Page 17 of Owned By a Billionaire

“Oh, she plans on a big night?” That seemed unusual for Alice, who didn’t normally drink. At least, not as much as I did.

But then, I had a high tolerance for alcohol, as Rey often commented. He viewed my ability to maintain a level of coherence while imbibing as a talent, whereas I saw drinking as nothing but an escape.

“We’re planning on a big night.” Harry chuckled. “Anyway, make yourselves at home. There’s lots of everything here tonight.”

Going by his arched eyebrow, Harry meant more than just alcohol and food. As that thought passed through me, I noticed Gregory and his wife in one corner.

Despite declining Gregory’s invitations, I hadn’t stopped thinking about our night of passion. My body fired up at the mere memory of how his body had felt. And as I stole the odd glance, I experienced the same burning desire. He was even taller and sexier than I recalled.

His wife gave me a cool smile. Could she read my attraction to her husband?

Instincts decreed it best to leave complicated marriages alone.

Turning my back, because I couldn’t think straight with that piercing stare loaded with innuendo gripping my attention, I took a glass of champagne from the waiter and smiled at Oscar, a friend from college.

His face lit up on seeing me. “Ah, you’re here too.” Oscar had bulging eyes and was a little too fond of cocaine and nightlife. However, he was also one of those seriously bright individuals who could somehow party his way through a degree.

“So, are you here alone?” he asked.

I shook my head and slanted my head toward Rey.

“Oh, you’re still fraternizing with that sly fox.” He chuckled. “He’s chatting with Lord Pike, I see. Now that’s a partnership made in hell.”

I cast my attention over to Rey’s corner and observed a chubby man with a large cigar dangling from his mouth. “How’s that?”

“Lord Pike’s into all kinds of underhanded schemes. Rumor has it his old man bludgeoned his way into the House of Lords.”

“Didn’t they all?”

He responded with a raspy laugh. “My father certainly didn’t. God bless his religious soul. But yes, cunning deceit coupled with brutish force will get you far.”

Oscar gazed around us. “Oh, there’s Hilaria Wilson.” He leaned in and whispered, “Story has it that her mother’s up for murder.”

“That’s nothing to be hilarious about,” I said, keeping a straight face.

“Yes. Quite ironic. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Hilaria smile. How strange.” He frowned as though that thought had only just occurred to him. “Monikers normally maketh the person. Take me. I’m a total Oscar Wilde slave, and my family were never to know that. Now were they?”

I exhaled, thinking of my name, Carol Lamb.

Oscar gave me a knowing look. “Ah… that’s right, you’re Caroline Lamb. Made famous by her affiliation with the ‘mad, bad, and dangerous to know’ Lord Byron.” He grimaced. “Her words, not mine. I worship him. ‘Childe Harold’ is a masterpiece.”

I’d read about her after someone at college pointed out that my name was the same as that long-suffering girlfriend of the famous poet. Superstitious to a fault, I felt a twinge of regret for not changing my name.

The party went wild after a while, thanks largely to a powerfully fortified punch and copious amounts of cocaine. The rich enjoyed their drugs, and most other pleasurable pursuits, at an industrial scale.

There was dancing, smooching, and screechy laughter everywhere. I wondered at one point whether that opulent home would survive. One vase had already come crashing down while a servant ran to save another, much to everyone’s entertainment, for they stopped and applauded.

Harry Lovechilde didn’t seem worried as he moved from one group of revelers to another. He’d proved to be an exemplary host, turning every guest into a close friend despite many like myself, I sensed, only ever partaking in small talk.

As I absorbed the beauty of the house’s large salon with its sublime sea-green walls covered in golden-framed original art and concave arches housing marble goddesses, I fantasized hosting soirees involving high-art discourses washed down with quality champagne.

I smiled at whoever came my way, and I listened to them babbling all kinds of silly nonsense about someone’s eccentric aunt who only employed staff named Mary or John or a paranoid lord convinced a wolfman roamed his property on full moons. Weird little stories that filled the room with laughter.

The wealthier the partygoer, the more juvenile, with their childish diminutives and “Mummy and Daddy” twaddle. I found many rather inbred, a fact that Rey alluded to occasionally. His eyes shone with derision as we listened to some story about Bertie or whomever having his monthly allowance cut for feeding magic mushrooms to the ducks on their estate.

After a while, the champagne went to my head, and I needed some space to collect myself. I hadn’t caught up with Alice, and in my tipsy state, I even entertained the wicked idea of breaking the news to her about Harry’s inclinations toward his own sex. Something he hid well enough, given those occasional lingering glances. Or was that me staring too often?

Debonair and Hollywood-handsome, Harry made it impossible not to stare.

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