“Rubbish,” Julian said. If that were the case, he possesseddozensof “lines.”
Never see the same woman twice.
Never allow anyone close.
Never reveal anything personal.
Never first-name a woman, for God’s sake.
And never, ever, ever—
“You can practicallyseehim retracing his steps,” Wainwright whispered. “He knows exactly when he crossed the line.”
Hawkridge nodded. “Denial.”
Julian folded his arms over his chest. “Amusing. Tell me this, at least. Are your wives more docile and easily controlled now that you’ve married them?”
All four men burst into guffaws of laughter.
“Good lord,” said Max. “Heisin denial if he thinks he has any chance of ‘controlling’ his marriage.”
“Especially if it’s to a woman worthy of being his match,” Wainwright added. “She must be twice as Lambley as Lambley! I can’t wait to meet her.”
“Twice as—” Julian sputtered. “What does that even mean?”
“And just wait until you sire heirs,” Hawkridge added. “I can attest that children are even less predictable than wives.”
“I assure you,” Julian said coldly, “mychildren will be the very pinnacle of—”
His sherry arrived, giving him the perfect opportunity to turn the subject to beverages, rather than Julian’s carefully guarded heart.
He had believed himself incapable of feeling emotions like love for so long, that at first he failed to recognize the warmth suffusing his chest as he toasted his incorrigible, unapologetic friends.
Very well, hecouldfeel love, of the platonic kind. He was not a monster. He cared for his friends. But romantic love... now there was a folly he would not be committing.
“For the sake of argument,” said Hawkridge. “This woman that you don’t love and aren’t considering marrying. Do you like her?”
Julian glared at him. Of course helikedUnity. He wouldn’t be puppeteering wine-and-cheese picnics from the most prestigious fields in all of Europe if he didn’tlikeher.
“Because that’s a good start,” Hawkridge continued. “Grenville here married someone with whom he would never have dreamed of aligning himself, all because he liked her and one thing led to another.”
“Grenville’s case is different than mine,” Julian informed him curtly.
Wainwright leaned forward with interest. “Too wide of a social gap? Or not wide enough?”
Grenville had married the country-bred poor relation of a well-respected society matron. Not the aristocratic concept of a “good” match, but the pairhadmet in the refreshment line of a ballroom.
Hawkridge’s wife was a commoner as well, but an heiress. The ton could overlook almost any sin if the sinner were in possession of a sizable enough fortune.
In Wainwright’s case, he and his wife were both highborn. As for Max, he was the disreputable half of his union, but not insurmountably so. The Cloven Hoof did cater to a rougher crowd, but its clientele also boasted a fair number of lords.
Julian was the highest ranking of all five of them. And who was the woman who would not quit his mind? Not an heiress. Not the daughter of a lesser peer. Not even the distant cousin many times removed of a matron of polite society.
Unity Thorne,courtesan. Could she be any more beyond the pale?
Julian didn’t mind her profession or any other part of her past. That a woman worked as a courtesan or on stage or anything else she needed or chose to do with her life was the woman’s business, not his.
But Julian was a duke. His duchess would be theton’sbusiness. And they would not be kind.
