A Million Different Ways (Horn Duet 1)

“Where’s my son?” Her voice was girlish and her vowels elongated, an American drawl I had only ever heard on TV.

“He’s in his office, madam,” Mr. Bentifourt answered.

On cue, Sebastian walked out of the open doorway and stopped at the top of the landing. He was freshly shaven and dressed in a tailored white shirt open at the neck, no tie; his stark masculine beauty needed no adorning. The fit of his shirt made his shoulders look exceedingly broad and his waist narrow. The slim gray slacks hugged his hips and emphasized his long legs. He leaned on his cane, his other hand tucked casually in the pocket of his pants. The relaxed pose belied an air of unease about him that was plain to me. His eyes were shuttered. The bored aristocrat was back.

“Diana.”

“Sugar, the least you could do is give your momma a hug.” She walked up to him and threw her willowy arms around his neck. With her Louboutin platforms on, they were almost eye to eye. He didn’t embrace her, just removed his hand from his pocket and patted her back in a wooden, stilted gesture, the awkwardness palpable.

On close inspection, one could tell they were related. The physical similarities were certainly there. The shape of the eyes (although hers were green), the arch of the brow, the soft dip in the chin. But where her beauty was fragile and cold, his was robust and sensual.

As I dragged her bags up the three stairs, he looked over her shoulder and caught me watching them. The bored expression lifted for a moment, his eyes examining me thoroughly. Then he scowled.

“Diana, you’re only here for four days. Why are they unloading five suitcases?”

Noticing my struggle to lift the bags up the stairs, he grabbed one from me as if it weighed nothing. I couldn’t fight him for it; I didn’t want to make a scene. Charlotte and Bentifourt were right behind me and would have certainly noticed.

“A woman should always be prepared.”

“For what, exactly?” The bitterness in his tone had no effect on her.

“To always look good, sugar,” she replied with a playful smile.

Again, I tried taking the bag from him as we followed her inside, and still, he ignored me.

“Is there Fiji in my room? You know I can’t drink Evian, too soft, makes me go to the bathroom. And what about the lavender sachets? I need those. They relax me. I haven’t been sleeping well lately. Make sure everyone knows not to knock on my door before ten.”

Staring at her with a fathomless expression, he held up the bag. “Here mother.” (the word mother laced with mockery). When he tried handing it to her, she looked at him as if he had just offered her a dead rodent.

“Don’t be silly, Scout. That’s what the help is for.”

Mrs. Redman turned on her heels and headed up the marble staircase. Bentifourt grabbed the bag and the three of us, following closely behind, marched up the stairs like a bunch of pack mules. I glanced briefly over my shoulder and found Sebastian standing in the foyer, staring after her with a distant look in his eyes. Something about that look made me sad. Scout. The name Paisley had called him that night in the library, the name that set him off in a rage––the significance of which I couldn’t even begin to understand.

Chapter Twelve

Cocktails started at six in the sitting room. One of the largest rooms in the manor, it was formally decorated with yards of Italian silks, hand painted De Gournay wallpaper, and a platoon of settees and love seats. Charlotte, Annabel, and I passed around fluted glasses of Crystal Rosé and tiny canapés while the guests chatted amicably. There was a comfortable vibe in the room, probably because they all seemed to know one another, traveled in the same social circles no doubt. Sebastian hadn’t made an appearance yet––the only small awkwardness. I noticed Mr. Bentifourt repeatedly check his wristwatch and exchange commiserating glances with Mrs. Arnaud.

Balancing a loaded tray of crystal flutes, I squeezed between bodies of young financial warriors dressed in ultra expensive suits. They all had an air of ruthlessness about them, a barely contained aggressive energy, as they jockeyed for position around the attractive, super-skinny women in the room.

Actually, I had never seen so many beautiful women assembled under one roof. And yet the men seemed more interested in competing with each other than with the prize. I noticed Paisley overtly flirting with two of them and wondered where her husband was.

As I passed by a sharply dressed elderly man, he invited me over with a wink and a mischievous glint in his powder blue eyes. Although he must have been around eighty, he vibrated with the snappy energy of a much younger man.