He slipped through a side door and out onto the Wexley’s darkened terrace, the din of conversation fading behind him like the last notes of an opera.
The night hung still.
Then—
“I wondered how long it would take you to flee the circus.”
Johnathan turned. William leaned against the stone railing, drink in hand, smirk in place.
Behind him, Maximilian appeared from the shadows with two more glasses of brandy and an easy grin.
“Well?” Maximilian said, handing Johnathan a drink. “Still breathing?”
“Barely,” Johnathan muttered.
“You know,” William said dryly, swirling his brandy, “if anyone else had stormed a church and kidnapped a viscount’s bride, he would be rotting in a cell by now.”
Johnathan raised a brow. “And yet here I am. Titled, free, and well-dressed.”
“A testament,” Maximilian added with mock solemnity, “to the resilience of ducal immunity—and the power of a very expensive tailor.”
William smirked. “Or perhaps the ton simply finds you more amusing now that you are no longer threatening to scandalize their daughters. Only their sensibilities.”
Johnathan chuckled. “They can try to make me respectable all they like. But I will always be the rogue who ran off with a viscount’s bride.”
William raised his glass. “To your triumphant return from the land of scandal and impulsivity.”
“Careful,” Johnathan said. “That is where you both live.”
“We prefer land of self-actualized autonomy,” Maximilian offered.
Johnathan gave a dry laugh. “You did not have to come tonight.”
“Did we not?” William asked. “Your toast nearly brought Brunsford to tears. The woman nearly spilled her drink in astonishment.”
“It was impressive,” Maximilian agreed. “You have come a long way from the rake who once got thrown out of White’s for throwing dice in a drunken rage.”
“I still maintain he cheated,” Johnathan said.
“And I still maintain,” William added, “that this is the first time I have seen you look like you actually belong somewhere.”
Johnathan stared into his brandy.
He thought of Frances. Of her sharp wit and steel spine. Of her hand in his. Of the way she had faced down a room full of wolves and smiled like she had nothing to lose.
He smiled.
“I do.”
Maximilian clapped a hand on his shoulder—carefully avoiding the healing wound. “Welcome back, then. Officially. I believe this calls for a drink.”
“You are already drinking.”
“We are celebrating,” William said. “There is a difference.”
Johnathan tilted his glass up. “To what?”
William considered. “To the Wayward Dukes.”
