“Very noble,” Jasper agreed. “Fine, new approach. He writes her a letter so heartfelt she cannot help but read it twice.”
Robert nodded approvingly. “That might work.”
“And then he follows it,” Jasper continued, “by appearing in person before she has time to fortify herself.”
Greyson hesitated.
Mason leaned forward now, serious beneath the humor. “You cannot convince her of anything if you speak like a duke negotiating terms. You must speak as a man who is afraid of losing his wife.”
Greyson straightened slowly. “Iamafraid of losing her.”
Robert’s smirk softened. “Then say that.”
Jasper grinned. “Loudly, passionately… possibly in public.”
Greyson glared at him. “I will not shout my feelings across Mayfair.”
“Pity,” Jasper sighed. “I had hoped for drama.”
Greyson shot him a warning look. “You will not get it.”
“Oh, I think I might,” Jasper said thoughtfully, resuming his pacing. “For instance, what if you arranged for every bell in London to ring at once? Nothing says devotion like coordinated chaos.”
Mason stared at him. “You are unwell.”
Robert snorted into his glass. “That would start a riot.”
“Exactly!” Jasper said, delighted. “Memorable.”
“I am not inciting civil unrest to save my marriage,” Greyson said flatly.
“Fine, fine.” Jasper waved a hand. “Then you could commission a painting of her, larger than life, hung in the Royal Academy.”
Mason groaned. “You would immortalize her embarrassment.”
Robert shook his head. “This is escalating.”
Jasper turned on them all, affronted. “You are all utterly lacking in imagination.”
Greyson folded his arms. “You are mad.”
“Yes,” Mason agreed. “Completely.”
Robert raised his glass again. “Certifiably.”
Jasper placed a hand to his chest, pretending to be scandalized. “I amromantic.”
He looked between them, on the verge of bursting into a chuckle. “And I feel very sorry for your wives if you would not ring bells, defy decorum, or embarrass yourselves thoroughly to prove your love.”
Mason smiled faintly. “Cordelia would set the bells ringing herself.”
Robert chuckled. “Evelyn would forbid me from ever attempting it.”
“And I would personally confiscate your boots before you rang a single bell,” Matilda’s voice cut in, which made everyone’s head turn.
Matilda Everleigh stood in the doorway, with one brow lifted in quiet judgment. She took in the room: the scattered glasses, the conspiring husbands, the air thick with male certainty. Then, she sighed.
“Honestly,” she continued, stepping fully inside, “if my husband so much as considered public poetry, I would lock him in his study until sense returned.”
