Page 103 of How to Blow It with a Billionaire

The car drew to a halt in front of one of the mansions and I scrambled out, feeling dazed and floaty. Caspian, of course, strode straight through the swung-wide gates, past the fountain (the motherfucking fountain) and up the steps to the house, which was lit up and shining like a medieval vision of heaven. Or the Disney castle if it had been a touch more Rothschild.

Even in the moments I wasted dithering, a second car pulled up—another black Maybach—and disgorged a small collection of glamorous people, all of them masked, the men aloof and interchangeable in black tie, the women aloof and marginally less interchangeable in their designer frocks. Laughing, their voices entangling, they glided past me, and I realized that if I didn’t catch up sharpish I was going to lose Caspian in the flow of the fabulously dressed.

I scampered after him. Clearly starting the evening as I meant to go on: looking like an idiot. And caught up just inside the entrance hall, somehow managing not to go arse up, face down on the highly polished marble floor.

Holy fuck, that house.

I mean, yes, it had an entrance hall, for starters. It was that sort of place. Full of stately rooms that didn’t seem to be for anything. At least, nothing that normal people did like watch TV or wander round absentmindedly while chain-eating Pringles. It was all ornate plasterwork and inlaid panels, curlicues and chandeliers. Those really tall vase things that did nothing except proclaim that your house (and wallet) were big enough to accommodate them.

It all left me slightly dizzy. Too much light glinting on too many surfaces. And the inescapable truth that the only circumstances in which people like me were expected to visit places like this was with a National Trust membership card.

And Caspian had grown up here. This was his.

Shit. I was having a Pemberley moment.

I looked around desperately for Ellery. But unless she was wearing a particularly distinctive and Ellery-ish mask, or a name badge, maybe, I had no way of recognizing her among the guests. It wasn’t a horrible crush or anything—people sort of spilled very naturally through the spacious rooms and the atmosphere was at once lively and refined (dear God, I was in a Jane Austen novel). But there was no getting away from the fact I’d blithely turned up at a gathering where I didn’t know a fucking soul. And where the whole point of the evening was making basic interaction as difficult and obtuse as possible.

Suddenly, Caspian—who, I guess, hadn’t abandoned me after all—seized my hand. I hadn’t expected him to get all PDA-ey and I would have been gratified except he was holding me so tightly that I felt my bones creak in protest.

A man and woman had disengaged themselves from another couple and were now coming toward us.

She was just…lovely. This willowy, honey-and-roses beauty and an ageless, English elegance, everything about her exquisitely simple, from the smooth caramel twist of her hair to the midnight-blue folds of her gown. Her mask was a swirl of silver filigree over navy brocade. Impossible, in the presence of such grace, not to be self-conscious about my off-the-rack tux and my visit to the Mac makeup counter. I swallowed, trying not to succumb to profound despair. Attendee commits seppuku at high society event.

“Caspian.” She leaned in to kiss his cheek. “I’m so glad to see you.” Her voice was familiar. Its rhythms and intonations—that hint of a Fanny Ardant purr.

He gave a tight little nod. “Mother.”

Oh wow. I suppose I should have figured that out. I probably had. But…from the whole art auction thing and the way Caspian and Ellery talked about her, I’d convinced myself that Mrs. Hart would be a grim and heinous witch. Not a woman whose smile cut a deep dimple into her cheek and made her eyes crease at the corners.

She was smiling that very beautiful, very real smile at me now. “And you must be Arden?”

“Uh, yeah,” I replied suavely.

“And this our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.”

My mum loved those lines. I could remember her whispering them to me, holding me tight, on the nights when—I realized with hindsight—she was waiting fearfully for my father to come home.

I nodded helplessly. It was either that or burst into tears. Vomit my life story onto Mrs. Hart’s Jimmy Choos. Weirdly, I almost wanted to. For some reason, part of me was convinced she’d be really super nice about it. Her golden-hazel eyes were so full of warmth.

“Arden.” Caspian’s voice sliced the silence. “This is my mother, Gertrude Hart.”

“Please, call me Trudy.”

“O-okay.” Fuck. Worst. Guest. Ever.

It wasn’t so much a sense of movement but a sense of stillness that reminded me she wasn’t alone. Weird, because the man at her shoulder wasn’t normally the type of person you wouldn’t notice. He was impressively tall and impressively attractive, in a steely, corporate kind of way, not entirely dissimilar to Caspian. Except older and sort of…more somehow. His mask was very plain, one side ungleaming black, the other a deep, heavy gray, almost the same shade as his eyes. It was testament to just how much I was Caspian’s that, apart from a mild and largely curious stirring of my libido, I wasn’t that into him.

“It’s been a long time, Caspian.” He spoke much as he presented himself: with an air of cold command. “Won’t you introduce me to your friend?”

Caspian’s hand was sweating in mine. “Of course. Arden, this is Lancaster Steyne. He was my father’s business partner.”

Steyne had barely glanced at me, which I discovered I was actually pretty glad about. He was fashioned to hit all my yes please buttons, but the sexy to scary ratio was a little too far toward scary for my comfort. Of course, I was into discomfort too, but I knew my own limits. I might fantasize, sometimes, about men like Lancester Steyne doing terrible things to me. But I didn’t want him to actually do them.

“Arthur always hoped you’d follow in his footsteps,” he was saying. “But I knew better.”

There was a pause. And it felt full of thorns.

“Why are you here?” Caspian asked, after a moment.

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