“There is nothing between us.”

“No?”

Yes.

“No.” He attempted to sound emphatic. Hoped he succeeded.

“Mmm.” Nick removed his spectacles and tossed them on the desk. “Well then. By all means, let’s discuss Lady Georgiana.”

Simon’s relief came out on a wave of irritation. “I am happy that someone in this house remembers my sister’s station.”

Nick’s brows rose. “I would exercise more care if I were you, Leighton.”

Simon swore quietly, his hands balling in fists.

“Try again,” Nick said.

Nicholas St. John was, very possibly, Simon’s oldest friend, if he were to lay claim to one. The two, along with Ralston, had been the same year at Eton, and Simon, young and entitled, had spent too much time reminding the brothers—and the rest of the class—that the sons of the House of Ralston had come from questionable stock indeed. One day, he had pushed the easygoing Nick too far and suffered the consequences. Nick had bloodied his nose, and their friendship had begun.

It had waned in the years following their departure from school—Simon had become the Duke of Leighton, the head of the family, one of the most powerful men in England—and Nick had left for the Continent, disappearing into the East as a war raged. Leighton money had funded Nick’s activities, but that was as close as Simon had come to his friend during those years.

When Juliana had arrived in London, Simon had done nothing to support the house of St. John. And still, when Georgiana arrived on the doorstep of Townsend Park, with child and little else, Nick and Isabel had taken her in. Protected her as though she were their own. And as Simon had railed against them, threatening this house, their names, even their lives, Nick had stood firm, protecting Georgiana at all costs.

A friend.

Perhaps his only friend.

And Simon owed Nick more than he could ever repay.

And now he was going to ask for more.

“She wants to remain here. With the child.”

Nick leaned back in his chair. “And what do you want?”

What did he want?

He wanted it all to go back to the way it was. He wanted Georgiana safe in her bed at his country estate, preparing for autumn harvests and winter holidays. He wanted to be free of the burden that had been his since he had ascended to the dukedom . . . since before that.

And he wanted Juliana.

He stopped at the last, her name whispering through his mind.

But instead of bringing clarity, it served only to bring frustration.

He could not have her.

Not now, not ever.

And so he asked for what he could have.

“I want Georgiana to be safe. And Caroline—the child—I want them both to be safe.”

Nick nodded. “They are safe here.”

“Tell me how much you need.”

Nick slashed one hand through the air. “No, Leighton. You’ve given us enough over the past six months. More than necessary.”

“More than you expected.”

“Well, you must admit . . . with the way you stormed out of here after discovering your sister’s situation, we hardly expected you to become a benefactor of Minerva House.”

He’d done it out of guilt.

Georgiana had been terrified of telling him the truth about her situation—that she was with child—that the father’s identity would remain her secret. She’d been in tears, had virtually begged him to forgive her. To protect her.

And he’d walked away, angry and unsettled.

He’d returned to London, desperate to shore up their reputation.

Pretending that she was an inconvenience rather than his sister, and the only member of his family who had ever felt like family.

And so he had done the only thing he could do.

He had sent money.

A great deal of it.

“They are my responsibility. I will continue to care for them.”

Nick watched him for a long moment, and Simon held his friend’s gaze. He would not be denied this—the only way he could even begin to rectify his mistakes.

Nick nodded once. “You do what you feel needs to be done.”

“You will let me know if anything . . . if she needs anything.”

“I will.”

“You are a good friend.” It was the first time he’d ever said the words. To Nick . . . to anyone. The first time he had acknowledged a friendship that was more than a drink at the club or a fencing match. He surprised himself with the sentiment.

Nick’s eyes widened at the words. “You would do the same.”

The simple truth shook Simon to the core. He would. Now. But until recently, he might not have.

What had changed?

The answer was clear.

But he could not admit it. Not to himself. Certainly not to Nick.

“Now that that’s settled,” Nick said, reaching for a bottle of brandy and pouring two snifters’ worth of the rich liquid, “shall we return to the topic of Juliana?”

No. She is too much on my mind as it is.

Simon took the offered glass, trying to keep from betraying his thoughts. “There is not much to say.”

Nick drank, savoring the liquid and drawing out the moment. “Come, Leighton. You forget to whom you speak. Why not tell me the truth this time? I know my brother hit you. I know my sister flew into a near rage when she thought you might be here with your own child. Do you really want me to draw my own conclusions?”

They could not be any worse than the truth.

Simon remained silent.

Nick sat back, hands clasped together over his navy blue waistcoat—a portrait of calm. Simon loathed him for it. And then his friend spoke. “Fair enough. I shall tell you what I think. I think that you are beside yourself with discomfort at the situation your sister is in. I think you’ve proposed to Lady Penelope in some mad belief that your marriage can offset Georgiana’s scandal. I think you are marrying for all the wrong reasons. And I think that my sister is proving it to you.”