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He passed a tired eye over the ballroom, feeling distinctly separate from the erotic tableau before him. If someone had told him one year ago when he’d left his childhood home in Devon that he’d end up here, he would not have believed them. At the age of twenty-one, all he had wanted was to embark on his own. As the third son of a country gentleman, his means and his prospects were limited, but that had not stopped him. Shortly after his arrival in London, he had met Markus Drummond at a gambling hell. In no time at all, he had drawn Henry into his glittering, jaded social circle where Arsen reigned as king. If he had known then what he knew now, he would have put a stop to his naïve infatuation with Markus before it could begin.

Hell. He wouldn’t have refused Markus then. Men like himself, men who preferred other men, were difficult to find and the thought of frequenting a Molly house turned his stomach. Desperate for something more stable than the couple of hasty encounters he’d had with the butcher’s fickle son back in Devon, he had been eager to say yes to Markus. Given how that relationship had turned out, one would have thought he had learned his lesson. Still, hadn’t he been more than eager to say yes to Arsen? He had hoped, perhaps, just maybe the invitation had meant something. Arsen had been seeking his company more often than not of late, even choosing to sit beside him at the card tables and spar with him at Angelo’s Fencing Academy. But deep down, Henry had known exactly what the house party would hold for him.

One week. One torturous week of being surrounded by sex. Of being offered every sensual delight known to man but the one he wanted.

This infatuation with Arsen needed to end.

Who was he fooling? He was in love with Arsen. In love with Lord Somerville. Even if he had tried, there was no way he could have chosen someone more unsuitable.

It was absolutely hopeless.

Feeling strangely hollow and beyond weary, he scrubbed a hand over his face.

“Evening, Shaw.”

Henry nearly jumped out of his skin. His champagne glass slipped from his fingers. A crash rent the air. He fought the urge to cringe. One would think with hands as large as his, he would be able to hold on to a damn glass.

Slowly looking to his left, he found the object of his infatuation standing at his shoulder. The man had to spend a fortune at his tailor. Only an expert could cut a coat so it simultaneously draped and hugged a form.

Arsen raised one dark blond eyebrow. “If you didn’t care for the champagne, a simple request for something else would have been sufficient.”

He couldn’t tell from Arsen’s bland expression if the man was irritated or not. Hell, he had never been able to read Arsen. “Somerville, I-I—”

Arsen let out a sardonic snort. “No need to stutter, Shaw.”

The light scent of Arsen’s cologne made its way to Henry’s nose. Sandalwood with a hint of citrus. An intense wave of arousal mixed with the acute embarrassment, restricting his breath, heating his skin.

Desperate for a distraction, he glanced over Arsen’s broad shoulder. Armed with brooms and dustpans, a veritable army of servants stood a few paces behind their employer. All right, so it wasn’t actually the size of an army. But there were more servants in Henry’s end of the ballroom than he had seen all evening. Where the hell had they come from? Where had Arsen come from? Hadn’t he just left with his new mistress?

“Shaw.”

Henry’s gaze snapped to Arsen. And why did the man have to have green eyes? Deliciously handsome and obscenely wealthy weren’t enough. God just had to gift Lord Somerville with rich, deep emerald green eyes lined with lashes long enough to make a woman howl with jealousy.

The edges of Arsen’s lips quirked. The moment so quick and so out of character Henry had to have imagined it.

Arsen turned and strode toward the double doors. “Come along.”