A Million Different Ways (A Horn Novel Book 1)

by Dangelico, P.

  I raced downstairs to see if I could help. Totally ignoring his objections, I managed to wrestle some of the bags away from him.

  “Is Sebastian here?” Paisley asked no one in particular, nibbling on the end of her sunglasses looking inconvenienced. Then she turned to me. “Be careful with my things. And put us in the east wing––near Sebastian. We don’t want to be near the other guests.”

  I watched Bentifourt’s expression turn weary. He sighed and drew himself up. “We have the best guest room ready for you, madam.”

  “It’s okay, Paisley, whatever. Who cares where they put us,” Marcus interrupted in a placating tone.

  The door to the office banged open and Sebastian walked out. He looked furious. His eyes skipped from me, to Bentifourt, then to the bags we were holding while Paisley gave him a cat-that-ate-the-cream smile.

  “What the fuck, Paisley,” he practically growled, his narrowed eyes full of unmitigated disgust.

  Marcus stepped forward. “Sebastian, it’s okay. We’ll take whatever room, really, it’s not a problem.”

  “You’re here ten minutes and you’re already turning my household upside down. Bentifourt show them to the guest wing.” And with that, he walked back into his office and slammed the door shut. For a horrified moment, I thought it would fall off its hinges.

  She whined the whole way up to her room.

  By six, all the guests had arrived except for one, Mrs. Redman. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t incredibly curious about her. Charlotte was right. He was bent out of shape worse than ever. He slammed every door he opened and closed, shouted for Bentifourt more times than I could count, and wouldn’t come out of his office to greet his thirty guests. Each of who gave Bentifourt a weird curious expression when they inquired about him and were told he was not seeing guest until dinner.

  A half an hour later, a bright red Rolls Royce Phantom pulled up. Charlotte and I followed Mr. Bentifourt out to help him unload the car. The driver opened the passenger door and a long, slim leg poked out. She stood up and scanned the open doorway, her well-exercised body wrapped in a clingy, simple pale blue dress. She had golden blond hair cut in a chin length bob parted to the side and her make up was flawless. She didn’t appear to be a day over forty-five, even though she was more than ten years older.

  “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.

  “I know you have strict orders not to serve hard liquor––Bentifourt gets tetchy about such things––however, do you think you could do an old man a favor? Could I tempt you to be bad?” I couldn’t resist the silky British accent, or the devilish twinkle in his eyes.

  “What may I get you, sir?” I asked, smiling.

  “What a darling girl you are, beautiful too. If I was five years younger… Macallan––55, if he has it.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  When I returned to the sitting room with a crystal glass of the extremely rare vintage balancing on my tray, Mr. Bentifourt grabbed my arm. “Who’s that for?”

  “The man in the navy double breasted, sir.”

  His grip on my arm relaxed. “Charles Hightower, yes, alright. But no one else.”

  “Pardon, sir, but who is he?”

  “The late Mr. Horn’s best friend, also an important client of the bank.”

  I located Mr. Hightower near the fireplace, holding court with a couple of young bank employees, and handed him the glass.

  “Beautiful and resourceful. I like that in a woman.�
�

  After managing to unload another tray of champagne glasses at record speed, I went to stand next to Charlotte against a wall on the other side of the room. “There’s that bitch sister-in-law,” she said, tipping her blonde head towards Paisley.

  After picking my chin up off the ground, I asked, “Did you just say sister-in-law?”

  “Yes, her husband is Mr. Horn’s step-brother.” Good God…he was sleeping with his sister-in-law! This would require excessive analysis at a later date. “She makes my life a living hell every time she’s here,” Charlotte whispered. “Last time she had me pick the chocolate chips out of the mint chocolate chip ice cream––no exaggeration.” It was almost impossible for Charlotte not to exaggerate.

  These people inhabited a world so far removed from mine. Sleeping with your sister-in-law was way outside the norm of decent behavior in my book, the stuff soap opera’s were made of. I glanced at Paisley and found her in an animated discussion with Mrs. Redman. They were obviously well known to each other. And so alike in their dress, their appearance, their mannerisms they could have been mother and daughter.

  Looking bored and restless, her husband, Marcus sat opposite them in a spindly Louis xvii chair with his ankle resting on the opposite knee and his thumb tapping the armrest. He scanned the room impatiently until his gaze settled on me. His chocolate brown eyes traveled from my face to my feet in a subtly appraising manner I didn’t care for. Unfortunately, when he motioned me over, it was too late to pretend I hadn’t seen him.

  “May I get you something?”

  His index finger rested on his full lips as he deliberated. “Are you British?”

  “No.”

  He motioned for me to come closer. I braced with apprehension for a moment, before bending down slightly.

  “Did anybody ever tell you that you look a lot like Natalie––”

  “No, never,” I interrupted.

  And of course his Royal Highness chose that exact moment to make an appearance. When he stepped into the room, a collective silence fell over the crowd and all eyes turned to him. He was magnificent in a lean navy suit. His soft white shirt cleaved by a deep purple tie of thick silk and a double Windsor that few men could wear without looking ridiculous.

  Heir to the throne.

  Unfortunately, his gaze was elsewhere…fixed with laser precision on me. I immediately knew there was going to be trouble when Sebastian’s eyes narrowed––not that he had any right. Regardless, by now I knew how irrational he could get when that look came over him. And there I was, bent over and flushed, with Marcus’s dark head dipped and his eyes trained on my breasts. Snapping straight, I hurried away. Sebastian’s scrutiny followed me until Charles Hightower approached him, his face softening as they exchanged friendly pats on the back. There was genuine affection between the two and for whatever absurd reason it pleased me. He always held everyone at a distance.

  Except when he’s kissing you, the devil in me spoke.

  He moved gracefully about the room, making friendly conversation and shaking hands with his traders and clients. For a man that was so often closed off and alone, he was a born leader. People naturally gravitated towards him.

  Sadly, I realized that my eyes were not the only ones that followed him everywhere. Aside from Paisley, the wives and girlfriends of a number of the guests stared with undisguised hunger, some brazen enough to openly flirt under the noses of their dates. One in particular, dressed in an elegant white sheath dress, devoured him with her pretty blue eyes and stalked him around the room.

  When he finished making his rounds, his gaze connected with mine and summoned me over. I walked to him balancing a tray of champagne flutes. Although he took one, he didn’t drink it. The silence stretched on.

  If his goal was intimidation, it worked. My composure began to wane under the power of his intense stare. I looked around for a lifeline, any excuse to walk away, and my rescue came in the form of the woman in white. Over his shoulder, I spotted her heading in our direction and turned to leave.

  “Wait.” Though barely a whisper, the singular word carried a force that stopped me in my tracks. Conscious that there were people watching him closely, I turned back to face him and tried to remain as inscrutable as possible.

  “What did Marcus say to you that made you blush?” The pretense of indifference in his blank stare did nothing to mask the anger in his voice. I watched ‘miss blue eyes’ push past some of the traders that tried, without success, to catch her attention.

  “I can’t remember. Can I get you anything else?”

  He sighed deeply, annoyed to be disobeyed certainly. “Since you won’t answer that question, I have another––did you enjoy watching me fuck Paisley that night in the library?”

  There was a buzzing sound in my ear, followed immediately by the harsh hammering of my heart. My mind locked up. I drew a perfect blank trying to process what he had said to me. And when it rebooted, a scalding heat rose swiftly from my toes to my hairline. I couldn’t produce a syllable if my life depended on it.

  “There you are,” the blue-eyed woman cooed. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” She placed her hand on his bicep and his jaw tightened imperceptibly.

  “Caroline, it’s good to see you. How was New York?”

  “Sugar––didn’t you break the 100 freestyle record as a freshman at UT?”

  Both their heads turned in the direction of Mrs. Redman’s voice.

  “The butterfly,” Sebastian replied casually.

  Paisley, eyes wide in triumph, turned to Mrs. Redman and shrieked, “I told you, Diana.” But Mrs. Redman’s attention was elsewhere, trained on me with a look on her face I had seen before on her son.

  Humiliation made me cower and shrink. I don’t know how I got my legs to work. All I know is that I felt myself automatically retreating backwards, away from her unwanted interest. Sebastian didn’t spare me another glance. He continued to speak amicably with the woman in the white dress as if nothing of great consequence had just occurred.

  Left alone to struggle with my disturbed thoughts, I backed out of the scene, made myself small, and disappeared. Any warmth I felt for him died a quick and sudden death that moment. My healthy pride wilted for the first time in years. And a small bud of resentment blossomed in my heart.

  * * *

  Dinner was served at 8:30 in the dining room. Hanging from a ceiling painted with clouds and flying cherubs, the massive chandelier was dimly lit, casting a romantic glow about the room. Tall, silver candlesticks dotted the hand-embroidered white linen tablecloth. Low arrangements of spring flowers, including bright pink peonies and white hydrangeas from the garden, separated a dining table as long as a runway, and glints of candlelight bounced off the angles of fine cut crystal glasses.

  The room was filled with the sound of enjoyable company, cheerful laughter and the low buzz of conversation. The staff stood to the side as each delectable course was served and removed for the next one.

  The conversation flowed as easily as the expensive vintage. Although Sebastian hadn’t said much. He sat at the head of the table, a sullen king slouching in his chair with his head resting on the triangle of his index finger and thumb. I caught him staring at me more than once, but his gaze darted back to the tablecloth or the glass he was holding when our eyes met.

  I was seething with anger. What kind of man took pleasure in mocking and harassing an employee? A housekeeper so far beneath his station she wasn’t worth noticing.

  The woman called Caroline was sitting to his right, practically bending backwards to get his attention. She looked like his type: beautiful, wealthy, elegant. You could sense her infatuation from across the room. There was a desperate quality to her wide-eyed stare that made me feel sorry for her. He isn’t worth it, trust me, I wanted to scream. Every time she spoke to him, she touched him: his forearm, his hand, his shoulder. I watched him stiffen, flinch subtly, and I was glad for his discomfort.

  “Caroline, I almost didn’t re
cognize you. You’ve lost so much weight since I saw you at the Fashion Council Awards in New York.” Paisley’s irritating voice, with her pronounced disingenuous sweetness, pierced my anger for a brief moment. Seated a few chairs down from them, her eyes were fixed on Caroline and Sebastian all throughout dinner––lying in wait for the right moment to attack apparently.

  Caroline blushed and blinked before finding her voice. “Thanks, Paisley, but I haven’t lost any weight.”

  “Really? Then it must be that beautiful Carolina Herrera gown you’re wearing. I tried it on at Bergdorf Goodman. You need wide hips to wear it well. Didn’t fit me at all.” Conversations around the table suddenly hushed, everyone’s attention turning towards the head of the table. “I ran into Robert at Daniel. His new fiancé looks fifteen.”

  Not allowing Paisley to bait her, Caroline smiled sweetly and replied, “We’re divorced. He’s free to marry a goat if he wants.”

  Sebastian wasn’t nearly as gracious. He impaled Paisley with a vicious scowl that was nasty enough to shut her up. I found that distastefully hypocritical seeing that he had essentially done the same thing to me and my esteem of him sank even lower.

  When I went to clear his dessert dish away, he looked up at me with a repentant expression, a silent plea in his eyes. I turned away abruptly. Hell would freeze over before I would let him see how affected I was by his words.