Chapter Text
“Fraldarius! I thought that was you brooding in the corner,” Sylvain greets jovially as he slides into the leather chair across from his friend.
Felix Fraldarius, far from a man of good spirits, downs the rest of his drink and scowls at Sylvain. “I have half a mind to punch you right now.”
Sylvain sips from his own glass and then arches a brow. “Oh? And why might that be?”
Felix slouches in his seat. “My mother,” he grumbles.
That makes Sylvain pause. “Your mother? Wasn’t she focused on marrying off your brother?” Felix’s scowl deepens and that’s when Sylvain realized. “Damn, I knew Glenn was off on tour, but I didn’t think he’d be coming back with a fiancé.”
Felix sits up and looks around the club for a server so that he can refill his drink. It only takes a second for someone to replace his drink, but Felix doesn’t look any less frustrated. He takes a long sip of his new drink and Sylvain just settles into his chair, waiting. His friendship with Felix usually goes like this. The younger of the two Fraldarius brothers has never been good at social discussions.
“He’s not coming back with one. Everyone just seems to think that it’s a done deal when he does get back.”
Sylvain furrows his brow a bit. “Is it in writing or something?”
Felix shrugs. “A gentleman’s agreement if my father’s word is to be believed.”
“I suppose that’s fair,” Sylvain agrees. “Glenn is going to be a Duke after all. I can’t really see a more ambitious match in the ton.”
As a Duke, Glenn Fraldarius will be one of the highest-ranking nobles in the country. Sylvain, as the heir to a margravate, would be of similar status, but Duchy Fraldarius was of the most important Duchies in the Kingdom. Felix, as a second son, would inherit a rather sizeable fortune but no title unless his brother passed without an heir—something which was more than satisfactory to Felix. Even so, both of the Fraldarius brothers were excellent catches for the ambitious mamas of the Fhirdiad marriage market.
“So,” Sylvain continues teasingly, “who’s the lucky lady who is going to be elevated to Duchess Fraldarius?”
Felix stares at Sylvain for a long moment and Sylvain almost stops to reconsider the question. Felix looks like he wants to both bite Sylvain’s head off and also offer a rare word of sympathy—the latter of which made Sylvain very worried for the answer to his question.
“Ingrid,” Felix finally admits.
Sylvain almost chokes on his brandy. Ingrid Galatea is the youngest child of Count Galatea and the only daughter. Two of the three Galatea boys were married, but neither Ingrid nor her brother Gabriel was married yet. Ingrid had her first season the previous year and though she received a good selection of marriage proposals, she turned them all down.
Of course, no one can say for sure how many Ingrid actually declined and how many were chased away by three extremely protective brothers and an overprotective father.
Sylvain has known Ingrid since they were both children. He’s known Felix that long as well—and Glenn and Dimitri—but it is Ingrid that gives him the strangest feeling when he thinks about his longtime childhood friend being married off. Ingrid has always been stubborn and independent. She is far from the simpering young ladies who flirt and preen all over Sylvain and the other men during Fhirdiad’s season.
“Ingrid,” Sylvain repeats, disbelieving. “And her father agreed to this?”
Felix shrugs. “It’s a good match for their family.”
Sylvain wants to protest but there really isn’t a logical reason he could give for why he doesn’t think that Ingrid should marry Glenn. He thinks it would be riotously entertaining to endure another season of Ingrid turning down all of the fools who didn’t treat her like the equal she deserved to be. He thinks that Ingrid is still plenty young, even if she’s in her second season at one and twenty, and that she doesn’t need to step away from Fhirdiad’s social games so hastily.
Of course, most of all, he would like Ingrid to not be stepping off the marriage market because sometime between the close of her first season and the build-up to the start of this one, Sylvain has figured out that he’s utterly infatuated with her and had been planning on using the season to court her himself.
“Enough about Glenn,” Sylvain says hurriedly, trying to distract himself from thinking about the narrowing window he has for the barely half-formed idea he had about approaching Count Galatea towards the end of the season. “What’s your mother getting into with you?”
Felix scowls again. “None of your business.”
“Come on,” Sylvain says, “is it about Miss Varley? You seemed to have a soft spot for her at the Aegir ball last season. Or maybe the lovely Miss Dominic. I do recall you managed to sock Viscount Mateus’s son in the face after he commented on how her dress matched her eyes.”
“We were boxing,” Felix snaps.
Sylvain chuckles. “Right, and that’s why you did it outside of the ring.”
“I will hit you,” Felix says and Sylvain believes him. There is only so much he can push Felix before his friend snaps.
Sylvain chuckles behind closed lips. “Of course.”
“Might I occupy one of your dances tonight, Miss Galatea?” Sylvain says smoothly as he practically appears out of the crowd.
Ingrid startles but relaxes when she sees him. “Mr. Gautier, you gave me a fright.”
Sylvain smiles, closing the distance between them. He scoops up her gloved hand and brings it to his lips for a lingering kiss. Ingrid blinks at him and Sylvain tries not to laugh. She looks utterly bewildered by his actions which, in all likelihood, is because while he paid her an appropriate amount of attention during her first season, he did not approach her at the first ball of the season and ask her to dance. In fact, Sylvain probably only asked her to dance three or four times across the whole season.
“Ahem.”
Sylvain lowers Ingrid’s hand back down, his gaze flitting over her head to the two blonde men accompanying her. He smiles, even though the stares of the oldest Galatea sons make him want to melt into the floor.
“Galatea and Galatea,” Sylvain greets. “How nice to see you as well.”
“Gautier,” Rowan grinds out in greeting, looking unenthused. Julian doesn’t even give him the good graces of a greeting.
Sylvain ignores the raging bulls behind Ingrid and turns his attention back to her. “So, Miss Galatea, might I mark myself down for that dance?”
Ingrid nods slowly. “Yes.” And then she lifts up her dance card to mark his name. He gets the barest glimpse at the names she’s written down, spotting three above his own.
Sylvain is about to ask who the other lucky gentlemen are when the crowds part around them quite suddenly. Prince Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Crown Prince of Faerghus, steps forward and smiles at both Ingrid and Sylvain.
“Hello friends,” Dimitri greets warmly.
Sylvain bows and he sees Ingrid drop into a curtsy next to him. Both of Ingrid’s brothers also bow. “Your Highness,” Sylvain says politely. “I wasn’t aware you’d be joining us tonight.”
While he technically has a right to join the social season, everyone expects Dimitri to choose a wife outside of it. From personal correspondence, Sylvain has learned that Dimitri finds the offered women quite unlikeable and he intends to find a wife in Fhirdiad.
Dimitri nods. “Well, I found myself in need of entertainment this evening and figured that there was no better place than a Charon ball.”
Sylvain could think of a dozen places more entertaining off the top of his head but he doesn’t voice his opinion. Dimitri is being polite to their hosts, as he should be, but Sylvain is more of a fan of the backhanded compliments which flatter those too dim-witted to determine they’re being insulted.
Ingrid smiles at Dimitri. “Your Highness, I believe the next song is beginning,” she says.
The corner of Sylvain’s mouth tugs down suddenly as he looks between his friends. Dimitri nods and holds out a hand for Ingrid to take.
“Then I shall not delay the other gentlemen on your list by delaying my own dance,” Dimitri says smoothly.
Ingrid’s gaze flits to Sylvain and her smile almost slips. “I’ll see you in a little while, Mr. Gautier,” she says. Her tone is formal and stiff, as Ingrid tends to be around these occasions.
Sylvain can’t even get a reply out of his mouth as he watches Dimitri lead Ingrid onto the dance floor as the next minuet starts. He watches until their matching blonde heads vanish into the crowd of debutantes and gentlemen in the ballroom.
“Stay away from our sister, Gautier,” Julian says roughly, bumping his shoulder against Sylvain’s as he brushes past him.
Sylvain turns to face Rowan. Rowan is eyeing Sylvain suspiciously but he doesn’t immediately walk away as his younger brother did. Sylvain tries to school his features into a more neutral expression as he is left to face with only the eldest Galatea.
“I thought the elder Fraldarius was courting your sister,” Sylvain says, trying to keep his voice casual.
Rowan’s expression doesn’t waver—unabashed distaste for Sylvain. “The agreement between Galatea and Fraldarius is none of your business, Gautier. But my sister will not be marrying the likes of you.”
Sylvain isn’t really offended by the open hostility of the Galatea brothers. He’s well aware of his reputation and exactly what damage Ingrid has done to her own reputation in being friends with him. She has placated far too many simpering debutantes with whom Sylvain flirted and dumped. She has also talked him out of more than one duel with angry older brothers or fathers. Felix has saved Sylvain from his share of challenges as well.
Under normal circumstances, Sylvain enjoys his reputation and the power that it gives him over marriage-minded mamas or air-headed debutantes but since it definitely seems to be harming his chances of actually courting Ingrid, he wishes that he could go back and kick his younger self.
“Mr. Galatea,” a warm voice interrupts, breaking the stifling tension between Rowan and Sylvain.
They both turn to find a tiny brunette woman with twinkling green eyes—almost green enough to let her pass for a Galatea herself—wearing a pink dress that brings out the lovely glow in her cheeks. Two years ago, when he was one and twenty, Sylvain might have been stupid enough to flirt with the woman. Now he knows better than to make advances towards Ingrid and Rowan’s sister-in-law.
Instead, Sylvain dips his head respectfully. “Mrs. Galatea,” he greets.
Anne Galatea is a sweetheart. She is married to Julian—somehow, Sylvain thinks begrudgingly—and is Ingrid’s favourite of her two sisters-in-law. Sylvain likes her better than Isobel, Rowan’s wife, if purely for the fact that Isobel hates Sylvain, just like her husband, while Anne is actually quite pleasant.
“Have you seen my husband? I stepped over to get a glass of lemonade and Julian said he would be with Ingrid. I happened to see Ingrid is out on the dancefloor with His Highness, so I figured you might know where my meddlesome husband got off to.”
Rowan smiles politely at his sister-in-law—but not before shooting a last nasty look at Sylvain—and holds out his arm. “I do believe we’ll have better luck finding him together. Please, let me escort you.”
Anne beams and slides her hand into Rowan’s arm. Rowan doesn’t as much as bid Sylvain a farewell, but Anne gives him a teasing, pleasant wiggle of her fingers as the Galatea’s disappear into the throngs of party guests.
Sylvain considers staying where he is and watching the dancefloor—to catch sight of Ingrid and Dimitri—but then he thinks better of it. If he wants to be taken seriously as a potential suitor for Ingrid, he needs to prove that his gentlemanly habits are at the forefront of his mind. So, with that in mind, he turns to look for another woman he might invite for a dance.
His gaze lands on Miss Bernadetta Varley as she stands at the edge of the room, looking rather like she wants to melt into the wall. Sylvain smiles to himself. He and Bernadetta aren’t exactly friends, but she’s two and twenty and on her third season with very few marriage prospects. If Sylvain, a bachelor of high standing and high renown was to dance with her, it might attract others to do the same.
After his dance with Bernadetta, Sylvain notices that Ingrid is looking dreadfully bored as she dances with Mr. Lorenz Gloucester. Sylvain has never seen Lorenz take an interest in Ingrid before, but he knows there is nothing to worry about as Ingrid looks like she’d rather cut off her own arm than keep dancing with Lorenz, much less marry him.
As that dance comes to an end, Lorenz escorts Ingrid off the floor, walking her towards Sylvain. Sylvain straightens. He had thought there was one more name on Ingrid’s dance card above his own, but he isn’t going to complain.
He dips his head respectfully to Ingrid as she approaches him. Ingrid gives him a relieved smile and practically jerks her hand free from Lorenz’s grip. Lorenz doesn’t look too surprised and Sylvain gathers that the two of them got along like bees and wasps—that is to say, not at all.
“Mr. Gloucester, Miss Galatea,” Sylvain greets politely.
Lorenz nods. “You’ll have to excuse me, Gautier, I owe Miss Edmund a dance now.” He vanishes without much further pomp and Ingrid’s shoulders sag as soon as he is gone.
Sylvain chuckles. “What’s wrong, Miss Galatea? Did Mr. Gloucester step on your toes?”
Ingrid narrows her eyes at him. “He’s a horrid conversationalist,” she mutters. “Of course, Dimitri isn’t much better but at least Dimitri is polite.”
Sylvain smiles. “Does this mean it’s my turn to lead you in a dance and make you forget all about the poor fools who came before you?”
“Actually,” Ingrid says, dropping her eyes to her dance card so that she doesn’t have to keep looking at Sylvain, “I do have—”
“Miss Galatea!” a familiar voice exclaims.
Sylvain bites back the urge to groan. He knows that voice very well and he really isn’t in the mood tonight to deal with Miss Hilda Goneril. But, he’s devoid of choice, as the crowd parts to reveal Hilda, dressed in pale yellow, on the arm of a handsome man that Sylvain doesn’t recognize.
Ingrid, upon seeing the couples, immediately drops into a curtsy. Sylvain blinks but follows suit, bowing though he’s admittedly not sure if he’s bowing to Hilda or to her mystery man. Hilda looks positively smug at seeing Sylvain and Ingrid bow.
“I believe that it is within my right to claim that dance now, Miss Galatea,” the mystery man says, eyes fixed on Ingrid.
Sylvain forces himself not to bristle. The man is handsome but he certainly doesn’t look like a Faerghan native. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” Sylvain says. He holds out a hand. “Sylvain Gautier, heir to the Margravate Gautier.”
The man’s eyes flick to him and he nods, seemingly recognizing some part of Sylvain’s introduction. “Gautier,” he echoes, shaking Sylvain’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Mr. Gautier,” Hilda cuts in, “this is His Highness Khalid von Riegan, heir to the Almyran throne.”
So they were bowing to the mysterious man.
Khalid chuckles. “Miss Goneril, I’m perfectly capable of carrying out my own introductions.”
Hilda smiles. “Of course, but I figured if you were going to steal away Miss Galatea from Mr. Gautier’s company, then we should hasten the process.”
Khalid nods and turns his attention back to Ingrid. “So, Miss Galatea, might I request that dance now.”
Ingrid’s eyes skirt to Sylvain for only a second before she takes Khalid’s hand and lets him lead her towards the dancefloor.
“You don’t have to look like he poached your prized fish, Gautier,” Hilda remarks dryly.
Sylvain blinks, his frown dissipating. He hadn’t even realized he was scowling until she pointed it out. “What?”
Hilda just stares at him for a long second and then she not-so-subtly checks her own dance card. “Would you look at that. It appears that I am in need of a dance partner, Mr. Gautier. Surely you wouldn’t mind escorting me to the dancefloor.”
Sylvain resists the urge to sigh as he nods, offering his arm to Hilda. “Please, Miss Goneril, I would be delighted.”
Hilda takes his arm and he leads her onto the dancefloor. He carefully takes her into his arms and they step in time to the music. Over her head, Sylvain can just barely see Ingrid and the Almyran prince. Ingrid is smiling and Sylvain feels a nasty pull of jealousy in his stomach.
Hilda seems to catch his wandering gaze. “He approached her before you arrived,” she answers a question that Sylvain wasn’t even going to put into words.
Sylvain looks back down at his partner. “And you seem awfully comfortable on the arm of foreign royalty especially royalty that belongs to the country your brother enjoys bearing arms against.”
Hilda just smiles. “Khalid is not like his father. We get along swimmingly.”
Sylvain raises an eyebrow. “But not well enough to marry him yourself. Aren’t you complaining that there is never a gentleman of your likings in the ton?”
“Oh, I’d never marry Khalid. That would be far too messy. But he does think that if he finds another woman to marry, especially one of Faerghus origin, it might help build a political bridge between our two countries.”
Sylvain thinks about Glenn for a moment. Glenn Fraldarius was five and twenty, two years older than Sylvain, and far from being considered old by bachelor status but he was off serving on tour and, apparently, planning on returning to an engagement with Ingrid. But, here Ingrid was dancing with not only the prince of Fódlan but also the prince of a foreign nation.
He was missing something in regards to the supposed gentleman’s agreement between Houses Galatea and Fraldarius.
Sylvain’s mind wanders far enough that he nearly steps on Hilda’s toes. It’s only years of practice and natural coordination that saves her that fate, but she gives him a knowing look as he carefully lifts their joined hands and guides her in a circle around him. Sylvain tries his best to ignore the way that Hilda seems to see right through him for the rest of the dance.
Sylvain fetches Ingrid a glass of lemonade after he delivers Hilda to her brother Holst. She is in conversation with Prince Khalid at the edge of the dancefloor as he approaches and she sees him coming before the prince does. She trips over a sentence and Khalid turns, looking for the sight of her distraction.
“Ah, well, it appears I’m not to keep you to myself any longer, Miss Galatea.” Khalid lifts her hand and presses a kiss to the back of it. He nods to Sylvain. “Good evening, Mr. Gautier.”
Sylvain nods, forgoing the bow this time, and offers the glass he procured to Ingrid. Her eyes brighten at the sight of the lemonade and she takes it gratefully. Khalid slips away into the crowd and Sylvain steps closer, focusing his attention back on Ingrid.
“I’ll trade you our owed dance for a turn about the gardens,” Sylvain offers.
Ingrid lowers her glass, frowning. She looks past him into the crowds, doubtlessly searching for one of her three brothers to chaperone. Sylvain winces. He’s not stupid enough to lead Ingrid away without a chaperone—he knows what his reputation would do to Ingrid’s if they were to depart unchaperoned.
“Maybe just to the balcony then,” he amends. “To spare me the wrath of your brothers.”
Ingrid glances at the dancefloor. “But no dancing, right?”
Sylvain chuckles. He knows exactly how much Ingrid dislikes dancing and all the pageantry that comes with it. “No dancing,” he agrees.
Ingrid nods. “That sounds nice. Now, let’s go before Julian gets it in his head that I’m not to be in the same room as you.”
She takes Sylvain’s arm, not even waiting for him to offer it, and they hastily make their way towards the ornate doors that lead out onto the balcony. Once they exit the ballroom, Ingrid’s shoulders sag as she immediately relaxes. They’re not alone on the balcony, but they’re far from surrounded by prying eyes like they are inside.
Ingrid drops Sylvain’s arm and approaches the edge of the balcony, lifting her glass to take another sip. He stops a few paces back, admiring the way that her golden hair glows almost silverish in the moonlight. Her fair skin looks almost pearlescent and Sylvain’s heart aches at just how beautiful Ingrid really is. He truly is the biggest fool for not seeing it sooner.
He doesn’t linger too long, quickly making his way to her side so she doesn’t think him too out of sorts for dallying.
“You’re quite popular tonight,” Sylvain remarks casually. “First Prince Dimitri and then Prince Khalid.”
“Claude,” Ingrid says.
“What?”
“Khalid is going by Claude in Fódlan. His mother is the daughter of Duke Riegan and that’s the name she would have given her son had he been born here,” Ingrid explains absentmindedly.
Sylvain blinks but then it connects in his mind. Khalid von Riegan —as in House Riegan in the Province of Leicester. “Oh,” he says. “Well, my point about you still stands, Ingrid.”
She blinks at the use of her given name. It’s probably the first time tonight that anyone has called her by her first name. Sylvain wants to take it back. He wants to court Ingrid properly and that means treating her like the noble young woman that she is.
“From what Felix told me at the club,” Sylvain continues, hoping to move past his blunder, “I heard something about a gentleman’s agreement between your father and his.”
Ingrid sighs. “Have you mentioned that to anyone?”
Sylvain frowns. “No, why?”
“Because I don’t want it to affect the season,” Ingrid explains shortly. “If people think that I am engaged to the heir of a duchy, I will be ostracized by the other women and left alone by the men.”
“Well, I won’t mention it,” Sylvain promises. “But, if you are engaged to Glenn, why are you entertaining two princes? Both of whom are looking for wives, I might add.”
Ingrid winces. “I’m not engaged to Glenn,” she replies softly. “Not yet, anyway. The agreement between our fathers is that we will enter the negotiations for an engagement when Glenn returns from his tour. Until then, I am still a part of the Fhirdiad season and free to look for other matches.”
As Glenn is the next in line for Faerghus’s most powerful dukedom, there are few people who would make for more advantageous matches. In fact, the list is probably small enough to contain two names: Prince Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd of Fódlan and Prince Khalid von Riegan of Almyra. Even Sylvain is outranked by Glenn.
“So your father wants you to snag a prince?” Sylvain asks bluntly.
Ingrid narrows her eyes at him. “My father is perfectly content with marrying me off to Glenn.”
“Then, I repeat, why are you dancing with princes?”
“Because I’m not content being married off to Glenn,” Ingrid snaps. She lowers her voice sharply, looking down at the balcony railing.
Sylvain’s face softens. “Ingrid,” he starts, but she shakes her head.
“You don’t understand, Sylvain. I have three brothers who will make good matches, but not excellent ones. Our House isn’t rich like yours or Felix’s. If I want to ensure that my family is taken care of, I have to marry up and while marrying Glenn would make me a duchess…” She trails off, frowning.
“He would make sure your family was taken care of, Ingrid,” Sylvain assures. He knows Glenn. They’ve been friends since they were children. Glenn, while a bit cool and reserved, has a good heart.
“I know,” Ingrid admits. “But I don’t think I’ll ever love him.” She picks at the ribbon tying her dance card to her wrist.
Sylvain is surprised. While he has come to realize he is infatuated with Ingrid, he hadn’t even thought about the fact that she might be interested in marrying for a love match herself. Even so, he thought she would have been happy with Glenn since she had quite the crush on him as a child.
“But Dimitri?” Sylvain reminds her.
Ingrid’s frown deepens. “I know. I don’t want to be queen either but, I don’t know what to do, Sylvain.”
Marry me, a voice in his head says. He pushes it down. He holds slightly less stature than Glenn does and he’s sure that getting engaged to him, considering his reputation, would be a much larger step down than Ingrid is willing to take. He has to earn the right to ask her to marry him. Of course, if she is to be engaged when Glenn returns—one way or another—he may not get his chance.
“Well,” he says instead, “how about you just be yourself? Maybe one of your princes will be the perfect match and maybe they won’t. And, when the time comes, if you really don’t want to marry Glenn, I’m sure your father would understand.”
She looks up at him. Her green eyes glimmer and look strangely ethereal in the moonlight. A small smile pulls her lips up and Sylvain’s heart very nearly tears out of his chest right then and there. He takes her hand and lifts it to his lips, pressing another kiss to the back of her glove. He lingers as long as he dares, holding her gaze.
“Ingrid.”
They both startle, turning back towards the ballroom. Ingrid’s third brother, Gabriel, stands just outside of the ballroom, glaring daggers at Sylvain. Sylvain is very suddenly reminded that all three Galatea brothers hate him—especially when he is anywhere near their sister.
Sylvain steps away.
“Gabriel!” Ingrid exclaims, surprised. “We were just talking.”
Gabriel scans the balcony, noting the few other people that dot the exposed terrace, but his frown doesn’t lessen once he seems to have confirmed his sister’s innocence is still intact. “Rowan was looking for you,” Gabriel says stiffly. “Come on.”
Ingrid sighs but nods. She glances back at Sylvain. “I’ll see you later.” She grazes her fingers against his wrist, the silk covering her fingertips grazing the thin strip of skin between Sylvain’s shirt and his gloves.
She walks over to her brother and follows him back inside, leaving Sylvain on the balcony alone.