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Julius dropped his gaze to his gloved hand. His fingers were still drumming on his knee, betraying tension he normally took care to conceal. He rolled his shoulders, trying to regain his usual mask of breezy detachment.

“Miss Gideon received a poisonous letter from that ghastly Lady Astley and was entirely distraught. I offered to marry her, which she declined. She did not wish to trap me and was even considering leaving the realm to escape the gossip.”

The last part burst from him with more emotion than he intended. Julius clenched his teeth, aware he had given away far too much in the frantic pitch of his voice.

Brendan cleared his throat delicately. “And her leaving the realm … that would be a bad thing?”

Julius raised his head to glare at him. “Yes.”

“Why?”

Julius continued to glare, but no words came.

“Because …” he began, but the sentence abandoned him midway.

Brendan arched an eyebrow, patient but merciless.

“Because I am responsible for the damage to her reputation,” Julius finally muttered.

Brendan gave a dry, hollow laugh and turned his face toward the carriage window. “I recall being a complete arse when I proposed to Lily. I even accused her of trapping me in marriage. It was not my finest hour.”

Julius winced, unable to suppress the reaction.

Brendan noticed. He turned sharply, fixing his friend with a look. “What did you do?” he asked, voice low and insistent.

Julius squirmed like a schoolboy caught passing notes in church. “I may have … told her it was to be a marriage in name only.”

Brendan blinked. “Which means what, exactly?”

Julius found his hand straying to the signet ring on his finger, awkwardly twisting it through the fabric of his glove in a fit of determined agitation.

“I told her I could not promise I would not pursue other women in the future.”

Brendan groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “You fool.”

“I do not know what might happen! It seemed better to be direct … to leave my options open.”

Another groan, more pained than the first. “Julius … it is time for you to grow up.”

“I never intended to marry.” Julius stiffened, defensiveness rising despite the quiet voice inside him that whispered he was botching everything. “At least I am offering her the protection of my name. She will have her independence. She may pursue her goals freely.”

He spoke the words as though they were generous. Noble, even. But they tasted sour. Somewhere deep inside, Julius knew he was clinging to a tangle of excuses. Brendan could not possibly understand. The very idea of marriage turned Julius cold with dread. It had always seemed a trap, dignified on the surface, but beneath it, a prison of disappointment and withering expectation. To explain that felt impossible. Worse, it felt like weakness.

The carriage drew to a halt.

Julius peered through the window and saw they had arrived at the vicarage. Without waiting for the steps to be put in place, he flung the door open and jumped down to the street. The dramatic exit gave him no satisfaction. He needed to move, to walk away before he blurted something more foolish than he already had. His thoughts were a muddle, and discussing any of it had been a mistake.

But the leap from the carriage, though satisfying in theory, proved impractical in practice. He was left awkwardly waiting on the pavement while Brendan disembarked more sedately behind him. They said nothing. Lips parted and brow furrowed, Brendan had the look of a man poised to speak, but whatever comment lingered on his tongue, he swallowed it as they approached the vicarage door.

Julius seized the knocker and rapped smartly. A minute or two passed before the door swung open, revealing a buxom housekeeper of advanced years whose face bore the weathered softness of one long in domestic service.

“May I help you, sir?” she asked.

Brendan offered a bow and extended his card with the ease of a man accustomed to polite infiltration. “Please inform Mr. Stone that Lord Filminster and Lord Trafford wish to wait upon him.”

The housekeeper’s pale eyes widened in surprise, and she dipped into a curtsy so low it was clear she was not accustomed to nobility at her doorstep. “Milords,” she murmured.

She disappeared down the hallway at a scurry and returned a few minutes later, somewhat breathless. “Please, milords, come this way.”