Looking for a man who smells like cedar, secrets, and his grandmother’s drawing room.

If your Barbour jacket isn’t at least three generations filthy, keep scrolling.

I’m not here for Patagonia-wearing podcast bros or men whose idea of legacy is a gym membership and a Reddit thread.
You should own an Aubusson tapestry you neither bought nor fully understand—just something you inherited while everyone else was crying about crypto.

Your cufflinks should have a crest, and if you’ve never mispronounced “Versailles” at a boarding school in the ’90s, we’re not aligned spiritually.

I’m not asking for perfection—just some decay, mild emotional repression, and a sincere interest in 19th-century rooflines.

If my pic here could be your vibe and you understand the Talitha Getty vibes, reach out.