A Million Different Ways (Horn Duet 1)

“Two months?”

“We’ve been best friends ever since,” he affirmed with a boyish grin.

Still reeling from the story he’d told, I watched Ben try to gently push the hen off the nest with his forearm. The hen only flapped her wings and made a fuss––scowling at him. That’s when Charlotte marched in with purposeful strides, a cigarette rakishly hanging from her lips. She stuck her arm under the hens and extracted six warm eggs like she was strolling down the dairy aisle at a supermarket. Handing me the eggs one by one, she directed a haughty glare at Ben. There was a confusing undercurrent of hostility between them. I made a mental note to ask her about it later.

His eyes narrowed at her self-satisfied smirk. Suddenly, he snatched the dangling cigarette from her lips, and ground it out under his sneaker. “Disgusting, filthy habit,” he grumbled and stalked out of the chicken pen with purposeful strides.

“How dare you!”

“I dare,” he shouted over his shoulder.

We both watched him walk away, his muscles flexing and rippling under the wet t-shirt with every step he took. I turned and pinned Charlotte with an assessing glance. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“What makes you say that?” she replied. She tugged anxiously at the loose curls that had escaped her ponytail. I raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “It’s nothing,” she added, feigning innocence poorly. It was clear to a blind man that it was indeed something. “Nothing I can’t handle at least.” The resigned tone of her voice nagged at me. As I watched her march back to the house, I made a mental note to get to the bottom of it.

Chapter Nineteen

The next day, guests began departing at dawn. It was a long process of preparing meals, counting bodies, and dragging luggage to the landing in front of the house. The entire staff was overworked and exhausted. The last remaining guests were his mother and Caroline Pruitt. That’s the name I heard whispered about. Apparently she was an American steel heiress.

We caught sight of each other in between meals and departures. Caroline, ever present by his side…yapping at his heels like a rat terrier. His eyes were dim, withdrawing. I didn’t blame him. I knew he was hurt. As much as I was an open book to him, I had gotten very good at reading him as well. Still, it had to be done, for both our sakes. We both needed to stay grounded in sober reality.

Diana Redman had been watching me with the same marked interest as one of Sebastian’s falcons eyeing its dinner. She made sure that he and I weren’t left alone for a single moment. Little did she know, I had done a good job of that all on my own. He hadn’t approached me once. I caught him staring a couple of times but he turned away as soon as our eyes met.

I had just finished wrapping the left overs from lunch when Sebastian walked into the kitchen looking every inch the ‘lord of the manor’. Not a hair out of place, wearing a closely tailored white shirt of silky cotton, a pair of lean cut linen pants, and Italian driving moccasins––the very picture of ruthless power and elegance. The mask was back on, fixed firmly in place. The fact that I had done that to him made me excruciatingly uncomfortable.

Mrs. Arnaud reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a container filled with small pieces of chicken. I started drying the silverware with quick, firm strokes while my eyes flickered back and forth to his. He wouldn’t look at me. It hurt, even though I deserved it. Over the last few days I had grown accustomed to seeing him brighter, happier. Now the solemn expression was back and all I wanted to do was kiss him until I banished it from features too perfect for his own good.

“Can you give me a hand with this?” His gaze, still elsewhere.

“Yes, of course.”

We walked past the vegetable garden, through the woods, and towards the mews without saying a word. He stared ahead and kept his usually long stride in check. Even with that hitch in his step, I had to push myself to keep up with him. I wanted to scream. All the easy comfort between us had vanished. And with a few calculated words, we were back to where we had started weeks ago.

Without thought or consent, I reached for his hand and laced my fingers through his. His attention fell onto our joined hands. Surprise flashed briefly. Then I felt a gentle squeeze, and his brandy colored gaze lifted to meet mine.

An internal battle was being waged. I could see it blazing in his eyes, and knew immediately which side won when I heard the bag he carried hit the soft grass, felt his arms sweep around me in an unbreakable hold. A tremble bounced off of him when the hard, sculpted planes of his chest impacted my soft ones. His fingers found their way to my hair. Shoving through, they dismantled my neat ponytail in seconds. His other hand roamed up the skirt of my uniform and pressed and kneaded the small cheeks of my rear end. Pulling me closer, he grinded the unmistakable evidence of his passion against the soft curve at the top of my thighs. A sharp, electric jolt branched through me. My moan swallowed by his desperate kiss.