut obscenely low over her small chest, and her face was painted with enough rouge to scandalize the older matrons whispering behind their fans. And as if to bring the vulgarity to its pinnacle, she was covered in diamonds, that gleamed blindingly in the bright yellow light.

Belatedly, Louis recognized her as the soprano who had played Agrippine on stage. Among her entourage also stood the dreadful tenor, now clad in a crimson brocade suit so tight it might as well have been painted on. His jewelled fingers clung possessively to the arm of the older gentleman at his side.  

Louis stifled a derisive snort. Among the ton, a coveted mistress or lover was as much a status symbol as a fine carriage or a pair of thoroughbreds. Singers were especially prized; Louis had seldom heard of an acclaimed songster in town without their generous patron being mentioned in the same breath. And in a society where sobriety in dress was the very hallmark of good taste, the extravagant gifts lavished upon these paramours offered a clever workaround: a means to flaunt one’s wealth without stooping to the vulgarity of wearing such garish things oneself. A gaudy diamond necklace on a mistress’s powdered decolletage was, in effect, a billboard loudly proclaiming: Look at what I can afford.  

He opened his mouth to make some cutting remark to Lestat about the ridiculousness of it all, but he froze as he realized the woman had turned towards them, her gaze lingering intently on Lestat. She lifted a satin-gloved hand, beckoning him over with the casual ownership of a queen summoning her favourite courtier.

“Are you acquainted with the lady?” Louis asked, proud of how steady his voice sounded despite the bile rising in his throat.

“I am indeed,” Lestat said, his face inscrutable. “If you’ll excuse me, I must go pay my respects.”

Louis nodded, forcing a smile. “Of course.”

He watched, jaw clenched, as Lestat crossed the room, the sea of admirers parting easily to let him through. He was glad that at least the woman would not be invited to join their party. Propriety dictated that one never introduced a fallen woman to respectable ladies—the mere fact of being seen in the company of such a woman would have been enough to tarnish their reputation.  

Louis turned back towards the rest of the party, swallowing the bitterness on his tongue. Lestat was acquainted with almost everyone in town and quite popular; it would have been absurd to expect his undivided attention all evening.

“What’s the matter?” Lily asked as he joined her. “You look like you’ve bitten into a lemon.”

“Perhaps I’m simply bored,” Louis muttered, schooling his face into a mask of cool indifference.

But Lily—damn her—was far too perceptive to fall for it. Her eyes quickly scanned the room, and understanding dawned on her face as she spotted Lestat and the singer. Before Louis could stop her, she turned to Lady Williams, who was deep in conversation with Grace and Levi about their impending nuptials.

“Who is that young lady everyone seems so taken with?" Lily asked, expertly feigning polite curiosity.  

Lady Williams let out a derisive chuckle. “Antoinette Brown is no lady, my dear, I can certainly tell you that.” Her voice lowered to a whisper as she added. “It is an open secret that she is the Marquis’ longest-standing mistress.”

Louis froze, his hand clenching painfully around his champagne flute. So this was her—the woman with whom Lestat spent his nights. And likely the same woman who had borne his illegitimate child.

"I see," Lily said softly, shooting Louis a pitying glance that only made him feel worse.

Across the room, Lestat bowed over the singer’s hand, his lips lingering a heartbeat too long. As if sensing Louis’s stare, Miss Brown glanced up, her painted mouth curling into a sneer. Then she leaned in, whispering something to Lestat, her fingers brushing his lapel with unmistakable familiarity.

White hot rage flared in Louis’s chest, and he decided that he hated her, with a burning intensity that almost frightened him. He realized that his hand was trembling, the champagne sloshing perilously close to the rim. He drained the glass in one burning swallow, thrust it to a passing footman, and seized another.

Lady Williams was still talking to Lily, but her voice now sounded distant and muffled. “—I hear he spends a fortune on her upkeep, a Mayfair townhouse, silks and jewels by the trunkful. But don’t let it dash your hopes, my dear; such things are to be expected for a man of his…appetites. And as they say, reformed rakes make the best husbands.”

Lily’s nervous laugh rang out in Louis's ears. “I assure you, my lady, I have no such designs. I am quite determined to die an old maid—”

Louis drained the second glass without tasting it. The room swayed alarmingly, his lungs constricting. He needed air. Needed to be anywhere but here—

“Louis?” Lily’s hand closed around his arm, pulling him sharply back to reality.

He forced a breath, focusing on the grounding touch. The last thing he needed was to make a scene by falling into hysterics like a betrayed wife. He had no right to such anger, no prior claim. Lestat was not his. They were nothing to each other, less than nothing.

But a traitorous thought slipped through his resolve, and for a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what could have been had he swallowed his anger and his pride, and said yes to Lestat’s proposal. Would he be the one standing in a circle of admirers, draped in the finest silks and jewels, preening under Lestat’s attention?

He shook his head, shame burning through him. He vaguely remembered the phrase Mama always used, that a mistress was far more despicable that a common whore, because at least a whore pocketed her coin at the end of the night and left. But a mistress remained and kept on taking and taking until there was nothing left.

“I’m fine,” he gritted out to Lily, who was still gazing up at him with concern. “I just need another drink. Preferably something stronger."

The four glasses of champagne he had downed already were making his head swim, but they were not enough to dull the gawking ache in his chest. What he truly needed was to leave. But short of feigning a sudden illness, there was no escaping the dinner without causing a scandal. So he stood there, silently seething.

A few feet away, Lady Caroline's complaints had risen like steam from a boiling kettle. Her husband was attempting to reason with her, his hushed words strained as he clung to the last shreds of patience.

“—My dear, need I remind you that it was you who insisted on coming despite your…condition?”

“Because I was tired of being cooped up at home while you had all the amusement.” Caroline's voice hit a shrill pitch, and several curious heads turned in their direction. “But now my feet ache, and I refuse to stay here another minute.”

The duke's jaw worked. “We'll be seated for dinner shortly. You can rest your feet then.”

“I don't want to sit down, Thomas—I want to go home!”   

Louis looked over at Lestat and the singer again. Their heads were bent together as they carried on what looked like an animated conversation, her bony fingers shamelessly toying with his cravat.

A reckless impulse seized him, and he disentangled himself from Lily's grip, striding resolutely toward the quarrelling couple.

“Your Grace,” he interjected smoothly, “perhaps I could escort Her Ladyship home. I find myself plagued with a sudden headache and would welcome the excuse to retire."

They both turned to him sharply, startled to be so boldly interrupted. Caroline looked mildly irate, like one would look as they witnessed a fly landing in their drink, but the duke’s face quickly sagged in relief.

“Ah!  The perfect solution, my dear.” He patted his wife's arm. “You can take the carriage, and uh... Lewis here will see you safely home.”

Louis's fingers twitched. He had dined at the man's table countless times and would soon call him family, but apparently, none of that warranted the duke troubling himself to recall Louis’s name.

Caroline's face crumpled, her chest heaving as if she was about to succumb to a fit of tears. “Very well, Thomas,” she whispered venomously. “If you think that would be best.” She gathered her skirts with a theatrical swoosh and imperiously extended her hand to Louis.

“I'll see you at home,” Louis said to Grace, ignoring her bewildered frown.

“Louis—” Lily caught his sleeve.

He quickly cut her off. “Please give my thanks to Mr. Lioncourt for his generous invitation, and my apologies that I could not stay longer.”

He refused to glance at Lestat and the singer again, no matter how his skin prickled with the urge. He turned, steering Lady Caroline towards the exit.

Chapter Text

By the time the bewildered footman closed the carriage door behind them, Lady Caroline was in a full fit, unrestrained tears cascading down her pretty, doll-like face. The rain was still falling in a gentle drizzle, the thin droplets tracing silver veins down the windowpanes, as if nature itself was mirroring her theatrical lamentations.

Louis perched uncomfortably opposite her on the velvet cushioned bench, already regretting his gallant initiative. Though he was quite fond of a dramatic exit, now that it was done, he questioned whether being confined in a closed carriage with a weeping Caroline was truly preferable to enduring another hour of Lestat’s flirtations with his mistress. He took in a deep breath, silently praying the ride back to Mayfair would be a swift one.

 “Do you see,” Caroline sobbed as the carriage jostled softly over uneven cobblestones, “do you see with how little regard he treats me?” She let out a pitiful hiccup. “His arrogant, withered shrew of a mother hounded me incessantly from the moment we were married. She spoke of nothing but children, and my duty to perpetuate the de Clermont’s ancient and noble bloodline. She even threatened to seek an annulment if I failed to produce her son an heir. For months, I made myself ill, swallowing vile tonics and potions from those French quacks she recommended. And now—now—when I am finally with child, Thomas treats me as if I am some diseased, mad creature he does not wish to touch!” She let out another wailing sob and collapsed against the window, her heaving breath fogging up the glass.

Louis bit the inside of his cheek, torn between genuine pity and a sort of grim, sadistic amusement at Caroline’s misfortune. He pulled out his folded handkerchief, extending it to her.

“I am sure once the child arrives, all will be well again,” he offered without much conviction.

“He says my womanly troubles repulse him,” Caroline murmured, her gaze lost in the dark, blurry view that rolled by. “He wishes to remove himself to his family’s country estate until my confinement is over. As if it is not his welp I am carrying. As if I have not sacrificed my figure, my beauty—”

“I’m sorry,” Louis muttered. He reached out and patted her hand, in what he hoped was a vaguely comforting gesture. Overt displays of emotion had always made him uneasy, mostly because he never knew how to respond to them. Particularly when they came from a woman he had previously regarded with little more than polite disdain. Until now, Caroline had been nothing but vacuous arrogance and pretention; it was disorienting to witness her so thoroughly unravelled.

He startled when she gripped his arm with surprising force, her large, tear-filled eyes a little crazed. “I could have had anyone, you know,” she hissed. “I was declared the incomparable of my season, and my father had put up fifty thousand guineas for my dowry.”

Louis’s eyes widened. Such a sum was large enough to tempt the Prince Regent himself, let alone an exiled French nobleman with an obscure title.

“Suitors waited for hours on the street to catch a mere glimpse of me,” Caroline continued, her voice rising steadily. “My dance card filled before I even entered the ballroom. And yet, that haggard old bat, who lives at my family’s expense, dares to act as though her son condescended to marrying me. As if any other young ladies were lining up to wed a lame, penniless French aristocrat! But I did. Because Thomas was sweet, and he made me laugh. Because, for one foolish moment, I thought he truly saw me and not simply the fortune I came with.”

Louis shrank back further into the cushioned bench. These were highly private and intimate details he should have never been privy to. But Caroline, whether from grief or sheer despair, did not seem to care one bit. Nor did she seem to care about maintaining her usual haughty distance. With a sudden rustle of taffeta, she flung herself across the carriage and collapsed into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably. He froze, uncertain whether to comfort her or try to extricate himself from her ferocious grip. He settled for awkwardly patting her back, murmuring the same soothing nonsense he said to Claudia when she was having one of her tantrums.

Mercifully, the carriage soon came to a halt in front of the de Clermont residence. The footman opened the door and unfurled an umbrella with admirable fortitude. Louis all but leapt out, eager for the escape, but he managed enough civility to help a still-distraught Caroline down. He even extended the chivalry to escorting her inside and up the stairs to her rooms, where, finally seeming like herself again, she immediately proceeded to berate her terrified maid for not having drawn her bath in advance.

The carriage was still waiting outside when Louis emerged, but he waved the coachman off, assuring him he much preferred to walk the rest of the way. The man blinked in confusion, but tipped his hat without comment.

The persistent drizzle was tapping against the wrought-iron railings and pooling in the shallow crevices between the cobblestones. The flimsy opera pumps Louis was wearing were not suitable for any substantial walking, let alone for braving uneven, slick pavement. Within minutes, his white stockings were soaked through, clinging to his calves like wet paper. He ignored it, tilting his head upward and letting the cool spray wash over his face.

Rather than walking directly to Lady Williams’s house, he turned left and slowly wandered toward the square. The streets were deserted, save for the occasional carriage that clattered by. The uniform row of white stucco houses stood silent, the curtains drawn over the sashed windows. Here and there, the occasional golden sliver of candlelight hinted at the life within—perhaps an exasperated governess, wrestling a petulant child to bed, or a recluse gentleman reading alone by the fire.

Or a husband entertaining his mistress while the wife was out.

The thought made Louis wince. Caroline’s tantrum had been good for one thing at least; it had managed, if only momentarily, to distract him from his own anguish. No doubt Lestat was still with her at this very moment, perhaps even seated next to her at dinner, disregarding all propriety to whisper sweet nothings in her ear and feed her choice morsels from his own plate.

It was no wonder he had shown no interest in Louis beyond polite conversation. He had found himself another plaything to entertain him—someone more obliging, less prickly, who did not storm out in fits of jealous rage. Someone who made no such tiresome demands as loyalty or sincerity.

Louis had no uncertainty that Lestat had selected that particular opera deliberately. Just as he had danced with Lady Pandora all night at her ball, knowing Louis would be watching. It was just another cruel jab, a way to punish Louis for having once dared to refuse him. And to do it in such a public manner, in the presence of Louis’s own sisters and under Babette’s sneering gaze, had been a particular sort of humiliation.

The usually lively square was unnervingly still in the darkness, the carefully trimmed spruce hedges and tall chestnut trees taking on grotesque, menacing shapes. As Louis slowly walked around the dim paths, he thought of his father, who had carelessly plunged his own family into financial ruin to shower his whores with shiny trinkets. Louis could scarcely imagine all the quiet, private humiliations his mother must have endured for years—enough to turn her bitter and devoid of all warmth. Just like Caroline, she put on grand airs to disguise the fact that she was wretchedly unhappy in the picture-perfect life she had pretended to have for so long.

Perhaps this was how all marriages were—reluctant compromises and silent misery. A coveted illusion of domestic bliss, that only revealed itself to be a nightmare once the trap had already closed shut. Louis certainly pitied the unfortunate woman destined to wed Lestat. And yet, strangely, he envied her too. Because she would one day possess what Louis never could: a lawful claim to Lestat’s loyalty, and a valid reason to deplore his numerous treacheries. And perhaps, in time, she would even come to accept that the price of loving such a man was the inevitability of having to share him.

It hit Louis suddenly, with a ferocity that knocked the breath from his lungs. Heartbreak. That was the name of the agonizing, dizzying ache pressing down on him. He had always imagined it as something whimsical, something poets sighed over and wrote poignant verses about. But there was nothing graceful in the gnawing ache lodged between his ribs, nothing romantic in the dull throb at the base of his skull or the nausea that pooled in his stomach. It was the slow shattering of his innermost parts, into countless small fragments, too sharp and jagged to ever be reassembled.

And yet, he could not even pinpoint the moment his heart had become involved. He did not know when his desire for Lestat had shifted from a passing infatuation into this raw, desperate longing that consumed everything in its wake. Perhaps it had always been that way, and Louis had merely fooled himself into believing he could be content with a fleeting dalliance—one that would fade into a fond memory, a youthful indiscretion to be recounted with ironic pride over too many glasses of brandy.

He knew now, with terrifying clarity, that he wanted all of Lestat. He wanted to be Lestat’s everything. To occupy Lestat’s mind as Lestat so cruelly occupied his, obliterating every rational thought with his voice, his gaze, the curl of his wicked smile, until there was no facet of Louis’s life left untouched by his presence.

But it was a foolish reverie. He had always known he could never be anything to Lestat beyond a passing amusement. Tonight had only been a brutal reminder of that.

He must have spent hours wandering the empty square, his thoughts coiling up into an increasingly dark spiral. But eventually, the rain had the better of him, and shivering miserably in his damp coat, he finally turned back towards Lady Williams’s house.

The rain had intensified, blurring the edges of the houses, smearing the gaslamps into trembling halos of gold against the oppressive darkness. Louis advanced blindly, water lashing at his face, his sodden coat dragging at his shoulders.

He stepped off the curb to cross the wide street that led away from the square, his waterlogged shoes splashing uncomfortably in the rivulets of water swirling along the cobblestones. He desperately prayed the girls would still be out when he arrived. He couldn’t bear the added humiliation of having to explain himself, of enduring their searching looks—or worse, their pity. All he wanted was to strip off his drenched clothes and collapse into his bed. And hopefully, when he woke up tomorrow morning, tonight would prove to be nothing but a particularly vivid nightmare.

A sharp rattling sound cut through the rain, too close. Approaching fast. A sleek two-horse phaeton, the recklessly fast kind usually favoured by the sporting dandies of the ton, careened toward him, its high wheels skidding on the wet stones. By the time Louis looked up, it was already upon him.  

His thoughts stuttered to a halt as he stood frozen, his mind blank with a strange, resigned terror. In the mere fraction of a second that followed, he somehow had the time to wonder how painful his death would be—whether he would feel it as his bones shattered under the weight of rippling equine muscle and steel.   

It was as if time had slowed to a crawl, and Louis could see everything in minute detail. The phaeton swerved violently, the horses rearing with panicked whinnies. One of the flailing hooves struck his chest, knocking the breath from him. But he did not feel pain so much as disorientation; the dizzying sensation of the world tilting as he was flung backward.

His body hit the pavement with a wet crack that seemed to echo oddly. His left shoulder struck first, then his temple, white-hot pain bursting behind his eyes. The world swayed, darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision. 

Somewhere beyond the ringing in his ears, he heard a voice cry out—sharp and raw with panic, and the horses screaming as the carriage finally shuddered to a halt.

“Louis!?”

The voice sounded so eerily like Lestat. But that was impossible. Lestat wasn’t here—he couldn’t be. It had to be Louis’s mind playing tricks on him, offering one last comforting illusion before the end.   

There was a rapid crunch of boots on wet stone, and moments later, a shadow fell over him, and then Lestat was there, his beautiful face twisted into a frantic, pained expression.

“Mon Dieu, Louis—I—it was so dark, I didn’t see you—”

How odd it was for a vision to look so sad. Louis tried to speak, to reach for him, but his body refused to obey. He wanted to hold on to Lestat’s voice, to the trembling leather-covered hands gently cradling his face, brushing soaked hair away from his forehead. But it was growing increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open—or to remember why he wanted to keep them open in the first place, when closing them would have been so much easier.

“Please, Louis, can you hear me?”

The words slipped away from him. He felt himself being lifted, but surely it must have been his mind still playing tricks. His limbs felt limp and heavy, his thoughts dissolving into a pleasant static.

 “It’s alright, chéri, I’ve got you,” Lestat’s illusion was saying.

The darkness surged up, soft and inviting. This time, Louis didn’t try to fight it. If this was death, at least it came with Lestat’s gentle voice in his ears. At least now, he couldn’t feel the pain anymore.

Chapter Text

ouis came back to himself in slow, reluctant increments. His mind was foggy, and his limbs felt strangely weightless, as if they were made of featherlight cotton. The first thing he noticed was the rain, drumming insistently against the windows in an irregular rhythm. And then, in stark contrast, he felt the soft warmth that enveloped his body, and the weight of blankets tucked carefully around him. There was a faint scent of beeswax, mixing in with the crisp, soothing smell of freshly laundered linens.

With considerable effort, he forced his eyes open, blinking against the soft golden glow of the candlelight. The memories of the night resurfaced in fragments: the slick cobblestones gleaming in the lamplight; the sickening lurch of the fall, and the blur of pain that had followed; Lestat’s striking blue eyes gazing down on him, wide with panic; and then the feel of Lestat arms, strong and sure underneath him; the warmth of Lestat’s hands on his trembling body, guiding him into bed, his touch careful and tender despite his franticness.

A doctor had come at some point, but Louis remembered nothing of the man besides his irritating prodding and the bitter taste of the tincture that had been forced down his throat. His attention had been entirely fixed on Lestat; on the way his elegant hands trembled as he hovered nearby, unable, it seemed, to remain still even for a moment.

A voice, low and achingly familiar, cut through the haze of his thoughts. “Louis?”

He turned towards it, and the room spun dizzyingly before his eyes finally settled on the pale figure seated beside the bed, half shrouded in shadows. Lestat looked uncharacteristically subdued, his hair pulled back into a careless knot, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled up to his elbows. He looked exhausted, stark dark circles under his eyes, but he smiled when their gaze met.

“How are you feeling?” Lestat’s voice was soft, hesitant. “The doctor gave you some laudanum to ease the pain. I was not certain when you would wake.”

“M’fine,” Louis managed, struggling to sit up. The soft feather mattress shifted beneath him, and a fresh wave of dizziness forced him to grip the bedsheets to steady himself. When his vision cleared, he took in the unfamiliar surroundings—the wide canopy bed, the tall ceilings with gilded moulding, the walls papered in elegant shades of green and gold, and the fine furnishings, upholstered in green damask silk. It was all far too grand and tasteful for any home Louis had ever inhabited. A wave of panic surged through him. “Where am I?”  

Lestat's hand pressed gently on his shoulder, easing him back down. “My London home. I thought it best to bring you here after—” His eyes grew pained, his thumb brushing lightly over Louis's collarbone. “Try to remain still. You suffered no injuries from the fall, but you have a fever, and the doctor said you need to rest.”

Louis stared at him, bewildered. His head was swimming, and he was having difficulty focusing on a single train of thought. He had no inkling of how much time had passed, but he knew that he needed to get home. Grace and Lily were probably worried sick that he had not yet returned.

“I…I need to go home.” His throat was painfully dry, and his voice came out hoarse, lacking any of the resolve he’d been aiming for.

Lestat reached over for the glass of water on the side table and helped Louis take a few grateful sips.

“It’s the middle of the night, Louis, and you are delirious with fever; you need to rest. I’ve already had a note sent to your sister—nothing to alarm her, of course. Simply that you had caught a chill from foolishly wandering about in the rain, and that you would be staying with me for a few days until you are fully recovered.”  

Louis’s forgotten anger sparked again at the derisive remark. Ignoring Lestat’s protests, he pushed himself upright again, leaning dizzily against the cushioned headboard. The movement sent the thick bedcovers sliding down to his waist, and cold air hit his bare skin, making him shiver. He scrambled to cover himself up again, heat flooding his cheeks.  

“I apologize,” Lestat said. “Your clothes were entirely soaked through, and you were shivering dreadfully. It was imperative to get you dried and warm at once.” His eyes sparkled with amusement as he added, “I assure you, I took no liberties beyond what was strictly necessary.”  

Louis winced as the humiliating memory of Lestat carrying him up the stairs and undressing him resurfaced in his hazy mind.

“I’ve had your clothes taken to be washed and mended, but there are dry things here for you to change into.” Lestat gestured to a pile of neatly folded clothing on the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed. “There is also a platter of bread and fruit if you are hungry. The servants have retired for the night, but I can ring for something else if—”

Louis shook his head vigorously. He hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, and perhaps that explained why he felt so lightheaded, as though he had drained an entire barrel of whiskey in one sitting. But the idea of swallowing anything at the moment made his stomach churn.

He sighed, feeling exhausted and utterly wretched. The situation was only made worse by the treacherous tears that he could feel pricking unbidden at the corner of his eyes. He turned his gaze to the canopy above, watching the embroidered floral patterns dance eerily in the candlelight. How had the evening managed to end so disastrously? The moment he’d shared with Lestat in the opera box seemed impossibly distant, as if it had occurred weeks ago instead of just mere hours. He had stormed off like a petulant child, only to end up here, feverish and delirious, shivering pathetically on Lestat’s fine sheets.

“I suppose I could remain here for tonight,” he conceded in a low voice. “But I will be leaving in the morning. I do not wish to impose on you any longer than I must.”

Lestat reached out and brushed a tear from his cheeks. “I assure you, chéri, it is no imposition at all. I want you to stay. And I would love nothing more than to fuss over you and cater to your every need until you are well again.”

Louis batted his hand away. “I’m sure your mistress would disagree. Is she here? If so, you should go to her. I should hate to think I am keeping you from your evening’s entertainment.”

To his utter dismay, Lestat only looked mildly amused by the accusation, an infuriating smirk stretching on his lips. “You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the scandal sheets, Louis. I do not know of whom you speak; there is no one here but us. You are the one I wanted to be with this evening, but you ran away before I had the chance. Instead, I had to spend hours searching all over Mayfair for you in this dreadful weather.” In one of his mercurial shifts of humour, Lestat’s expression abruptly sobered, an edge of panic creeping into his voice. “When Lady William’s butler told me you hadn’t returned, I was worried sick. I feared the worst, that something terrible had happened to you—” 

“Something terrible did happen to me,” Louis grumbled. “You ran me over with your stupid contraption, and now you are holding me here against my wishes.”

“Louis—”

Lestat’s hand reached for him again, but Louis pulled away. “Do you deny it, then?" he demanded, his voice embarrassingly high-pitched. “That the singer is your mistress, with whom you fathered a bastard child, and that your inviting me to her performance tonight was some elaborate ploy to humiliate me.”

Lestat's laughter rang out, bright and airy. “You’ve quite a vivid imagination, chéri. Perhaps you should write a gossip column of your own. I hear there’s quite a fortune to be made in selling fictional tales about real people.” He leaned closer, a maddeningly triumphant expression on his face, as though Louis’s anger was something he particularly relished. “Once again, you insist on ascribing the worst possible motives to my actions, without so much as granting me the courtesy of an explanation. While it is true that Miss Brown and I shared a brief liaison, it was a long time ago. Nothing you need to concern yourself with. I had no idea she would be performing tonight; I hadn’t set eyes on her in years. As I explained earlier, I only venture to the summer theatre when I have no other alternatives. After tonight’s disastrous performance, I doubt I shall return there again—"

“Lestat!” He knew that Lestat was only rambling to irritate him further, and it was infuriating how well it was working.

“The tenor was truly dreadful, mon cher. You saw for yourself.”

“The tenor is not who I am concerned about.”

“Well, Miss Brown is thankfully far more talented. Her voice was what drew me to her all those years ago. Sadly, she turned out to be more trouble than she was worth—dreadfully tedious and demanding. We parted on rather sour terms. I was as surprised as you were when she beckoned me. But I couldn’t very well ignore her publicly. And as for a child, well…” He shrugged, the picture of nonchalant ease. “I have none that I know of. Though I suppose one can never be truly certain of these things…”

Louis glared at him, and Lestat chuckled again. Frustrated, Louis closed his eyes and took in a ragged gasp of air that did nothing to clear the haze in his mind. Contradictory emotions coursed through him, anger, relief, shame, blurring together into an indistinguishable knot. He was aware that his jealousy was absurd and pathetic. He had no claim over Lestat, much less a right to demand explanations from him. Lestat was free to bed all of London if he wished, and show himself at the arms of whichever women of ill repute he pleased. And yet, every sordid rumour Louis had heard about him over the past month had felt like a searing knife twisted in his gut.

His eyes flew open when he felt Lestat’s warm fingers stroking his cheek.

“My darling, impetuous Louis,” Lestat murmured, a strange melancholy in his tone. “I will admit that perhaps I do enjoy provoking you. It is hard to resist when you make it so thrilling. I love it when you look at me like you did tonight, as though you wanted to strike and devour me at the same time.”

The murmured confession settled in Louis’s chest like a heavy weight, making it impossible to breathe, let alone think clearly. It was a ridiculous notion that Lestat thought he needed to do anything at all to claim all of Louis’s attention. As though Louis’s pulse was not suspended to his every movement whenever they were in a room together.  

“Then I’m afraid you mistake contempt for affection,” he ground out.

“And you, mon cher, mistake self-denial for virtue.” Lestat's voice dropped to a low whisper. “You’re not as skilled a liar as you think, Louis. I know that you want me, perhaps even as desperately as I want you. And yet you behave as though admitting it would kill you. As though I am some vile corruption you must do your damndest to resist.”

Louis's chest constricted painfully. "You're wrong," he managed, but the protest sounded weak even to his own ears. “I don’t want you, at least not in the manner that you think.”

Lestat’s mouth pressed into a hard line, and his gaze fixed on Louis as his chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. Finally, he seemed to compose himself, his face shuttering behind a mask of cool detachment. “In what manner do you want me, then?”

“I don’t know,” Louis admitted, a shaky breath shuddering out of him. He felt as if a dam had suddenly broken inside him, and the words poured out before he could stop them. “I only know that I do not wish to be a mere passing diversion. Not even for you. I’m well aware of your game, Lestat. What you enjoy is the pursuit. I am only a prize so long as I remain out of reach. You would lose all interest the moment you had me. I’d be a week’s amusement. A fortnight, at best. And then you’d grow bored and be on to the next.”

And there it was, the raw, fiery thing that had been eating at Louis for months, finally dragged into the light and left out to smoulder between them. Louis felt fresh tears welling in his eyes. The humiliation of speaking the words out loud was nearly unbearable, and yet he could not bring himself to regret them.

Lestat's expression shifted, something raw and vulnerable breaking through his impassive mask. “You speak of these things with such certainty,” he murmured. “Do you truly believe me utterly incapable of devotion?”

“It is not as if you are renowned for your constancy.”

Lestat let out another huff of laughter. “What did I tell you about believing rumours?” He seemed to hesitate—just for a brief moment—as if waiting for Louis to object, and then he took Louis’s hand in his, twining their fingers together. In the soft candlelight, he seemed so young and strangely fragile, nothing like the larger-than-life, otherworldly creature Louis had always viewed him as. “You have never permitted me the chance to prove you otherwise, Louis,” he whispered. “Perhaps I might surprise you.”

The quiet sincerity in Lestat’s voice undid Louis far more than any grand declaration could have. He closed his eyes, his mind racing despite the exhaustion crushing down on him. He did not protest when Lestat stood to adjust the pillows under his head, easing him back down on the bed.

With surprising ease for a man who’d probably had servants all his life, Lestat walked around the room, extinguishing all the candles, until the only remaining light was the glow of the fireplace. He came back to stand by the bed, a ghostly silhouette in the shadows. His hand was warm when it brushed Louis’s cheek. “Rest,” he said. “We can speak again in the morning. And if you still wish to leave, I will drive you back to the dowager’s house myself.”

Louis shivered when he felt soft lips pressing against his forehead, lingering there for a brief moment. A foolish part of him wanted to beg Lestat to stay, to pull him back down on the bed and hold onto him until the painful ache in his chest subsided. But Lestat was already pulling away, and the moment had passed.

“My rooms are right through those doors,” Lestat said. Call for me if you need anything.”  

Louis nodded absently, though Lestat probably couldn’t see it. Moments later, he heard a soft click as a door opened and then closed again. As sleep claimed him, he clung to one final thought—the startling realization that perhaps he could allow himself to have this. Perhaps he could have the courage to let himself be happy.