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A thick haze of cigar smoke mingled with the scent of brandy and murmured conversation.

White’s, London’s most exclusive gentleman’s club, was alive with boisterous amusement and the clinking of crystal glasses, its leather chairs creaking under the weight of reclining rakes and lords.

The room exuded decadence, but to Matthew Everhart, the Earl of Lorne, it felt oppressively small.

He lounged in his usual chair, one booted foot propped casually on a velvet ottoman, a picture of rakish confidence. His chiseled features and piercing blue eyes commanded attention, his companions leaning in, eager for his next quip.

“Come now, Lorne,” Lord Ashford cajoled, his face glowing with too much brandy and excitement. “Tell us about Lady Belmont’s soirée. Surely you did not leave empty-handed?”

Matthew swirled his glass, his lazy smile never faltering as the amber liquid caught the light. “A gentleman never tells,” he drawled, letting his words linger before delivering the punchline, “but since no gentlemen are present…”

The table erupted in laughter, the sound filling the parlor. Matthew tipped his glass in mock salute, his smile never faltering. Yet, deep inside, a familiar hollow ache began to stir.

As the merriment swelled around him, an image flickered unbidden in his mind: emerald eyes sparkling with laughter, a hand tucked into his as they raced through a moonlit garden. Beatrice.

The memory twisted in his chest like a blade.

He shifted in his seat, the polished surface of his signet ring biting into his finger as he clenched his fist. Her face haunted him, her wide, stricken eyes the night she had learned the truth of his betrayal.

No amount of brandy could dull the sting of that memory.

A hand clapped his shoulder, pulling him back to the present. “Lost in thought, are we, Lorne?” came the smooth, faintly mocking voice of James Barton, Lord Blackwood.

Matthew forced his grin to widen. “Never, Blackwood. Merely considering whether to spare these gentlemen another tale of my exploits.”

James smirked, lowering himself into the chair beside Matthew. His gaze held a knowing glint as he swirled his drink. “Oh, do not let us stop you. Your stories are the lifeblood of this establishment, after all.”

The others laughed and cheered, but James’s gaze didn’t waver. Matthew’s chest tightened under the weight of his friend’s scrutiny. Of all the men in the room, James saw him most clearly. It was both infuriating and oddly comforting.

Matthew leaned back, lifting his glass in a mock toast. “What can I say? A rake must keep the gossips entertained, lest society grow dull in his absence.”

“And you do it well,” James said smoothly, his smile never reaching his eyes. “Though one wonders if the role ever grows tiresome.”

Matthew’s hand tightened around his glass. “Never,” he said lightly. “The world needs scoundrels, Blackwood. Without us, who would the moralists scorn, and the ladies pine for?”

“Indeed.” James’s tone was mild, but his gaze sharpened. “Still, even scoundrels must have moments of reflection. Unless, of course, you have perfected the art of avoiding them entirely.”

The words hit their mark, and Matthew’s grip on his glass faltered. For a moment, he considered brushing James off with another quip, another smirk. But the weight of his friend’s steady gaze forced a rare moment of honesty.

“Reflection, Blackwood?” Matthew said softly. “It is not avoidance, I assure you. It is survival.”

The room seemed to press in around him, the raucous laughter and clinking glasses fading into a dull hum. His mind drifted back to a younger version of himself, standing in a glittering ballroom, facing Beatrice.

Her voice trembled with hurt as she whispered, “Was it all a game to you, Matthew? A wager to amuse your friends?”

He had stood there, paralyzed, unable to deny it, unable to speak. And then she had fled, her skirts a blur of cream silk, leaving him behind to stew in his shame.

“You look like you have seen a ghost,” James said, his voice cutting through the haze of memory.

Matthew blinked, his smile brittle as he met his friend’s gaze. “Perhaps I have.”

James tilted his head, his expression softening. “Some ghosts are worth confronting, old boy. They might haunt you less if you did.”

Matthew let out a low chuckle, though it lacked humor. “You have become quite the philosopher since your marriage, Blackwood. Careful, or you’ll lose your edge.”

“Better my edge than my soul,” James replied, his voice quiet but firm.

Matthew flinched, draining his glass in a single swallow. The burn of the brandy was welcome, a distraction from the turmoil James’s words stirred within him.

Setting his empty glass down, Matthew stood abruptly, forcing a grin. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I believe there is a lady somewhere in need of my company.”

He strode away, the confident swagger of his steps belying the chaos in his chest. James’s words lingered, though, his friend’s perceptiveness cutting through his defenses.

As he stepped into the cool night air, the sounds of White’s faded behind him, replaced by the distant clip-clop of hooves on cobblestones. Matthew inhaled deeply, the chill biting against his skin, but it did little to soothe the storm raging within him.

Somewhere out there, Beatrice Sinclair still existed, her lighthearted joy, her sharp wit, her unguarded smile. She had been the one bright spot in a life of shallow pleasures, and he had ruined it. Even now, years later, she would scarcely speak to him.

Matthew’s jaw tightened as he gazed into the murky night sky. Regret was a heavy chain, but perhaps it was not too late to break free. Maybe there was still a way to make amends, to prove he was not the same callous rake who had once crushed a young woman’s heart for the amusement of his peers.

But to what end?

Marriage had never been his goal, and yet…

Matthew shook off the thought and memories as he made his way toward his favorite tavern.