VERSAILLES || h.s.

IX

Odete smiled and motioned for Lorenzo to enter the room. The conversations ceased and everyone in the bedchamber looked up, curious as to who the mysterious Italian had brought with him.
Lorenzo walked in and held the door at a wider angle. Six women stood behind him, giggling and whispering in Italian. They entered the room, and the faces of the noblemen lounging about suddenly lit up. Among them was Louis, Niall, and Bernard.

The noblewomen seemed less pleased. The girls on Bernard's lap frowned and moved, huffing as they straightened out their skirts.

Odete, too, looked displeased. The smile on her face had fallen, replaced with a reprimanding glower. How utterly rude. Brining harlots to a noble gathering, she thought. She looked over at Harry, and was relieved to see him sporting the very same expression. However, he didn't particularly care about the girls. They looked quite inviting, actually.
No, he was simply irate at the audacity of this– this glorified peasant. How dare he try to mingle with the pure-bred; it was a travesty. He was no better than the Duke of Kalgenfurt.

"Gentlemen, enjoy. Italy's finest," Lorenzo bragged. A servant entered the room pushing a gold-plated cart. On it we're silver buckets filled with ice and bottles of champagne, and platters of strawberries and rich, Belgian chocolate syrup. "I have refreshments," he added, plucking a strawberry from the platter and submerging it in the chocolate. The servant bowed and left, shutting the door behind him. Niall had begun playing a lively tune once again, although he missed some notes in his inebriated state.

"You, what is your name?" Louis demanded, standing. He paced his way leisurely to the cart, stopping momentarily to study one of the prostitutes. He winked at her.
"Lorenzo, My Lord. Lorenzo Constantini."
"I see. And have you no title, Lorenzo? A man must have some influence to have access to such fine women," the Lord Tomlinson continued. Harry leaned forward, a stern expression settling on his strong features.
"Yes, Lorenzo. Your title," he reiterated. Lorenzo looked between the two Lords uncertainly.
"I– I'm not sure I—"

"Come now, Lorenzo, there is no shame in titles. What is shameful is pretending to be someone you are not," Harry provoked, crossing his arms. Lorenzo raised his eyebrows.
The Lords Tomlinson and Styles watched on, enjoying the Italian's obvious discomfort. They shared an amused look.

"If my Lords insist," Lorenzo sighed.
"Believe me, we do," Louis chuckled, placing his hand on the hip of the girl he had flirted with.
Lorenzo nodded solemnly. "I am the Principe Lorenzo Constantini III," he said. "Are you satisfied?"

Niall's music stopped, and so did all conversation in the room. Even the whores looked up.

Louis and Harry exchanged tight-lipped glances.
"Very well," Louis said. "Join us, Your Grace."
"Gladly, Lord Tomlinson."
Lorenzo sat among the noble folk, within the plush, blue velvet cushions. Bernard passed him a glass filled with a dark liquid.

"Your Grace, do tell us, however did you hear about our gathering?" Niall asked from his seat at the harpsichord.
"The ravishing Lady Beauchamp invited me. I felt it would be impolite to arrive without a gift," the prince responded, gesturing towards the whores with his glass. "And Italians love food," he added as the Lord Horan grabbed a strawberry.

"Wonderful," Harry mumbled, sipping his drink.
Odete sighed and attempted to see the whores from a male's perspective. An act of camaraderie, however vulgar it may be, she thought, although it did not stop her from flinching when one sat herself atop Niall's lap. The girl began whispering horridly graphic and sinful things in the Irish boy's ear, and Odete took that as her cue to find another seat.

She stood and slightly lifted her skirt, making her way to the dresser upon which were placed the bottles of whiskey and wine. If I am to socialise with prostitutes, pray I at least be drunker than a sailor. She removed the cap from the crystal bottle and poured a red liquid into her glass. She drained it in one swig and shuddered as the bitter substance stung her throat. Once the sensation had passed, she filled another glass.