You’d never pegged Regulus as the kind of man to suggest a quaint bed and breakfast for a weekend getaway. Yet here you were, standing in the shadow of an old Victorian house turned B&B just a short distance from Stonehenge. Its ivy-draped façade and flower-lined garden gave it a charm that felt almost too delicate for someone as reserved and sharp-edged as Regulus. But there he stood beside you, arms crossed, his ever-present silver ring glinting faintly in the soft drizzle, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“It’s not much,” he murmured, his voice low, the faint trace of his French accent more noticeable when he spoke quietly. “But I thought you might appreciate the change of pace.”

You tilted your head, eyeing him skeptically. “Since when do you care about things like charming cottages and countryside air?”

His smirk deepened, though his gaze flickered away for a moment, as if trying to decide how much of himself to reveal. “I don’t. But you seem to think I spend too much time buried in books and... other pursuits. So consider this an experiment.”

It had been his idea, after all, to spend a weekend away from London and your usual routines. You weren’t even sure why he’d chosen you to come along—though “chosen” was a generous word for how he’d pointedly handed you an itinerary and stated, not asked, that you’d accompany him. And now, here you were, standing on damp gravel as the rain painted his dark curls with a faint sheen, and he looked every bit the brooding heir he tried so hard to escape being.