Page 45 of Claim

Until I recalled who he’d once bought his cocaine from.

“Just ignore him.” Marcus took a sip of his drink, then angled his body so he was speaking directly to me rather than performing for the room, which was how one survived these things. “I should also forewarn you…Mother has invited a person of interest.”

My stomach sank. “Christ. What kind of person of interest?”

“Theo Langford.” Marcus gestured subtly by uncurling a finger from around his glass.

I turned to where he was pointing.

Theo Langford was exactly what you’d expect money to produce if it were given time and taste. Immaculate without looking pressed. White chinos. A sky-blue shirt open just enough to suggest ease rather than intent. A cashmere jumper draped around his shoulders as if he’d been born knowing how to do that. His hair was floppy in that carefully cultivated way screaming effortless, and he was smiling. Bright, charming, devastatingly photogenic.

Think early Hugh Grant. Before the self-parody. Before the scandals.

“Langford media dynasty,” Marcus murmured out of the side of his mouth. “Parents apparently own half of Notting Hill. Entirely by accident.”

“How,” I asked, watching Theo slide an arm around a pretty girl as she lifted a phone for a selfie, “does one accidentally acquire half of Notting Hill?”

“Strategic ignorance. And very good accountants.” Marcus took a sip of his G&T. “But Theo went from St Paul’s to Cambridge. Now runs a think tank.”

I arched an eyebrow. “What’s he thinking about?”

We both watched Theo laugh, tipping his head back to catch the light.

“I believe the current focus is ethical governance, social responsibility, and how very unfortunate it is that everyone else keeps doing things wrong.”

“Of course it is.”

“He came out last year. And as he’s an only child, his mother was in absolute bits.” Marcus shook his head. “Cried to Mother about the lost society wedding, the guest list, the photographs. Apparently inviting him here is the solution.”

I glanced back at Marcus. “How so?”

“Mother’s decided he’s perfect for you.” Marcus winked.

“And my say in all this?”

“Oh…is absolute zero. You know that. You can’t be trusted to find your own suitor.”

I took a long sip of my champagne, glancing back to Theo as another photo snapped, his smile never faltering. “Does he know that?”

Marcus’s mouth curved. “Give it thirty seconds.”

Theo glanced up then, and our eyes met across the room.

“Cheerio.” Marcus nudged my elbow and left my side.

The traitor.

I barely had time to brace before Theo Langford detached himself from his admirers and crossed the room, mostly because I was surprised by the sight of my father over by the fireplace in mid-conversation with another man I couldn’t believe was here.

Lord Wolfe.

“Chin chin.” Theo tapped his Champagne flute to mine.

Up close, he was… disarming. Open smile. Clear eyes. A face that made people want to tell him things. He stopped in front of me, taking in my glass, my posture, my expression, as if arranging me into some internal category.

That category would be eligible.

“Tristan Hale-Fitzroy.” He said my name as if tasting how it would sound moaned out between bouts of indulgent pleasure, then offered his hand. “I was hoping that was you.”