Chapter 9

He gazed intently at the slight figure seated before him, her skin was fair, with a high color in her cheeks. Her luscious auburn hair had just the right amount of volume and smoothed freely over the bodice of her white gown. Although not exactly ravishing, she had the grace of a falling autumn leaf, and was a picture of dignity.

"Oh… I'm sorry, I didn't realize…" the color in her cheeks intensifying, "yes, sure, it's empty."

God help her. She hadn't a clue where to place her eyes without seeming rude yet still maintaining self preservation. His mere presence filled her mind with the silliest concerns—was she sitting right? What did she do now? Should she introduce herself, and how? Was her hair alright?

Settling himself, he smiled cordially at her, "Why didn't you come introduce yourself to me before? I was so lonely over there," then pouting teasingly.

"Oh. Well, you had other companions to attend to. It would have been most rude of me." Conversation made her stare into those bright, translucent eyes, those dark starry eyes which seemed depthless.

"Not at all. In fact, truth to be told, based on the designs of my former companions, I would have been rather glad," he grinned. Tiffany noticed the stark difference between her own stiff tone and his easy, comfortable banter. This would not do. Nevertheless, he had induced a grin from her. "Sébastien Jean Leveré. Enchanté, mademoiselle."

"Tiffany Winifred Cheldon. Enchanté, monsieur." His brushed her fingers modestly against his lips.

Sébastien. Reviving herself from the elusive touch on her fingers, she determined herself to remain as immune as she possibly could to those deep, brilliant eyes of his, and ventured, "Sir? It seems odd that you should assume a title and yet be so accomplished at the flute. Tell me, how did you persevere in mastering such art?" At home, men of wealth and royalty always claimed that they had little time to spare for such frivolous matters as music, and although Tiffany never questioned this trend, she thought it a pity. This gentleman, however, with all his manners and grace was most absolutely of royal blood, but the way he handled the flute…

"I am not half as accomplished as you put it­—I've never had proper lessons." He laughed.

Bewildered, she simply stated, as though it was the only truth she knew, "It can't be! In my opinion, I have heard no finer music."

Even under his dark skin, a hue of soft red had illuminated, "Well, you know with passion in life, you can do a lot of things, if you love something. I choose another way to learn music, and I learn it with my heart," his gaze was intoxicating, "differently than knowing it on the paper. Well, I know how to read music and how to write music, basically—basic techniques, but its true that I never had all the lessons like the other guys."

His voice was deep and pure as he related his passion, crisp with feeling, just like his flute tone. Some deep unknown emotion was tapped. She could live on his voice forever; it was music in itself. This was someone who deeply comprehended the priceless value of music. This was someone with a fiery passion. The knowledge made her head hot. Eyes fixated on her now, he tensely inquired, "Mademoiselle, do you play music too?"

"Well, I know very little flute and some pianoforte. That's about it though." She wasn't sure how to put it, telling a musician of great talent about her meager musical abilities.

The silent approval she sensed in his black eyes surprised her, and she was further taken aback by his next cordial request. "Then you must perform with me!" he exclaimed, standing up. Offering his hand, he explained, "Tiffany, would you do me the honor of a duet?" He referred to her as Tiffany. Her mouth was stone bound; she could do nothing but place her slender hand in his and savor the warmth that leaked down her fingertips to her arms and body as their skin made contact.

Tiffany felt a fleeting puzzlement. His hands were somewhat rough for a man of his apparent status. These were hands of a useful man. Sébastien left his hand clasping hers, and led her through to the back wall. His naked hand held hers so gently, felt so warm, so unlike Lawrence's permanently gloved, detached hands.

Lawrence! Goodness, she had lost herself. What was she doing? She wasn't supposed to be with this man, much less perform, in front of so many people. Hurrying forward, Tiffany stopped Sébastien, "I can't do this, Sébastien."

"Why not, my lady?" He looked directly at her in question. With a tinge of masked disappointment, in his eyes, he searched hers. Tiffany found herself profoundly unable to explain the truth of it to him. She was incapable of enlightening him upon the fact that she was supposedly spoken for, a fact she found herself dearly wishing otherwise. "It's nothing, let's go," she stammered, then sought to wildly justify her weakness, insisting to her heart that it was but an innocent acceptance; there would be no chance of any emotions sprouting out of it. She left it at that and allowed herself to be led, knowing little of how very wrong her sensible assumption of faith was.