PART I

**** January 1895 ****

Chapter 1

Blaine stepped off the train and inhaled deeply; the air smelled briny and sharp, and it felt as though it could be cut clean through with a knife. It had been bitingly cold back in New York when he left two days ago, but here in Florida, the January air was almost stiflingly hot. He stuck a finger under his collar and pulled it away from his neck, but it did no good. He was sweating already and felt overdressed in his thick, woolen coat.

It seemed fitting, this oppressive heat, given that Blaine was being forced into a life he didn't want. He had been sent to his grandfather's home for the winter to meet some of the wealthiest families from New York — and as Blaine's mother had insisted, to find a suitable woman to take as a wife. He wanted neither, not caring for the ridiculous rules of courtship and snobbish women, or for the obligations and expectations that came with maintaining one's position in that level of society. But it was expected. He was the youngest son of a prominent doctor, and he had been living on borrowed time already. It was time to grow up, and his mother demanded it happen soon.

Blaine sighed and looked at the sky. It was a hazy yellow, although it was practically cloudless; it should have been a beautiful day, but it felt wrong somehow. Perhaps it was the many meetings his mother had set for him with wealthy families who had daughters of marrying age; perhaps it was the lack of Bohemian sensibilities in the South.

Whatever it was, his plans for this trip were rapidly falling apart, including the short journey from the train station to his destination. Blaine had been looking forward to a stroll in the mid morning sunshine — a moment's escape from the inevitable march to his permanent entrapment — but a hansom cab was waiting for him to take him the four blocks to his grandfather's home. It seemed ridiculous for such a short walk. Back home, he regularly walked all over Manhattan without batting an eye.

"Mr. Anderson," a tall black man in livery said to him. "Your trunk has been transferred from the train already. Shall we head to Markland, sir?"

"Yes, Mr...?"

"Jenkins, sir. Just call me Jenkins."

"Very good, Jenkins. I presume my grandfather is waiting for me and has a lengthy speech prepared on the virtues of punctuality or something equally rancorous."

Jenkins didn't respond; he simply nodded as he held the carriage door for Blaine, who stepped inside reluctantly. He knew it was not Jenkins' place to comment on his employer's behavior or his grandson's snide remarks, but Blaine had hoped for a comrade, at least in spirit if not practice.

Dr. Andrew Anderson II was a prominent figure in the St. Augustine community, having been elected mayor nine years prior and having worked as a physician in the community for more than twenty. His palatial home, Markland House, had once been a prosperous plantation, but he had sold much of the land to Henry Flagler several years earlier so the entrepreneur could build his magnificent Ponce de Leon Hotel in the sleepy seaside town. Mr. Flagler hoped to change St. Augustine into the American Riviera.

A self-made man, Flagler had smartly partnered with John D. Rockefeller in forming Standard Oil. His name was now better known among New York society than the Andersons had ever dreamed, and Blaine's mother, Helen, was positively green with envy over it. It was no secret she had sent him to the back pocket of her father-in-law to further ingratiate her oldest child into the high society life of New York's elite. Blaine had an appointment with Mr. Flagler himself when the hotel owner returned from south Florida in late January. Helen Anderson had spent the entire autumn arranging it. What he was to discuss with Mr. Flagler was anyone's guess, but he was expected to keep the appointment come hell or high water.

When the carriage pulled up in front of Markland, Blaine couldn't help but be impressed by its towering white columns and wrap-around porches, looking far grander than was absolutely necessary for size and scope of the small town. Markland sat just west of the orange groves, facing away from the hotel. It was grand indeed — until you looked across the street at the soaring towers of the Ponce with its ornate terracotta details, opulent furnishings and expansive grounds. A wonder of the modern age, his grandfather had said. And it did not disappoint.

The building loomed large and ominous in the background, a thick ivy climbing its poured concrete walls and winding its way skyward as it towered over the city. And Blaine couldn't wait to explore it because the grand structure represented the kind of extravagance he simultaneously abhorred and expected at this point in his life.

Stories of grand balls preceded by five-course meals in the dining room and high-stakes poker games and billiards that lasted into the wee hours were the only consolation in this disgusting endeavor. At least Blaine would be entertained. And how could he not be? The neighboring hotel had an indoor pool and extravagant Russian baths, and then there was the sunshine — something New Yorkers had long since forgotten about by mid November and didn't expect to see much of again until spring. If he had to submit to his mother's will and find a wife, Blaine planned on going home tanned and fat, and perhaps with his wallet a little thicker thanks to his skill at gambling.

He stepped down from the carriage as Jenkins wrestled with his trunk. The shade in the front of the house made the air seem cooler and he tilted his head back to let the breeze caress his face. He should really find his grandfather and let him know he already had plans for the evening so he could get on with the lecture that was surely awaiting him.

Blaine found the eldest Anderson outside near the back gate of the property, chatting with a man wearing overalls who carried a small axe.

"Blaine, this is Jim Bartlett. He prunes my grapefruit trees. Jim, this is my grandson Blaine. He'll be staying with me until at least March."

"Mr. Anderson," Jim said. "Pleased to meet you. I'll tell Mary what you said about rest, doc. Have a good evening." He tipped his straw hat at the two men and headed south toward King Street, whistling a somber melody.

"I'm going to freshen up and then take a stroll," Blaine said, squinting after the caretaker.

"No time. You'll be joining our table at the hotel for dinner tonight," grandfather said. He didn't turn or make eye contact, his gaze followed Mr. Bartlett as he rounded the corner. "No excuses."

Blaine sighed and scuffed his shoe like a petulant child. The soft, sugary sand billowed out around his ankles and settled again.

"And have Jenkins shine your shoes. You look like a factory worker with those dirty things."

"Yes, grandfather," he said to his retreating back.

Blaine hadn't expected a warm welcome, but to get less than a hello from his grandfather, let alone to be chastised for unshined shoes, was more than he could bear at that moment. He wanted to disappear.

Blaine tilted his head back and looked up in the canopy of magnolias lining his grandfather's lawn. Maybe he could just fly away and hide among the branches. The blue sky peeking through reminded him of a summer spent near Cape Cod, when he felt freer and more at ease. He squinted into the sun and shielded his eyes from its glare as he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the sheen of sweat from his neck. It was going to be a long winter.

"Mr. Blaine?"

Blaine looked down to see Jenkins standing beside him, hands behind his back as he bowed his head and waited for a response. Blaine nodded and gestured for him to continue.

"I took your trunk upstairs, sir. Want me to show you to your room?"

He smiled as warmly as he could manage and allowed Jenkins to lead him into the house. As he passed the parlor, he dropped his hat on a small table in the entryway and slowly climbed the front stairs, glancing to his left when a small movement caught his eye and startled him.

His grandfather was seated in the library, sipping a glass of iced tea and reading the evening paper. He looked up as Blaine passed and followed him with scrutiny until Blaine was out of sight, but Blaine still felt his piercing blue eyes on him as he reached the second floor. He was going to have his work cut out for him if he intended to shirk his grandfather's watchful gaze and have some fun on this trip. He needed a plan.

At the top of the stairs, Blaine followed Jenkins to the left and into a room that sat just above the library, facing south over the front lawn.

The bedroom he would be staying in for the next three months was, like everything else at Markland, large and ornate. There were intricate scallop shapes and geometric patterns along the base of the ceiling and across the walls; a polished marble fireplace on one side of the room was framed in carvings of looping floral garlands. The soaring ceilings and expansive windows let in the light in bright, cheery streaks that painted the wood floor a warm yellow.

Blaine noticed that one of the windows opened like a door along the bottom, allowing him access to the attached upstairs verandah. He opened the latch and ducked under the partially opened window to step out into the warm air, and made note of a large trellis to his right; it looked sturdy enough for him to climb. Perhaps that was his way around his grandfather's ever-present scrutiny. He looked out over the lawn, the green grass and trees a welcome change from the stark winter of home. The sweet scent of the orange blossoms from across the street teased him into being charmed by this place, even if he would prefer to be back in New York where he had friends and other things to occupy his time.

Unfortunately it was those very things that had gotten him into this mess to begin with. Blaine's mother had been increasingly insistent that he get married, and she claimed his current lifestyle did not lend itself to Blaine finding a suitable wife. The sort of women Blaine was expected to be interested in did not hang out in bathhouses and Bohemian theatres. In fact, he rarely noticed any women at all.

No, the sort of characters who frequented those establishments were more like Blaine. And that was the crux of the problem: Blaine's lifestyle.

It would horrify Helen Anderson to know the extent of her son's more questionable activities. She simply thought him to be a playboy and a bit of a free spirit, but that was only partially true. Indeed he had no desire to get married, but his reasons were far more problematic than anyone in the Anderson family dared to guess.

Blaine, in fact, preferred the company of young men.

The secret Blaine kept well-hidden would scandalize the entire city of New York and destroy the Andersons' precarious position in society, a predicament Blaine was no more keen to find himself in than his own mother was. So he learned to be discreet, taking his cue from many of the even wealthier men he encountered on his nightly "adventures" in the bathhouses and theatres of New York.

Blaine had actually discovered his preferences when he was quite young, experimenting with his classmates at the exclusive boarding school he attended in England, and it continued into his adulthood when he later attended Harvard. Like many of the boys his age, Blaine was raging with desire and passion and, being at an all-boys school thousands of miles from home, had no place to put it. The school simply turned the other cheek when boys were caught in compromising positions with their classmates, insisting it was a phase and that most young men would outgrow such deplorable behavior. Many did; Blaine did not. Nor did many of his young friends.

That was how he had met Oliver.

Tall, with sandy brown hair and teasing blue eyes, Oliver was athletic and sociable. Like Blaine, he came from money, but didn't let it dictate his life in the way many other boys their age did. They met after a tug-o-war match during field day and became fast friends and eventually lovers, though no one knew of their more amorous activities until they were caught by their dorm monitor during Oliver's senior year. Once they were discovered, Oliver had pulled away, taking part of Blaine with him. He vowed to never let another man ensnare him in such a way, sticking to rent boys and quick encounters after that. No one could ever guess that Blaine was a dandy, or his reputation would be ruined.

After he returned from school, Blaine quickly found a circle of like-minded friends and pushed away his mother's insistence that he begin looking for a wife. He was young and had time, and his mother spoiled her son. It was the perfect life as far as Blaine was concerned. He had no desire to change it, but of course his parents had other ideas. At 25, he was pushing the boundaries of their social circle, and they made it clear he would not be unmarried at 26.

Now, here he was in the most unrefined city he'd ever seen, without even the smallest hope of finding a male lover to occupy his time and absolutely no desire to find a potential wife. He simply needed to find other activities to distract him from his situation.

Blaine reentered his room through the open window and changed out of his traveling suit, pausing to glance over to the bed where Jenkins had laid out his most formal evening jacket and starched collar. He sighed, wishing he could stick to the lighter-weight houndstooth waistcoat that he'd had made for him just before he'd left. It was far more fashionable and much more to Blaine's style and comfort. Still, it was no surprise that dinner with his grandfather was to be a formal occasion. The adjacent winter resort attracted everyone from the Astors to the Rockefellers –– as well as everyone who wanted to be them.

When Blaine reemerged from his room, dressed to the nines, the sun had already slipped below the horizon, and his grandfather was waiting impatiently at the foot of the stairs.

"I would have thought a young bachelor like yourself would be excited to meet all the young ladies at dinner. Instead you're dawdling like a 12-year-old boy."

Blaine bit his lip to keep from retorting, but his disdain must have shown because his grandfather huffed and said, "Really, Blaine. You're entirely too old for this. All of New York society is here for the season. Your mother wants you to find a bride, and that is your solitary goal while you're here. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, grandfather."

"Very well then, my boy. Shall we head to dinner?"

He turned heel and headed for the door without waiting for Blaine's response, which was probably for the best because Blaine was busy glaring after his well-meaning grandfather.

They entered the hotel though the front gate, his grandfather always one for making an entrance. The smell of sulfur coming off the fountain at the center of the courtyard made Blaine's nose tingle. How could the hotel guests stand the smell? It seemed to permeate every corner of the courtyard and seep into his pores.

As they entered the front door, Blaine's eyes were drawn up. He had heard of the intricacies of the murals that adorned the walls and ceilings of the lobby, but to see it with his own eyes was another thing entirely.

The light seemed to dance off the gold leaf details and the cherubs and robed women seemed poised to step off the ceiling and into the domed lobby. He craned his neck to try to see it all and nearly ran into a large, carved wood pillar to his right. His grandfather grabbed his elbow and yanked him toward the center of the room.

"Watch where you're going, boy," he hissed between clenched teeth. "I won't have you embarrassing me in front of these people. Get your head on straight and act like you've been to town before."

Blaine nodded politely and fought the urge to retort. He kept his gaze steady on his grandfather's back as he followed him up the stairs into the dining room.

"Grandfather, shouldn't we go to the bar first?" Blaine asked hopefully as he gestured in the direction of the area to their left.

"Thanks to your dawdling, we missed the cocktail hour. We need to be seated immediately if we hope to eat at all. You can have a brandy after dinner."

The maître d' stood tall and straight as he barked orders at the waiters and greeted guests, his uniform crisp and well-fitted. Blaine couldn't help but admire the broad slope of his nose and his strong jaw. He nodded in the young man's direction, but received only a formal nod in return. He wondered if there were any men of his persuasion on staff. Bell boys and waiters could always be counted on for their willingness to try new things. Perhaps Blaine could befriend one of them.

He made a sweep of the room with his eyes and was greeted with a sight more glorious than the lobby. Brilliant stained-glass windows lined the east and west sides of the dining room and more gold-leaf murals decorated the ceiling. An orchestra played in a balcony overhead and their bright music echoed throughout the room. He tried to keep his gaze near the ground so he wouldn't trip over one of the dozens of tables set with bone china and fine linen. He had to rush to catch up to his grandfather who was already being seated at their table along with a group of people Blaine hadn't met before. That meant introductions and small talk. Blaine sighed deeply and put on his best "society" smile.

"Good evening," he greeted as he approached. The gentleman stood to shake his hand and the older of the two ladies smiled demurely as she held out a hand in greeting after her husband.

"Blaine, this is John Smethurst and his wife, Anabelle," his grandfather said. "And my fiancé, their daughter, Mary." At the name, Blaine noticed his grandfather's smile broadened, and the young woman blushed. He might be able to use that to his advantage later, he decided, as he nodded to Mary Smethurst — a woman 24 years his grandfather's junior and someone his mother had called an "insufferable social climber" — and took his seat to her left. At least he didn't have to worry about being set up with this mousey young woman with her hooked nose and frizzy hair.

"So your grandfather tells us you're a writer," Mr. Smethurst prompted. "Have you had anything published?"

His grandfather scoffed. "Oh my grandson is far too good for anything so common as making money off his talent," he said. "He prefers to live as a Bohemian rather than finding himself a more honorable profession."

"But what about young women?" Mrs. Smethurst asked. "Surely you are planning to take a wife. You must plan ahead, young man."

"That's what I've been trying to tell him," Dr. Anderson said. "His mother wants me to introduce him to Russell Fabray's youngest, Lucy."

"Oh she's a lovely young lady," Mrs. Smethurst gushed. "You must meet her."

Blaine nodded curtly and placed his napkin in his lap, letting the small talk continue around him. He couldn't shake the feeling that his life was spiraling out of control without his consent as he sipped wine and nibbled at food he could barely taste.

A sharp nudge against his left knee caught his attention just as the first course was served. "Sit up straight," his grandfather hissed just loud enough for him to hear.

Blaine adjusted his posture and tried to focus on the plate in front of him. He noticed a small wine stain near his dinner fork, and he moved his glass to cover it. He felt numb, barely noticing that the conversation had been redirected to him as he fiddled with his silverware.

"You should really get some sun while you're here," Mrs. Smethurst said. "You simply cannot go back to New York as pale as you arrived, Mr. Anderson. You could borrow our sail boat, couldn't he, John?"

"Of course," Mr. Smethurst replied. "I'll leave word at the front desk."

"Thank you," Blaine said as he looked up from the linen tablecloth. He nodded to Mr. Smethurst, but his gaze landed just over his shoulder upon the most peculiar looking man he'd ever seen. He was seated a few tables away and seemed to be just a few inches taller than Blaine, with a prominent profile, but something almost delicate about him, even if he carried himself with a deeply masculine air. His head was held high as he waited for the fish course to arrive, and his posture didn't waver as he ate his meal.

Blaine watched him through two courses before leaning forward and whispering, "Grandfather, who is the young man sitting with the Barrows? I haven't seen him before."

Dr. Anderson looked up from his plate, fork halfway to his lips, a bit of sauce caught in his thick mustache, and glanced over at the table Blaine had referenced. "Oh, he's just the son of some engineer. Hummel something or other. I think his father works for Mr. Edison. Why do you ask, my boy?"

"No reason," Blaine said, unsure himself why he'd felt so intrigued by a young man he'd only seen from across the room. "He looks to be about my age, maybe a little younger. Perhaps I should ask him to join us tomorrow for golf."

"I don't think that wise, Blaine. You don't need to impress his family. He's no one of importance."

"That may be," Blaine replied, "but I'm sure he'd be grateful for some company his own age. The Barrows look like they have one foot in the grave each."

"Blaine!" Dr. Anderson snapped. "It's rude to say such things in public."

"No one heard me," he muttered under his breath.

"Don't talk back, boy," his grandfather said quietly, a tight smile still etched deeply on his face as he tried to look jovial for their dinner companions.

Blaine glanced over at the young man again, following his movements with his eyes, watching him dab the corners of his mouth with a napkin and pushing his chair back. He rose elegantly and bowed to the Barrows before resting an affectionate hand on the shoulder of the gentleman to his right. Must be his father, Blaine decided.

Before the young man could escape his gaze, Blaine stood up and excused himself from the table, thanking the Smethursts for their hospitality and assuring his grandfather he would be home at a respectable hour.

"Billiards are an acceptable hobby, young man, but not until the wee hours of the morning."

"Yes, sir," Blaine replied as he felt his grandfather's hand close around his sleeve.

"And tomorrow you will stay and meet some of the families, Blaine. No excuses."

His grandfather's eyes were steely gray as he glared up at Blaine, and Blaine could see this was a battle he would have to concede if he wished to catch up to the young man who had captured his attention.

"You have my word," he said and tugged his arm free. His grandfather's eyes narrowed, but he let him go, and Blaine hurried to catch up with his prey.

Thankfully the boy hadn't gotten too far. He was standing at the bottom of the steps leading to the dining room, gazing up at the gold-leafed dome of the rotunda, taking in the intricate murals and designs adorning the ceiling that had fascinated Blaine earlier in the evening.

"Exquisite work, isn't it?" Blaine asked.

The boy was startled out of his reverie at Blaine's words. When he made eye contact, a warm smile lit up his handsome face.

When he didn't speak, Blaine held out his right hand in greeting and said, "I'm Blaine Anderson."

"Kurt," the boy said, taking his hand in a firm grip. "Hummel."

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hummel."

Blaine couldn't help himself. He was grinning broadly and had still not let go of Kurt's hand.

"Likewise," Kurt said, seeming reluctant to pull his own hand away when Blaine finally released him.

"I don't suppose you're free for a game of billiards," Blaine said, hoping desperately Kurt's obligations for the evening were as free as his own.

"I'm not much of a billiards player," Kurt said, casting his gaze downward.

"I never said I was any good myself," Blaine lied. In fact, he was quite adept, having hustled money from most of his friends at one point or another. He just couldn't bear the thought of not speaking to Kurt for a bit longer. The way the electric lights accented the hint of green in Kurt's eyes made Blaine feel dizzy with anticipation. He burned with need to know this young man better.

"Thank you for the invitation," Kurt said, "but I was thinking of taking a walk through the orange groves. It's such a nice night out and the blossoms smell delicious. It's my favorite part of the hotel."

Blaine tried to hide his disappointment behind a tight smile as he said, "The scent is quite lovely. I hope you enjoy yourself."

And then, Kurt's voice, so quiet he almost missed it, said, "You're welcome to join me."

"Gladly," Blaine said, beaming at him and fighting the ridiculous urge to offer him his arm as the two headed down the back stairs and through the carriage way to the groves.

The scent of orange blossoms tickled Blaine's nose for the second time that day, but somehow he thought, this moment would be seared into his memory for years to come. He glanced over at Kurt, his profile even more stunning in the moonlight. A slight chill had settled in after sunset, and when Kurt shivered, Blaine wished he had a cape or overcoat to offer him.

"So tell me about yourself, Kurt," Blaine said. "Where are you from?"

"Oh, I'm not very interesting," Kurt said. He fidgeted with his hands, pulling on his long fingers and twisting them like he was trying to pull the skin from the bone. Blaine wondered if he realized quite how exquisite he was when he was nervous.

"I doubt you're as dull as all that. Tell me about your family. Anything."

The man turned his head to face Blaine, a look of wonder and surprise making his youthful face look even younger, as if he couldn't believe anyone would want to know anything about him, let alone someone like Blaine. Perhaps no one had bothered to ask. The type of people who traveled in Blaine's social circle didn't bother getting to know anyone whose name wasn't immediately recognizable from the New York Social Register, and with Kurt and his father being new on the scene, it was entirely plausible that no one had even bothered to introduce themselves beyond the required pleasantries.

"Well, my father works for Edison Illuminating Company in New York," Kurt said, the pride he felt for his father evident in his broad smile. "He's working with a man by the name of Henry Ford on a gasoline-powered vehicle. Very revolutionary."

"So you're working class, then. How did you end up here?"

Kurt's posture changed at that. Blaine could see he was a proud man, despite his social standing, and perhaps Kurt wanted more than his meager beginnings might have offered him. Blaine's heart ached to tell him the life of luxury wasn't always what it appeared like on the surface. Living in a gilded cage was still living in a cage.

"I meant no disrespect, Kurt. It's just that this is a pretty elite place to be. You have to be on the Social Register to even get invited to stay here, and then there's the cost. I doubt that working as an engineer affords your family that kind of status." He stepped in front of Kurt and tried to catch his gaze. He needed Kurt to know status held no bearing with him. "Even if it's for such a distinguished gentleman as Mr. Edison."

"They installed the electric lighting on this place, you know."

Blaine smirked as Kurt's expression softened again. He hadn't lost the possibility of friendship yet. "I heard something about that, yes."

"My father was a foreman here. Showed the staff how to run the dynamo."

He was still trying to prove something to Blaine, though, and Blaine needed him to know it wasn't necessary.

"Kurt, I'm not judging you. I'm just making conversation. I'd like to get to know you."

Kurt smiled at that. "Forgive me," he said. "I'm so used to defending myself, it's sort of become habit."

"Against?"

"Friends, family..." He paused, glancing around at their opulent surroundings and gesturing with a small wave of his hand, before adding, "society."

Blaine nodded. He knew exactly what Kurt meant. Status mattered very little when it came to societal expectations. They existed at all levels. Money didn't make you immune any more than the lack of money did. Blaine had spent his life upholding his parents' expectations and hiding his true self from the world. He hadn't felt free to be himself since university, and even then, he knew that his father's spies lived in the walls and reported back should he ever step a toe out of line.

When his brother, Cooper, enrolled in medical school in 1890, Blaine's father took to mentoring him, rather than pushing Blaine into the family business. Blaine was set free, to an extent. He was allowed to pursue his own dreams of being an artist and poet so long as he eventually made a smart match and married well.

"My mother died last spring," Kurt said. "My father's been melancholy for so long, Mr. Ford thought it might be nice if he got away for a while. He wrote a few letters, and well, here we are: the working-class Hummels, living the high life."

"Or at least in close proximity to it," Blaine said.

Kurt raised a questioning eyebrow at him, but didn't comment. "What about you, Mr. Anderson?" Kurt asked. "Where are you from?"

"Please, call me Blaine, and I'm from New York as well," he said. "My father's a doctor, like my grandfather. Both named Andrew."

"Your father didn't want another doctor named Andrew in the family?"

"My older brother, Andrew – although, we call him Cooper – took that role. So I'm off the hook." He bowed deeply, an exaggerated smile on his lips. "Blaine Devon Anderson, philanderer and playboy, at your service."

Kurt laughed, his eyes twinkling brightly, and Blaine realized he wanted to kiss him. But as he couldn't be sure of Kurt's predilections and they were still in a public place, he refrained from acting on the impulse.

"So you're not married?" Kurt asked when his laughter subsided.

"No, and no desire to," Blaine said, leaning in to whisper in Kurt's ear, "but don't tell my mother. She thinks I'm simply being picky."

"Your secret is safe with me," Kurt said.

"What about you?"

"Me?"

"Are you fitted with a ball and chain yet, Kurt?" Blaine asked, pulling a cigarette case from the pocket of his waistcoat. He offered one to Kurt, and he lit both off the same match.

"Betrothed," Kurt said, biting the cigarette between his teeth. He pulled on the chain of his watch, tugging it out of his pocket to open it, revealing the photo of a pretty girl with dark eyes and thick, glossy hair. "Her name is Rachel."

"She's lovely," Blaine said.

"I've known her since we were children," Kurt said, gazing down at her image before closing his watch and returning to his pocket. "Her father died around the same time my mother did. So I figured someone has to take care of her and her mother."

"You both look so young," Blaine said.

Kurt looked up sharply, his eyes narrowed. "I'm nineteen," he said. "I'll be twenty in September."

"Well, that's something, I guess."

Blaine tilted his head back and gazed at the stars; they seemed brighter here than in New York. He watched the smoke from his cigarette curl around him and disappear into the dark, and the harsh scent of tobacco overwhelmed him for the moment. He could just see the tip of Kurt's cigarette glowing in his periphery and wondered what Kurt smelled like underneath the smoke.

"They seem brighter, don't they?" Kurt asked, as if he could read Blaine's thoughts.

"I wonder why that is," Blaine said, grateful for the subject change. He had no desire to divulge the reasons why he wasn't betrothed to his own childhood sweetheart or, worse still, some empty-headed socialite.

"Lights. Coal dust," Kurt said. "Blocks out the sun, the stars. The fresh air."

Blaine inhaled deeply. The scent of orange blossoms was almost overpowering in the dark, the acrid smoke from their cigarettes polluting the sweetness, but the air did seem cleaner than it did in New York, even if it was excessively humid here. He could feel his hair curling and growing bushier even underneath the weight of his expensive pomade. Funny how one could feel so free and so weighed down all at once. Blaine suddenly felt the weight of his life closing in on him and he wanted a drink, something to dull the incessant buzzing of his thoughts and anchor him back to earth, something to level him off and keep him from floating away and taking Kurt with him.

"Want to go back inside?" Blaine asked. "We could get a drink. Play cards. I'm sure the bar has mostly cleared out by now. The ladies will all be in the parlor gossiping. No mindless chatter to be had."

Kurt looked as if he were considering it for a moment before he dropped his cigarette and ground it beneath his shoe, leaving a small divot in the earth.

"I really should get back to my father. He's in poor health and I need to make sure he made it back to our rooms safely."

"The staff will look after him," Blaine said. He cringed at his desperate tone, but he didn't want Kurt to leave, so he made no apologies.

"I really should get back."

Blaine sighed and stubbed his cigarette against a tree, tossing it on the ground once it was out.

"Meet me tomorrow, then. My grandfather and I are playing golf with some of his colleagues from the hospital in the morning, but after I thought I'd go sailing. I'd love some company, especially someone as intriguing as yourself, Mr. Hummel."

"Kurt."

"Kurt," Blaine said, digging in his heels beneath him so he didn't step forward and kiss Kurt's lush, pouting lips. "Will you go sailing with me?"

"Blaine, I–"

"You can't leave me with only my dull grandfather and his pretentious cronies for company. Help a fellow out."

"I suppose it would be rude of me to decline such a gracious invitation," Kurt said. "Especially when I barely know anyone here."

"Then it's settled," Blaine said, slapping Kurt on the back. It was the only contact he dared make under the circumstances. "I'll meet you in the lobby around noon. We can have lunch."

"On one condition," Kurt said, his expression suddenly playful.

"Anything," Blaine breathed, suddenly captivated and wanting more than anything to keep Kurt looking at him exactly like that.

"You let me prepare us a picnic lunch so we can eat on the beach," Kurt said. "I haven't been out there yet and I've heard it's positively decadent."

"Indeed it is," Blaine replied, unable to hide his amusement.

They stared at each other for a moment, Kurt looking like perhaps he wanted to say something else about the beach, the decadence of the evening itself, or even to tell Blaine he wasn't the type of boy that Blaine had hoped he was, but instead Kurt defied all expectation, bowed his head to Blaine and simply said, "Good evening."

"Good evening," Blaine replied and watched as Kurt headed back toward the hotel, head held high and his posture unfailing. He was perfection in true life, and it made Blaine's heart ache unexpectedly.

Blaine didn't want to return to his grandfather's house, so he waited a few minutes under the stars in the chill of the January night before following the path Kurt had taken to the hotel. He climbed the stairs and crossed the lobby to the double doors leading to the billiard room, idly musing that he could perhaps find a few men to convince to play a game or two.