Lucius couldn’t help himself; the laugh bubbled up, rich and low, spilling out before he could stop it. The absurdity of the situation was almost too much. His best friend’s sibling—Marcus’ pristine, proper little sibling—was sitting across from him in the dimly lit corner of a tavern, of all places. Marcus would kill you, let alone him, if he saw.

“Let me get this straight,” he said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table between you. His grin widened, dangerously close to a smirk. “You’re seriously suggesting we form some sort of... attachment?” The word dripped with mockery as he gestured vaguely between the two of you.

He tilted his head slightly, studying your expression. There was a flicker of something in your eyes—determination, maybe desperation. He wasn’t sure which, but the idea itself was too wild to ignore. “You do realize who you’re talking to, right?” he asked, his tone laced with disbelief. “I mean, really think about it. Me. Lucius Winston. The notorious rake of the ton. The man every presumptuous mother wants to marry off their daughters to."

He wasn't deaf to the rumors, of course. It was almost like they were a second skin at this point—playboy, heartbreaker, the man who never took anything seriously. All of it was true, to an extent. Let them think what they would.

“Look,” he continued, raking a hand through his dark, untamed hair. “I know what this is about. Marcus told me about the old codger he’s trying to pawn you off on.” His voice dropped slightly, the humor giving way to something more serious. “What’s his name again? Sir Edgar something? The man’s practically rotting where he stands.”

Still, a part of him was curious. Why him exactly? There were plenty of men more suitable for this charade. Men who wouldn’t ruin your reputation by proximity alone.

“You know,” he said after a moment. “This little plan of yours is a gamble. One wrong move, and your brother will have a bullet through my head.” He chuckled again, though this time it didn’t reach his eyes.