He needed a highborn, unobjectionable wife. A marriage of convenience to someone who wouldn’t wriggle under his defenses. A woman who would beget a pair of perfect heirs, who themselves would grow up to be well-respected, perfect lords, so wholly unobjectionable as to be untainted by the sins in their father’s past. Mostly because their mother had been such a high-ranking paragon since birth, overshadowing Julian’s peccadillos with her golden halo.
But first, he had to make it through this gaming den.
At last, he burst free from the dicing and wagering and groans of remorse, and strode into the calm of the dining area.
“Lambley!”
Only one cluster of gentlemen gathered about a table. Its inhabitants immediately made room for the new arrival and smiled in welcome.
Lord Wainwright, an earl renowned for his angelic countenance. Lord Hawkridge, a marquess who had married a boarding school instructor. Heath Grenville, discreet arranger for the ton’s little foibles. And Maxwell Gideon, the owner of the semi-respectable Cloven Hoof.
“I’ll summon your favorite sherry,” Max said.
“No need.” Julian took the armchair next to him. “Your servers saw me enter.”
Hawkridge raised his brows. “Then why the foul mood?”
Wainwright grinned. “It’s because of a woman.”
“What woman?” Julian growled.
“The one we’re not supposed to know about,” Wainwright answered, unrepentant.
Julian sent Grenville a deadly glare.
Grenville lifted his palms. “Not only did I say nothing, my friend—but by glowering in my direction, you’ve not only confirmed Wainwright’s wild suppositions, but implicated me in the matter as well.”
“This is supposed to be where I come to relax,” Julian grumbled.
“Trust me,” Max said wryly. “No one comes to a gaming hell to relax.”
“Trust me,” Hawkridge added. “Lambley has never relaxed in his life.”
“So tell us.” Wainwright fluttered his blond lashes. “Is it love?”
“No,” Julian said flatly.
He planned, so that he could control things. He controlled them, because he did not like risk. Nothing was riskier than love. The probability of being hurt made the experience not worth doing.
“I bet ten quid it’s love,” Wainwright stage-whispered to Hawkridge.
“Just becauseyoufour...” Julian began, then glowered at his friends. “You’re all recently married. It’s clouding your judgment.”
“We’re in love with our wives,” Max said with a shrug.
“I recommend it,” Wainwright added helpfully. “Love makes things easier.”
“Love has never made anything easier,” Julian said flatly.
“He’s got it bad,” Hawkridge whispered to Grenville. “Step three is denial.”
Julian glared at him. “What are steps one and two?”
Hawkridge counted them on his fingers. “Step one, meeting her. I’d wager another ten you suspected you were in trouble then. Step two, crossing the line. Step three, denial. Step four, parson’s trap.”
“Crossing what line?” asked Julian sourly.
“Everyone has a different line,” Wainwright answered. “But we all know it when we’ve crossed.”
