Chapter 148 Chapter 149

Chapter 148 Chapter 149
It took a certain skill to navigate the hazardous conversations of not only the posh but also the elite.
Denis had vowed never to become like them, and he’d done a fairly admirable job. At least he hoped so. His Maman told him he’d managed to keep his head at a decent size despite the rush of good fortune befallen on him, so he’d take her word for it. 
He inclined his head towards Susan, reading her face like an open book. She returned the nod, a nervous greeting if he’d ever seen one.
“Mrs Winthrops, I don’t think I’ve had the honour.”
She allowed him to grasp her hand, kissing her knuckles softly. Susan watched him like one might watch a cobra getting ready to strike. 
“Lord Arnold.”
He shook his head, lips curling. “Please, call me Denis.”
Her head cocked, brow furrowing as she tried to decipher if this was a test of some sort. It was frightfully obvious she wanted to fit into this pompous crowd, to be accepted as someone worthy of her new husband. And as such, she didn’t want to mess up, to say the wrong thing, to call the Head of House Arnold by Denis. It was too much familiarity too quickly. Sometimes the blonde wished blood and tradition could go fuck itself.
Polite as the poor girl was, she folded. “Denis then.”
They fell into easy conversation. He asked her about work, learning she developed software for an automotive startup. While talking, her cheeks burned red, as if she were admitting guilt. But her tense expression slacked once Denis told her he’d taken a computer class a few years prior at university. He wasn’t only an investor in the tech business; he did actually have a sliver of experience in the field (albeit a small sliver).
More and more, she thawed. When she threw her head back and laughed at a pointed comment he’d made, the last trace of stiffness faded from her shoulders. He grinned at her, lowering his voice to offer tidbits of gossip. She leaned forward, eager to scope an earful of the many faults of the high-rising Lords and Ladies surrounding them, learning quickly that none were as pristine as they liked to pretend. 
At one point, she’d gathered courage, a hint of steel in her baby blue eyes. “And you then,” she’d pried, a flash of a smile dulling the pointed question. “What are your faults then?”
He’d raised an eyebrow, the gesture not unkind. Beneath the nervous surface, she was bold. “Susan,” he said. “My faults are too many to count. If I didn’t work constantly, my poor life choices could sustain this ravenous court for years.”
She had been eager to hear more. But Denis didn’t like to dwell on his many shortcomings, especially not those still keeping him up at night. And so, he gently steered the conversation towards shallower waters, bringing up the tech market, the flow and ebb of the economy. She followed along, aware enough to understand, but not to take the lead. 
At one point, Denis grabbed her full attention. He told her of his work with the Joneses. Her well-manicured fingers gripped around the edge of the table, wrinkling the tablecloth. Seeing her badly veiled excitement made a smile pluck at his lips.
“They’re here, you know,” he told her, noticing stars twinkle in her eyes. “I could introduce you.”
She shook her head. Saying that she could never, and that she wouldn’t know what to say. 
The Joneses had garnered attention from all corners of the world, rising to fame as the duo reshaping the power of computers. A classic rags-to-riches story, and the public loved it because of it. Their adoration was enhanced by the duo being unapologetically themselves: pragmatic, analytical, and uninterested in anything associated with politics.
To the masses, their fame outshone that of House Arnold, as Denis preferred. Susan had followed their journey. Her work in the tech industry only enhanced the awe she held in regard to them. Before long, Denis would meddle (as he was prone to do), shoving the Joneses in Susan’s path like a mother setting up a playdate for their child. He had a nagging feeling they’d get on like a house on fire.
Dinner was served, plates fetched, and returned with steaming appetisers artfully arranged. It was the kind of sight that made some in attendance bring out their phones, snapping a picture before daring to destroy the impressive display. The old families all sneered at the unbecoming act. Denis sort of wanted to follow suit, just to make a point.
He was growing more daring by the day, the importance of blood and old traditions fading at an alarming pace. Perhaps that’s what happened after clawing your way to the top? You realised that the power didn’t sit in the legacy you carried, but the legacy you made.
If not for his Maman right by his side, he would have said to hell with unbecoming acts. But, for her proud heart, he restrained the rebel inside.
Dinner was enjoyable all the way through. He divided his time talking to Susan and his Maman; the attendances opposed to him too far away to hold a proper conversation, the tables were made broad for their many trinkets to fit. 
The main course arrived, a tender Duck à l’Orange that made Susan’s eyes widen and Denis’s mouth water. He would need to remember to commend the chef. Perhaps, if he were sneaky enough, he’d be able to coax the man or woman to the manor. Chef Powell was due to retire come autumn, and they were yet to find a replacement. Then again, Denis would grow round and plump if the chef delivered this level of divinity on the regular.
In the hall's front, the auction was nearing its start. A stage was being set up, and two butlers were busy bringing forward a table to display the donated art pieces and jewellery. His Maman leaned over, asking him quietly what they’d picked out of the basement to contribute. From his recollection of what Lay had said, it was a few portraits by semi-renowned artists from the Baroque period, five necklaces belonging to his great-great-grandmother, and other goods that had not seen the sun in eighty-plus-years. Kretcher had advised him to gift these items through one of the Arnolds’ many enterprises; it would make the most sense, as it came with significant tax benefits. But Denis had declined. Sometimes it was not about making sense, but doing whatever the bloody hell you wanted.