“It’s a mutually advantageous match, to be sure,” said Edward—the Duke of Wellingham, not that James thought of him that way. It was hard to hold someone in awe when you’d been i***t schoolboys together, which of course was why they were friends at all, and why Edward had done James the massive favor of attending this ball. “The age-old perfect match, as they say,” Edward continued, “status marrying fortune.”
James frowned. “You don’t approve.” It wasn’t a question; James knew his old friend too well to doubt his conclusion, not that James Thorne, Viscount Tadbury, was in the habit of doubting himself anyway.
Edward took a sip from his drink instead of answering.
The ball swirled around them, a carnival of respectable gowns and snowy cravats, sweet smells and lively tunes. James had mad
