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The other heir dropped into the chair opposite, sweeping a practiced hand through the deliberately tousled curls at the crown of his head. Aidan rolled his eyes. Nothing screamed affectation like Trafford’s two-toned hair, wheat-hued on top and a darker brown beneath. The result of artifice, no doubt, and a valet far too eager to indulge in chemical experimentation.

“I thought you wed today,” Trafford remarked.

“I did,” Aidan answered curtly.

“Then why are you here?”

Aidan rolled his shoulders and forced himself back into the chair with a show of ease he did not feel. “No reason.”

“Is the whole …” Trafford gestured vaguely in the air, as if conjuring smoke.

“No.” The muddle with Gwen’s father—and the knowledge that, now her future was secured, Aidan must return to his investigation into Smythe—weighed heavily upon his conscience. But today, that was not what troubled him most.

“Are you well, Little Breeches?”

Aidan snorted. Only Trafford could offer sympathy and insult in the same breath.

“What are you doing here?”

The other heir dropped his gaze, his usual levity dimmed. “I … cannot be at home right now. There are … issues.”

Aidan tilted his head, examining the shadows under Trafford’s eyes. The man was clearly unsettled.

“Are you staying at the club?”

A brief nod was the only response.

Aidan did not welcome the prick of sympathy that stirred within him, slow and persistent, like the kindling of a hearth fire. It appeared they both bore burdens unspoken.

Trafford gave his head a little shake, as if tossing away unwelcome thoughts, then leaned forward on the table. “But what of you, Little Breeches? You appear melancholy, and your bride awaits.”

Aidan cleared his throat, dropping his gaze to the polished floorboards. “I think you know, considering your charming little sobriquet for me.”

A pause followed, filled only by the low hum of the room. A hand entered his peripheral vision and plucked up his drink. The quiet clink of glass against teeth came next, followed by a deliberate swallow. Then …

“It is true, then?”

Aidan nodded, heat rising to his cheeks.

“You have never …?” Trafford left the question dangling, incomplete.

Another reluctant nod.

Trafford exhaled slowly. “I suspected. There was never any gossip about women. Some whispered that perhaps you … well, never mind that. I have seen the way you look at Lady Abbott … it leaves little doubt. But why have you never pursued …?”

By Jupiter, this is an uncomfortable subject.

Aidan had spent so long abroad that he had few confidants left in England, and he never imagined that the first person he would confide in about this would be Trafford. Yet, oddly, there was something pacifying in speaking the truth aloud to someone who, for all his polish and pretension, had seen more of the world than most.

“I believe that such an act should be shared between people who care for one another,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “I never met a woman I wished to offer that part of myself to … until Gwen.”

Trafford stared at him for a few moments before huffing a laugh. “A man with standards. I shall order another drink so I may toast that which Diogenes only dreamed of. I have found an honest man.”

Aidan groaned. “I am deceiving my bride, so not as honest as I would wish.”

“That aside, I think it is rather endearing, Little Breeches. You come from a good family and you possess morals. There is nothing in that to be ashamed of.”

“I am not ashamed. Unless”—Aidan leaned forward, his hands curling into fists on the table—“you decide to share this conversation, in which case I will be forced to defend my honor in a most vigorous manner.”