“Hmm, hmm. Shall we, then?”
When Ivan laid out the fabric swatches, Eugene rose from his seat as if he’d been waiting for exactly that moment. Truthfully, from the instant he’d stepped into Atrian, he’d been itching to meddle — his mouth practically tingling with the urge to say something. He’d been suppressing it, reminding himself that such behavior was neither particularly aristocratic nor befitting of Eugene Primrose.
Having leapt to his feet the moment the opportunity arose, Eugene began layering several fabrics he’d had his eye on one atop another beneath Ivan’s face. Flipping through them one by one, watching Ivan’s complexion in the mirror, Eugene suddenly realized that what he was doing was unmistakably a personal color analysis.
Would a concept like this even exist in this era? A news segment he’d once caught about personal color analysis becoming a trend overseas suddenly surfaced in his mind.
“Hmm….”
“What is it, Eugene? Shall we take a short break?”
“No. I just need to think for a moment.”
Eugene was no expert. He had a keen interest in the subject, but he’d never formally studied it. Even so, he had eyes. After holding up swatches of various tones, he concluded that Ivan fell somewhere around a Spring Warm or Spring Light.
Rather than vivid, high-contrast colors, soft pastel tones in one shade lower were far easier on the eye and gave off a clear, warm impression — much like how a very bright cream shirt had suited Ivan far better than that dull purple coat.
Eugene draped a swatch of clear, pale sky-blue fabric over Ivan’s shoulders. Not the crisp blue of a clear autumn sky, but something softer — like cotton candy. Simply resting it there was enough to brighten his complexion immediately.
His softly curled golden hair and blue eyes stood out in particular, giving off an impression as full and lush as spring in bloom. It was precisely the sort of lovely, warm atmosphere that would be perfectly suited for the spring Social Season. That is, aside from the curled mustache and sideburns.
“Ivan.”
Eugene called his name with quiet significance. Unlike Ivan, who seemed to carry the warmth of sunlight, Eugene had a distinctly cool presence — and hearing him call out in a solemn, low voice with a grave expression on his face felt rather unsettling. Ivan, sensing something ominous, stole a cautious glance at his younger brother before answering with a drawn-out delay.
“…Yeah?”
“Shave it.”
“Shave what?”
Eugene’s blue eyes flicked sideways in a brief, sidelong glance. Following the direction of his gaze, Ivan looked over to find a small knife and a pair of scissors resting on a little table beside them. They were used for cutting fabric, and the blades were extremely well-honed.
“The beard.”
He wasn’t asking for everything at once. His heart wanted to trim it all away — even tidy up the eyebrows while he was at it — but he couldn’t force that. Out of consideration for Ivan, Eugene mentioned only the beard. Even so, Ivan reacted as if he’d just heard something catastrophically offensive, completely forgetting his composure as he broke into an uproar.
Bates stood between the two brothers, flustered and unable to intervene. When Eugene’s hand darted out and snatched up the knife, Ivan shot to his feet as well. The two brothers squared off, using Bates and the fitting platform between them like a boundary, circling each other in what looked every bit like a childish game of tag. Seeing that the brothers’ squabble showed no sign of ending soon, Bates quickly and quietly ushered the workmen out of the room.
“No! This is absolutely unacceptable, Eugene!”
“No, I have my reasons, Ivan. If you just trim the beard and sideburns a little, you’ll look so much more refined than you do now.”
“It’s unmanly! I’ll be laughed out of society!”
There it is. The sort of hopelessly antiquated sentiment perfectly in keeping with the era. He’d half-expected something like this. The kind of insufferable, idiotic machismo — the sort that claims a man’s balls will fall off if he steps into a kitchen, or that wearing pink makes him gay. Absolute nonsense.
“There might be a bit of noise when it comes to setting a new trend, but trust me just this once.”
He didn’t actually expect Ivan to agree, but he said it on the off chance. Truthfully, he hadn’t been without his own misgivings. In an age like this, masculinity was something that mattered well beyond mere pride. But he had no desire to simply nod along and let things slide — not if it meant ending up looking the same as Ivan.
He might have no choice right now, but he had no intention of going forward and growing out a beard and sideburns — adopting a style that neither suited him nor matched his taste — simply because it was the fashion of this era.
If it had actually suited him, he’d have done it gladly. But on Eugene Primrose, with his delicate and refined features, it was seriously unbecoming. Unless he planned to live his life convinced he had no aesthetic sense and simply avoid mirrors forever, he either needed to pioneer a new trend or, failing that, find at least some room for compromise — whether it was the trousers or the beard.
“Think it through, Ivan. When the clothes you’re wearing right now first came into fashion — when you first laid eyes on them — did you think they were stylish from the start?”
“Of course I did. Because His Grace the Duke of Highwinter was wearing them.”
“And what about the beard and sideburns?”
“That too. His Grace the Duke of Highwinter is so distinguished and—”
“Stop. I feel like I already know what you’re going to say, so you don’t need to go on.”
Eugene cut Ivan off with an expression of undisguised exasperation. He had already heard that name — Highwinter — fall from Ivan’s lips more than ten times by now. He found himself curious about whoever had started this trend — he wanted to see the man’s face. Whoever it was that led the culture and fashion among the aristocracy was almost certainly this “Duke of Highwinter” Ivan kept invoking like a prayer.
As he’d said before, pioneering a new trend always comes with noise. Even in Park Yujin’s world, when those form-fitting, brightly colored trousers first appeared, everyone had been rather shocked.
Those who’d found them strange at first eventually started following along one by one as they saw famous figures wearing them — and then, in the blink of an eye, something that had been the height of fashion became the most hopelessly dated thing in the world. The same went for men’s grooming.
Eugene took a deep breath and let his gaze travel slowly around the room. A world unlike anything he’d known met his eyes. And yet — it was, in the end, a place where people lived, and their ways were not so far removed from the world he’d known.
These extravagant coats and garments he was surrounded by — judging by their silhouettes — would undoubtedly, in time, become what was commonly called a “suit.” Eugene looked at Ivan, who was still facing him down with both hands covering his lower jaw.
“His Grace the Duke of Highwinter, you say….”
Rather than trying to win over the resolute Ivan directly, would it be possible to make the Duke of Highwinter himself change the trend? He seemed to be the kingdom’s greatest figure of influence, so if the Duke were to dress even once according to Eugene’s vision, everything would be solved.
The Duke of Highwinter — Ivan’s endlessly repeated idol — was apparently the one who led fashion among high society, and from what he’d heard, every time the Duke appeared, he unveiled styles either borrowed from other countries or rather bold for the current era. Someone of that caliber would naturally have a boundless appetite for novelty. And in that moment, Eugene caught a glimpse of an answer — one that had nothing to do with marriage.
Personal color. Trend. Styling. And the Duke of Highwinter.
Even if Ivan was a lost cause, it occurred to him that Eugene Primrose’s situation might not require marriage after all. Eugene was someone who understood exactly what kind of influence and profit a single celebrity endorsement — a product placement, a sponsorship, a famous name attached to something — could generate.
If he couldn’t become the mainstream himself — not right away — perhaps making use of someone who already was might show him a way forward. And as it happened, the kingdom’s greatest trendsetter was right here.
* * *
“This is the most fashionable sideburn style right now! Do you have any idea how long I’ve been growing this out, trying to look like His Grace the Duke of Highwinter?!”
“That’s exactly it — it may have suited His Grace the Duke of Highwinter, but Ivan, it doesn’t suit you.”
“That can’t be! His Grace the Duke of Highwinter embodies true masculinity—”
“Stop. I’m not saying shave it all off entirely. I’m only saying let’s trim it a little. It’ll look so much better, I’m telling you.”
A voice drifting past the navy curtain brought a pair of footsteps to a halt. The polish on a pair of dark boots gleamed with no ordinary sheen. The man who had stopped kept his gaze fixed on the other side of the curtain. Through the gap where it hadn’t been drawn fully shut, a glimpse of very bright golden hair could be seen swaying gently.
“Highwinter, Highwinter. Highwinter! It may well have suited His Grace the Duke of Highwinter, but Ivan — listen to me. I’m not saying we shave it for no reason.”
At the voice coming from the other side of the curtain, the man seemed to grow intrigued, tilting his head to listen more closely. The brown-haired man who had been following behind him furrowed his brow at the sight of him peeking through the gap in the curtain.
“What exactly are you doing?”
“It sounds as though someone is calling out for me quite desperately.”
“Your Grace, the Queen Mother will be waiting.”
“Quietly, Basil. Being caught eavesdropping is most ungentlemanly — that would be troublesome.”
“Then don’t eavesdrop, Your Grace.”
The brown-haired man called Basil shook his head slowly. Basil tapped his pocket watch with a fingertip, urging the man along — but the man only pressed himself closer to the curtain and began openly peering inside. Watching him settle into position, Basil let out a sigh.
Lucian Highwinter.
The Prince of the kingdom of Hyphaelion. The kingdom’s most notorious rake, adventurer, and the center of every piece of gossip circulating in the capital. Basil watched the bright hazel eyes of his close friend — and the lord he served — glint with interest, and leaned to one side with a crooked, resigned stance. Having spent so many years at Lucian’s side, Basil knew well that once Lucian’s curiosity and mischief took hold, they wouldn’t subside until he’d caused some manner of trouble.
As if granting him leave to do as he pleased, Basil settled into his stance. Lucian smoothed his perfectly undisturbed black hair and pressed the corners of his hazel eyes down into a smile — the kind of seductive, shameless expression that worked equally well on men and women alike. It was that brazen, eye-curving smile of his.
Lucian’s appearance was like a work of art — but Basil gave a shudder, as though he’d witnessed something he hadn’t wanted to see.
Flawless looks by any standard, the backing of being the Prince, and on top of that, the title of “Duke” attached to his name even setting aside his royal status — not a single flaw to speak of. And yet, his character and conduct — a magnet for rumor and incident — were his one shortcoming. Which was why, in Basil’s eyes, that smug, eye-curving smile of Lucian’s read as nothing more than a preview of whatever trouble he was about to cause next.
Lucian knew his own appeal all too well, and so he always got away with things behind that smile of his. The Prince — younger brother to the current king, with a considerable age gap between them — was a brother in name only; the king treated Lucian practically as his own son, and the Queen Mother, who had given birth to him at a late age, cherished him without question. Someone with such extraordinary backing had nothing to fear in the world.
Lucian Highwinter had long since passed the conventional age for marriage, yet he remained a flower in full bloom in social society — an eternal flower that never wilted. No matter what scandal attached itself to him, a single flash of that smile was enough to transform the scandal into a legend. He was a man who received the advances of all — men and women, young and old — and yet he himself was selective: he had preferences when it came to age and appearance. The moment he laid eyes on something beautiful, his wicked habits flared up without fail — whether the object of his interest was a thing, a man, or a woman, it made no difference.
Who could refuse him? He was handsome, and he was wealthy. More than that, he was the Prince, cherished like a son by a king who had no heir. An irreverent thought — but if His Majesty were to suddenly pass away some day, Lucian would set aside the Highwinter name and reclaim his true surname: Hyphaelion.
For all the qualities that only heightened his appeal, there was apparently a saying going around that families with daughters on the verge of their Debutante would blindfold those daughters rather than let them catch a glimpse of the Duke of Highwinter. He was that unruly — that disinclined to speak of a future with anyone. And yet, for all that — for someone who no one could point a finger at — there was one person who did exactly that. That person was none other than Basil Lacromore, his close friend and the man who willingly cast himself as his faithful servant.
