The Alchemist's Pride

Chapter 7. Protected at all cost

“Monsieur Savour. This is a surprise. I didn’t know you were also here tonight?” Leyla asks nonchalantly and with feigned surprise, keeping her tone light and pleasant so that he doesn’t notice how suddenly uncomfortable she is. Why does this man make me so uneasy?

“My name is Louis, Leyla. Yes, I was invited by one of the organizers. An old colleague of mine. So, do you have something to drink, or can I get you something?” The eternal French gentleman, Leyla thinks irritably.

“No thanks, my friend has already gone to get me something.” It takes everything in her not to sound sarcastic. Thank goodness Juan Marc is by my side tonight. Leyla feels relieved. Otherwise, he might have gotten other ideas if I had shown up alone.

“Friend?” The friendly eyes of the Frenchman reveal a hint of coldness that was not there earlier.

Where is Juan Marc with the drinks?

Leyla tries to keep her face as expressionless as possible.

“Yep, that’s right. Did you come alone, Louis? You’re welcome to sit with us at the table if you don’t know people here.” i***t, Leyla scolds herself. Why would you say that?

Before he can answer, Leyla feels a cool hand lightly touch her arm, and she looks up into Duke Stèfan Von Freudenberg's dark eyes, which sparkle with suspicious friendliness.

He smiles at her. There’s no sign of the stern expression that sometimes marks his face. The face looking at her is relaxed and friendly.

“There you are, Leyla. Come, Juan Marc is waiting for us inside.” With these somewhat cryptic words, he places his arm possessively around her waist, nods coolly at Louis, and steers her inside while Louis watches them in slight bewilderment.

His eyes narrowed considerably. Oh, so that’s how it is, is it? Well, we shall see, Duke, we shall see.

Leyla is too surprised to say or do anything. She walks next to the Duke without uttering a word.

He guides her through the boat’s interior to the bar, where Juan Marc is chatting with Clem. His arm is still around Leyla’s waist.

“Monsieur Du Pont, excuse me.”

Juan Marc looks from the Duke to Leyla, puzzled, and excuses himself from his conversation with Clem.

“Monsieur Du Pont, a man does not leave his companion alone. Keep her by your side.” With this stern admonishment, the Duke turns and walks away.

Juan Marc watches him, baffled, and Leyla can't help but burst out laughing.

“What the heck?” Juan Marc asks, confused.

Leyla’s face grows serious.

“Monsieur Louis Savour is here, Juan Marc.” She briefly explains what happened and what was said before the Duke made his appearance.

“But why would the Duke take you away from Savour? He doesn’t even know you, does he? And why scold me? I didn’t do anything wrong,” Juan Marc says, clearly agitated. Did the man have to make him feel like a naughty child? He was just talking to Clem about tax matters, not committing a crime!

“No, but I wonder if maybe my face looked worried. I got anxious because there were only two other people standing in the shadows. So, I wonder if the Duke noticed that I felt uncomfortable being alone with him. That’s the only explanation I have.”

“Maybe. Ah, Ley, I’m sorry the Frenchman had to ruin your evening. And I’m sorry I took so long with the drinks. Clem needed advice on a client’s company tax. Do you want to leave? We could always watch a movie at my place. I have a big bag of popcorn in the cupboard?”

Leyla looks at him decisively.

“Not at all! I’m here to enjoy the evening, and I’m going to enjoy it. Where’s my drink?” she asks with a mischievous smile, deliberately pushing the unpleasantness with Monsieur Savour to the back of her mind. She’s going to ignore him now.

Juan Marc looks at her approvingly and signals a waiter.

“A double Musgrave, with lots of ice, pink tonic, and plenty of strawberries or berries, please. And a Bourbon, on the rocks, please.” The waiter nods and brings the drinks after a few minutes.

The evening turns out to be a pleasant one for Leyla.

The one double G&T turned into two, and later three. Juan Marc’s office friends eventually joined them, and the night became a lively, fun-filled time with playful banter back and forth.

Later, the Frenchman joined the group as well, but he didn’t impose himself on her again, just sitting at the side, laughing and chatting when someone included him in the conversation.

After the delicious finger food was served and everyone had taken a plate, Leyla becomes aware of a quiet figure coming to sit down next to her, where she had found a spot at a table a bit away from the noise.

“I hope I didn’t embarrass you earlier.” his dark eyes is calm and focused on her face, slightly amused.

Leyla’s lift her chin up.

“I was in complete control of the situation, Sir.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. Really? he asks, without saying a word.

Then she continues reluctantly.

“But, thank you. I didn’t feel comfortable standing alone at the back of the deck with a stranger.”

Stèfan’s face loses its amusement and takes on a more serious expression.

“I could see that, yes. But now, you’re sitting here alone with me, who is also a stranger?” His eyes are teasingly on her again.

Leyla quickly looks around and realizes they are, indeed, the only people on this side of the room. Everyone is either out on the deck chatting and smoking in groups or getting ready for the dance that’s about to start.

She looks reluctantly up at him. Give the devil his due, as her late grandmother Sophie would have said.

“You’re different. You give me no reason to feel suspicious of you,” she says with slight reluctance.

He looks at her for a long moment while she sits staring ahead, her plate of food forgotten in her hand.

A small, satisfied smile plays on the otherwise stern mouth of Duke Stèfan Von Freudenberg as he turns his eyes back toward the guests.

His eyes narrow when he notices Louis Savour watching them. He’s a man who seems to be happily participating in the conversation he’s in, but whose eyes repeatedly drift back to the dark-haired girl sitting next to the Duke, nibbling on her snacks.

Stèfan frowns. There’s undoubtedly something suspicious about the Frenchman. What Leyla had said earlier to Juan Marc is true. He’s friendly, considerate, well-mannered, and proper, but there’s something about him that makes one uneasy.

Stèfan glances back at Leyla and notices she’s watching him with a broad smile.

“A penny for your thoughts, Duke?”

He smiles kindly at her.

“You can call me by my name, Leyla.” She smiles at him but says nothing.

In the background, lively dance music starts playing, and one of the couples moves to the dance floor.

“Dance with me?” It’s more of a command than a request.

Leyla looks at him for a few moments, then places her hand in his without further hesitation. Duke Stèfan Von Freudenberg smiles, satisfied.

Many eyes are on the beautiful couple as they make their way to the dance floor. Despite her height, she barely reaches his shoulders. He is extraordinarily tall. The Duke is an attractive man—dark and tall—and many ladies openly envy Leyla on his arm.

He is also clearly a respected man in Prague. Many ladies have tried to win his favor and claim him for themselves, but so far, without success. Though the Duke has been seen with various ladies at events, none have been seriously linked to his name, not even the German Baroness Freyberg, who is often seen with him. There has been much speculation that she would become the next Duchess Von Freudenberg.

Juan Marc watches in surprise. The last he saw, Leyla had been sitting down with food. Where did this guy come from now? He’s popping up everywhere tonight, he thinks irritably, his eyes slightly jealous as they focus on the attractive couple.

Louis Savour’s eyes are also narrowed as he watches the two people walking to the dance floor. This was not part of the plan, he thinks bitterly as his eyes shoot daggers into the Duke’s back.

He turns angrily and orders another drink, staring blankly at the opposite wall.

On the dance floor, Leyla finds it quite pleasant to dance with the Duke. For an aristocrat, the man is quite agile and an excellent dancer, she thinks, smiling. She had always assumed nobles could only waltz. Or maybe it’s the several glasses of Musgrave gin that have made her daring enough to dance with him in the first place. We’re probably not dancing as fast as it feels; maybe we’re slow dancing, she thinks with an amused smile.

Stèfan looks down at the pretty mouth smiling broadly at him. He smiles back, slightly bewildered, as he watches the laughing mouth. What an stunningly extraordinary girl.

There is truly something innocent, yet captivating about her, he thinks.

His observation in the park had been accurate. Her appearance may be subtly seductive and smoldering, but she is just an innocent child. She is an innocent child who seems to have become the prey of a womanizer, he thinks somberly, as his eyes drift back to the Frenchman across the dance floor.

Stèfan holds the girl in his arms a little tighter, while he stares over her head at the group of people who prefer not to dance. He and Louis Savour's eyes lock like barbed hooks over the dancefloor.

Louis' eyes are cold and hateful, Stèfan's amused and mocking.

Anyone who knows Duke Stèfan Von Freudenberg would know that he is now at his most dangerous. There is something ruthless in the black eyes that suddenly, in the blink of an eye, lose all amusement and mockery, and coldly and icily rest on Louis Savour.

Savour is the first to look away, as a red glow rises up his neck, and he throws the last of his drink down his throat before storming out onto the deck.