The luncheon was held at a glass-walled conservatory on the north wing of the Bellmont estate, neutral ground, technically, but nothing about the guest list was neutral. Nobles in summer linen and designer loafers milled about beneath hanging ivy chandeliers, sipping citrus cocktails with inherited ease. The air smelled of florals, polish, and power.
Lucas stood near one of the tall windows, half-listening to an elderly countess ramble about philanthropy while counting the seconds until he could bolt back to Trevor. Or even just his room. A corridor. A bush.
Cressida had abandoned him, gracefully, like a general releasing a soldier onto a battlefield, after smoothing his collar and whispering, "Try not to bite anyone too early."
Alistair was somewhere nearby, being charming on autopilot and pretending he wasn't watching Lucas like a hawk with excellent tailoring.
