For twenty minutes Benjamin had been basking in Lucas's brilliance, sipping champagne like it was nectar while mentally drafting bets for how soon a pregnancy announcement would appear in the Gazette. Alistair, less dramatic but no less entertained, leaned beside him, murmuring dry commentary whenever Lucas made another courtier laugh or blush.
And then Trevor moved, stepping into conversation with the same calm, magnetic ease. A single tilt of his head, a steady violet gaze, and the small cluster around him straightened as though they'd been rehearsed.
Trevor said very little. That was the genius of it. A polite word to a general, a dry comment to a minister's aide, and suddenly people were hanging on him the way they had been on Lucas minutes earlier. He smiled once, once, and Benjamin nearly spilled his drink.
"Oh, gods above," Benjamin whispered, hand clutching Alistair's sleeve. "He's doing it too. The Fitzgeralts are doubling down."
