Keifer and would make an excellent husband. How do we convince Trini?”
“We don’t,” Odelia said, flinging her ball skyward. “Jerin does. She won’t believe anything we say anyhow.”
Chapter 11
On the morning of the Season’s opening ball, a hip bathtub and buckets of warm, scented water were delivered to the suite. After the Whistlers had bathed, dried off, dressed, and eaten a light brunch, a horde of women descended on the suite.
A manicurist family arrived first, corralling all the Whistlers into having the dirt scraped out from under their nails and their ragged edges trimmed and filed. Eldest, Corelle, and Summer got off with a quick ten-digit service. Jerin found himself propped in a semire-clined position, each limb in the command of a separate plump-cheeked woman. They trimmed, shaped, and ran a pencil of white chalk underneath his finger- and toe-nails to give them a lasting “freshly bathed” appearance. The manicurists voiced dismay that he had gone barefoot when he was younger, leaving ghost calluses on the bottom of his feet. They also tsked over the condition of his hands, and discussed at length the benefits of full-length gloves.
Eldest vetoed the suggestion of gloves, looking disgusted at the fuss over Jerin’s feet, and chased them out. The hairdressers, however, were waiting in the hall. Since his sisters trimmed their military-style short hair every morning, Eldest elected to retreat with Summer, leaving Corelle to watch over Jerin’s suffering.
The hairdressers undid his braid, combed out his long hair, trimmed it to an even length, and then washed it.
Normally his hair took hours to dry. The hairdressers blotted individually coiled sections, again and again, working through a stack of forty or fifty towels. It left his hair slightly damp to the touch. He was reclined once more, his hair carefully arranged on a drying rack, and the hairdresser sisters blew air down over the hair via a crank-driven machine with teardrop-shaped revolving blades. It made him nervous and slightly dizzy to stare up at the spinning blades, and the sound was thunderous.
It took an hour of cranking the machine before his hair was dry. He had to admit, as they combed it out, that it had never lain so silky straight before. They braided it then, in loose coils woven through with ribbons, strings of small glass beads, and tiny blue flowers.
He was allowed tea. Apparently noblemen ran toward being heavyset-and considering how little activity they were allowed, it was small wonder. Perhaps with this in mind, someone had tried to change what had become Jerin’s normal tea to just dry muffins. Corelle sent a youngest Barnes off for a true tea with sandwiches made of chicken and a sweet pickle relish, and little cakes of sweet cream topped with fresh raspberries.
Lastly came the tailors with his formal ball clothes. At all the fittings, they had allowed him to wear undergarments. He was dismayed when they explained that the clothes were to be worn without underclothes.
“It’s the fashion,” the tailor murmured, carefully keeping her face averted as she held out the leggings.
“With underwear on, you won’t… settle… properly into the codpiece. Just slip off your underwear, and into the leggings, and we’ll sew them shut.”
Jerin balked. “I’ll feel naked. I’ll look naked.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but women like to see what they’re buying. You’ll be fine. All the other men will be wearing leggings just like these. I should know-we’ve made a goodly quarter of them.”
Corelle scolded him impatiently. “Oh, Jerin, don’t be a crybaby.”
Jerin supposed this was what Captain Tern had meant when she said their success was riding on his conduct. If he refused to wear the most fashionable clothing, it would be unlikely he’d catch the eye of a well-to-do family.
I wish 1 could marry Ren.
He bit his lip on that thought. No one would want to look at a boy with eyes full of tears. So he stripped out of his underwear, stepped into the leggings, and tried not to pout as they explained how to tuck himself into the codpiece’s pouch, and then sewed the fabric shut. The shirt had padded shoulders, curiously shaped sleeves that managed to leave his forearms bare while draping fabric almost to the floor, and a collar open to midchest. At least they let him wear riding boots, with cuffs that faired up around the knee.
A slight gasp made him look up. Eldest stood in the doorway, looking stunned.
“Holy Mothers,” Eldest finally murmured. “You’re beautiful.”
Jerin ducked his head at the praise. “I feel like a midwinter tree with beaded strings and glittering ornaments. All that’s missing are the gingerbread angels.”
“Jerin!” Eldest came across the room and gave him a quick hug, careful not to muss his hair or crinkle his shirt. “Don’t be a ninny.”
“I’ve got bells on,” he said, taking a few steps to illustrate his point. The tiny bells sewn into the long sleeves rang as he walked, a faint shimmering sound.
Eldest shook her head. “I don’t know if I should let you out of this room dressed like that.”
“I look silly.”
“You look sensual, beautiful, and erotic. We’ll be beating women off of you.”
He blushed and went back to the mirror to consider his image. His reflection barely seemed to be him, but did look like someone who could command a brother’s price of four thousand crowns.
He had been prepared for a fair: women in work clothes, men clustered together for the rare chance to talk to someone of their own sex, children moving like schools of minnows, all contained in a meeting hall, a tent, or a rough dance floor under the stars. Potluck dishes. Amateur musicians mostly playing together.
He thought it would be like a country fair, just on a grander scale.
They came down a dim hallway and out a side door to the brightly lit foyer. Stairs cascaded down in vivid red velvet into a ballroom, a shifting sea of the most beautifully dressed people he could imagine.
Great crystal chandeliers hung overhead, thousands of candles setting fire to the glittering glass prisms.
Every person was arrayed in silks and satins, diamonds and rubies.
There were no children. There was no food in evidence. The few men were scattered and closely guarded. Music came from a small orchestra, in tune and on beat.
Jerin froze at the top of the stairs, wanting to turn and escape back to their rooms.
Eldest checked at the sight of the whirling dancers, then, hooking her arm with his, led him down the stairs, murmuring, “We’ve got the blood of Queens in us. We’re just as good as they are.”
Corelle and Summer trailed wordlessly behind, Summer wide-eyed and Corelle looking sour, as if it all was putting a bad taste in her mouth.
Behind them, Barnes announced loudly, “Miss Eldest Whistler, Master Jerin Whistler, Misses Summer and Corelle Whistler.”
A handful of women turned at the announcement, glancing up at the Whistlers as they descended the stairs. The women’s gazes flicked over Eldest, then settled on Jerin and stayed. In ones and twos, others glanced their direction and didn’t look away, until dozens of eyes were focused on him.
“They’re staring,” Jerin whispered.
Eldest tightened her grip on him. “Of course they are. You’re beautiful. Smile. It’s not like they’re going to eat you.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I’ll rip the heart out of anyone that lifts a fork to you,” Eldest said so only he could hear, all the while giving a tight smile to those looking in their direction.
“Holy Mothers!” Summer gasped. “Cullen!”
Jerin missed Cullen at first, expecting to see the boy that climbed in through his window. After a minute of futilely scanning the crowd, he realized that the young man standing demurely behind Eldest Moorland was Cullen. His muddy blond hair had been dyed to a deep rich honey, interwoven with strands of gem-encrusted gold threads, and gathered in loose falls by green silk bows. Eyes down, head slightly bowed, hands clasped before him, his clothes falling in elegant unwrinkled lines, it seemed as if all of what was Cullen had been stripped away and a
