A Brother's Price

bedspread.
    Jerin looked at the pictures, then looked quickly away, blushing. “Where did you get those?”
    “Lylia gave them to me. Of course my sisters would have a fit if they knew she was corrupting me.”
    Jerrin frowned. He thought at first Lylia was one of Cullen’s sisters, but now it didn’t sound like it. Who else would have access to a noble male? A servant? “Who’s Lylia?”
    “Gosh, you are an innocent! My cousin, Her Royal Highness, Lylia.” Cullen rooted two cigars out of his bundle and handed one to Jerin. “She doesn’t see the point of keeping boys ignorant. Accident of birth does not make us less human or less intelligent. We’ve got a vow that whichever of us has sex first, we’ll tell the other everything. One time”—he dropped his voice to a whisper—“we practiced kissing.” He shrugged, propping one elbow on the bed and resting his chin in the palm. “But it was like kissing your sister. Well, your own sister. I’m sure kissing your sister wouldn’t be the same.”
    Kissing Lylia’s sister certainly hadn’t been the same. Jerin picked up one of the tintypes and found himself burning with embarrassment. He had done the pictured act with Ren.
    Cullen put a finger on the top of the picture and tipped it down so he could see. “I always wonder why you would want to put your mouth there.”
    Luckily, there was a knock on the door. Cullen dived down behind the bed. Jerin dashed toward the door, slammed to a stop halfway, ran back, and swept the pictures from the bed to snow down on Cullen. He ran back and jerked the door open. The Barnes sister stood with the tea cart.
    It wasn’t until Jerin barred the door after the Barnes had left that he realized that he had the cigar still in hand. He collapsed into the chair beside the cart, giggling. “You can come out.”
    Cullen peeked over the edge of the bed. “What are you laughing about?”
    Jerin waved the cigar. “I forgot about this.”
    Cullen laughed and vanished behind the bed. “One last thing.” He popped up holding a bottle. “Wine!”
    “Lylia?”
    Cullen nodded, breaking the seal. “A truer cousin is not to be found.” He produced a cork puller and fumbled through the opening of the bottle. He made a show of splashing wine into the dainty teacups. “A toast! To Lylia!”
    “Lylia.” Jerin picked up the cup and raised it high.
    “And to our friendship, may our sisters allow it to prosper!”
    The tea had come with sandwiches of roast turkey with spiced mustard, slices of chilled cucumber in a dill vinaigrette, and raspberry tarts.
    They talked as they ate, sounding out each other. They compared sisters first. Cullen had far fewer in number, partly due to an outbreak of yellow fever. His father, a young brother-in-law, and five out of ten elder sisters died then. His middle sisters died in the same blast that killed the princesses. His youngest sisters ranged from late teens to early twenties, making Cullen the baby of the Moorland family.
    “Actually, I was born after my father died,” Cullen admitted. “My mothers married him in the olden days, when men were only thirteen when they wed, something they thank the gods about every chance they get, since he died so young. Personally, I’m glad I didn’t have to act the blood stallion at thirteen. What?”
    Jerin had bitten his tongue on the news that his Mother Elder would also bear a child after his father had died. It would be unlucky to talk about that before the baby was born. Cullen still looked at him, so he volunteered a different family secret. “I have three younger brothers.”
    Cullen’s eyes went wide. “You’re joshing! Four boys?”
    Jerin nodded, slightly embarrassed by Cullen’s impressed reaction. He, himself, had done nothing toward the feat except be born.
    “What’s it like.” Cullen asked, “having other men in the house?”
    Jerin had never considered this. “It’s—nice. A lot of time, it’s no different than having girls around. Well, at least with my little brothers, except everyone’s more careful with them. I loved it when my father was alive. He had to shave his face with a razor every day, or he would grow whiskers. His voice was deep: when he was in another room, he rumbled like a distant storm. He was always patient, but he never talked to me like I was a child, like my elder sisters do. He would say, ‘You’re almost a full-grown man. You need to act like it.’ He told me all sorts of stuff about being