A Party with Felicity

Felicity leaned over the centre console of the car, kissing Marc’s shoulder. He was just parking out in front of Gregory Stanhope's absolute mansion of a house in the Bridle Path neighbourhood of the city, northeast of downtown. Marc had once heard of the neighbourhood being called ‘Millionaire’s Row’ by a Real Estate agent, and that might have been true at one point but with the overpopulation of the city and the skyrocketing real estate prices it was probably more like ‘multi-millionaires row’ at that point.

Of course, Gregory certainly qualified for that title, sitting on the boards of several highly profitable companies as he did.

Marc turned to Felicity and found her smiling at him as she rested her chin on his shoulder. Her eyes, bright and glittering from the house lights, were mirroring her smile.

“What is it, ma petite fée?” he asked, taking her hand in his own and giving it a squeeze. They were both wearing gloves, his leather driving gloves and hers fashionable long suede gloves to match the coat he’d given her the previous winter.

“I’m just really happy,” she said, a little wistfully.

“I’m very happy you’re here too,” Marc replied, leaning in and giving her a gentle kiss. He could feel her continue smiling.

He got out of the car and went around to open the door for her, helping her up and out since she was wearing heels that he’d chosen for her to match her dress. They were entirely unsuitable for the weather, but she looked fantastic. Then, with her on his arm, they walked across the cleared driveway and up the steps to the front door.

“Do we know who else is expected?” Felicity asked.

“Only Gregory and his daughter Andrea,” Marc said. “But I’m sure it will be a selection of the regular rogue’s gallery.”

She flashed him another smile, this one more of a smirk, as they reached the door and he thumbed the doorbell. “The fact that you still consider your friends a ‘rogue’s gallery’ tells me that you’re still a lovable little boy at heart, darling.”

Marc chuckled and let his eyes drift down from her face to her cleavage, which was peaking delightfully from the top of her coat. “Well, if that’s the case, then this lovable little boy is easily distracted.”

That made Felicity laugh, and it was perfect timing as the door opened and Gregory, clad in a wool knit sweater, slacks and house slippers broke into a chuckle of his own because the blonde’s smile and laugh were often infectious.

“Felicity, my dear,” Gregory said, offering his hands and helping her up the stoop and into the house. “It’s so good to see you!”

“Oh, it’s been too long, Greg,” Felicity said, sweeping him into a hug.

“Marc,” Gregory grinned, offering his hand for a firm shake. “Glad you could make it.”

Their coats were taken and hung up, Gregory made the appropriate ‘Oohs’ and ‘Aahs’ over Felicity’s dress without going overboard, and he led them deeper into the house to his parlour. The regular furniture had been rearranged and a couple of the couches moved somewhere else in the house to make room for a big card table that would have fit fairly easily onto a casino floor. When men of Gregory’s means decided to host a party to do something like help their daughter learn a mildly obscure card game, they rented a professional table and hired a professional dealer. That dealer was a pretty black woman, her curly hair neatly tucked back and her glasses giving her a ‘nerd chic’ look while her crisply buttoned blouse had its sleeves rolled up. This, of course, was to provide a dramatic frame for her hands as she did shuffling tricks for the amusement of some of the guests.

The display was interrupted by Marc and Felicity’s entrance, and Joan Stanhope immediately abandoned her awe of the card tricks as she swept across the room, beaming in delight. “Felicity,” Gregory’s latest wife said, spreading her arms as if she were going to pick Felicity up and fly off with her. “Darling, it’s been so long!”

“Joan,” Felicity said, the warmth in her voice as she hugged the other woman back hiding the mild disdain she actually held for her. She’d told Marc before the problem wasn’t technically Joan herself, more just the position that the woman had put herself in. Felicity was friends with Melissa, Greg’s third wife who he was still with when Marc had started bringing her to functions and introducing himself as her escort for the evening. She was also friends with Wendy, who she hadn’t known while Greg was married to her, but who was still very active in the philanthropic and art scene in the city. Being friends with two of Gregory’s ex-wives, and Joan being something of a pretty airhead, meant that Felicity had to put in just a touch of effort to be her utterly pleasant, completely engaged self.

It also didn’t help that Joan was twenty-three, younger than both of Greg’s two eldest children, and Felicity swore that the woman had been in one of the big first-year university courses she’d TA’d for while she was doing her Masters degree. She hadn’t been able to find any proof of that (she’d been mostly interested to know if the woman had written a solid essay or not), but the weird feeling was still there that she was simply too young for Greg.

The only saving grace was that Andrea, Greg’s youngest, the only Stanhope heir living at home, and the focus of the evening, had developed a good relationship with her new ‘stepmother.’

It took moments for Felicity to be getting led off by Joan, and Marc smiled a little as Felicity clung to his fingers for just a moment and looked back at him with that same warm smile, but a playful little, ‘No, don’t let me go!’ tease in her eyes before she laughed and followed Joan. Marc had already spotted Lucia Randolph in a conversation across the room, and they’d traded friendly nods, so he knew Felicity wouldn’t be getting tired of the gathering any time soon. Lucia was more his date’s speed, a fellow academic though she’d made the transition to the private sector a few years ago.

“How are things, Marc?” Gregory asked, gesturing over towards the fully serviced bar on one end of the parlour. Marc nodded and followed, knowing Gregory had some whiskey or scotch in mind for him to try. He always did.

“Things are stable, Gregory,” Marc said, patting the older man on the shoulder. “Which is exactly what we hope for, this time of year.”

“Too true, too true,” Gregory chuckled.

It was Scotch this time, from some corner of Scotland Marc had never heard of. Gregory’s passion, beyond making money and women who were too young for him, was sharing the little ‘liquid gems’ he found as he travelled. And he had the fully renovated Tasting cellar to prove it in the basement. They didn’t get that far from the small party, though, and it was only a few minutes of chit-chat before the final guests arrived; Paul and Penny Ballinger, old money socialites that edged closer to Gregory’s age than Marc’s.

With all the guests, playing or not, arrived, Gregory called everyone to the table and the dealer explained the rules of Baccarat for the uninitiated, which was most of them. Marc knew of the game but paid attention to remind himself of the rules, which then reminded him why he didn’t pay much attention to the game anyway. Unlike poker or even blackjack, Baccarat wasn’t really a game of skill. It also really wasn’t a game you would want to play anywhere other than a Casino. There were only ever two hands, the ‘Player’ and the ‘Dealer,’ and you had to place your bet for which would get closest to nine points without ever seeing a card. That was the only decision point for the player, everything else had a strict set of rules for when each hand received another card or not, all managed by the dealer.

Marc’s mind immediately spotted the obvious way to ‘win’ at the game - always bet Player (since betting Dealer usually came with a small cut to the Casino on a win), and if you lost, double your bet over and over until you won. You could, in a vacuum without other factors and enough resources to make it happen, make it statistically unlikely to ever ‘lose’ in the long run. Of course, a Casino could screw with those efforts, the most obvious being putting betting caps on someone. If you weren’t allowed to double your bet over a certain amount, you couldn’t make back the amount you had already lost.

But all of that made the game both an excellent social game that someone could barely pay attention to, but also an utter bore if you weren’t playing against the House because you were never competing in any meaningful way.

Marc started the evening as one of the eight players there was room for at the table, along with Gregory, Andrea, Paul Ballinger, and a few other guests. Andrea was taking the game seriously and Marc could immediately tell she was likely doing some form of counting cards, though he wasn’t quite sure how effective that would be - he knew the basic maths behind counting cards for Blackjack, but wasn’t sure how they translated when there were only ever two hands so the decks cycled much slower.

There was no money on the table, just chips and bragging rights, so Marc found himself making idle chat with whichever player was next to him for the first hour or so of the party, occasionally finding his drink had been refilled by a magnanimous Gregory as he puttered around doing his hosting duties. The man did love a good, old-fashioned party even if he was a frequent attendee of the more extravagant Fundraisers in the city.

Marc found himself distracted, though, over time. From both the game and the conversation.

Felicity was effortless as she moved through this world. She wasn’t the thinnest, or the youngest, woman in the room. She wasn’t the richest, the most accomplished. Didn’t come from old money, or carve out her fortune. Yet she was… radiant. A star that others orbited around. Marc had never noticed that before. Felicity didn’t just work the room, the room adjusted and worked for her. Whether it was by choice or by will, Marc watched her direct the flow of conversation partners like a police officer directing traffic, except she made it an art form. And she did it humbly, never stepping on Joan’s toes as the hostess, never letting a hint of friction develop.

And, thinking about it, Marc couldn’t remember a time she hadn’t seemed this… poised. She’d been nervous, the first few times she’d donned a ballgown he’d bought her and took his arm as they stepped into a major fundraiser. And she certainly hadn’t been a natural leader of the wealthy elite in her quiet way at first; it had taken time for that to happen. But it was that poise, that perfect balance of grace, good humour and friendly flirtatiousness that got them all on her side.

“What is it, dear?” Felicity asked. She’d caught him watching her and he’d left the game table, crossing the parlour to her. She’d slipped from her conversation effortlessly and met him partway, and smiled questioningly as Marc side-stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her, hugging her gently and leaning down to press his lips to her ear.

“I was just admiring you, ma petite fée,” he murmured.

“You were?” she asked, turning and smiling at him again. “I don’t know what you would need to admire, darling. You picked every piece of this outfit and were very thorough in making sure each piece was in its proper place.”

Marc grinned, remembering how he had rained kisses, and spankings, over Felicity as she’d gotten ready for the evening. How he’d chosen her lingerie and the dress. Her jewellery. She loved that he enjoyed pampering her that way, and he loved that she delighted in receiving both soothing kisses and sharp, teasing slaps to the ass, thigh or breast. She’d had to change her panties before they ended up leaving.

“I admire you in that way often, Felicity,” he said. “But just now? I was admiring the woman behind the beautiful face, and the body of a Goddess. I was simply admiring you. Tu ne te rends pas compte à quel point tu illumines la pièce.”

“Thank you,” she said simply and brought up a hand to hold him still as she kissed him lightly. She kept it demure - they were at a salon party, after all - but it was more than a peck. It lingered. It spoke of the things that were more than envelopes and business deals and payment for services.

It spoke of more than the games that felt less and less like games between the two of them. Especially now that he was playing with Sinead.

“I’m going to miss this,” Felicity said gently, leaning back against him as she revelled in being held in his arms. She was looking across the room at the game table where Andrea was in a teasing argument with Gregory, and the Ballingers were egging them both on.

“Miss it?” Marc asked in mild confusion.

“Eventually, dear,” Felicity said, patting his hand. “When it’s gone, I’ll miss this. Everything ends eventually.”

Marc wasn’t sure he liked that thought.

<U>Translations</U>
- Tu ne te rends pas compte à quel point tu illumines la pièce. = You don't realize how much you light up the room.

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