Frank took a sip of wine after clinking glasses with Titus but soon noticed something as the liquid slid down his throat.
“What…” He frowned, glancing at the dark-red wine.
“Problem?” Titus asked. “That’s a special grade Romanee-Conti, imported from Franconia. They produce less than 400 barrels each year, but 200 of those have been brought here expressly for this banquet.”
After his commentary, Titus made a look of dramatic realization. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Lawrence—I’ve forgotten that hillbillies like you never get to experience such fine wine, let alone relish the exquisiteness in its taste.”
Nearby, Yonca hid her laughter behind her palm, while other Turnbull family members frowned at Frank too.
Who was he? Why had they not seen him around before?
His very presence was a polar opposite from the glitz and glamor of the banquet hall, so they couldn’t help being curious.
Still, Frank wasn’t frustrated, even smiling and nodding. “Hehe… There really is something special about this wine that I can’t appreciate. I guess only someone as highbrow as you can appreciate it, Mr. Lionheart.”
His reaction actually surprised Titus.
“Fufu… Who is this young gentleman? Is no one going to introduce me?”
Before they could continue, a woman in her twenties approached them.
She was wearing a flamboyant gown and a particularly strong perfume.
“Hmm…?”
Frank’s eyes narrowed as soon as he saw her.
Yonca hurried to her, saying, “Please, Marit. He’s just a healer who’s lodging in our residence because of Mr. Turnbull’s illness. He’s nobody important.”
“Oh…” Marit Tisdon murmured and suddenly learned her face towards Frank even as her face lit up with realization.
She was beautiful, her eyes bright and her cheeks born perfect.
Her every move and gesture was bewitching as well—no man could tear his eyes from her.
Even as she moved closer to Frank, her smile almost left Frank stunned.
“It seems you don’t like the wine I’ve brought,” she breathed sweetly, her lips parting just enough as she licked them alluringly.
“No way,” Frank smiled, recovering his senses soon enough and twirling his glasses. “I’m just ignorant and therefore misspoke. Since you’ve brought this wine, I won’t be such a buzzkill to shower further contempt—and you know what they say about beautiful women and fine wine.”
Taking another sip, he nodded and praised, “It’s really good.”
“Fufu…” Marit giggled and winked charmingly at Frank. “You’re so interesting… More so than everyone else in this hall. Would you mind coming upstairs to my private room for a chat?”
“I’m interested, but I’ll have to refuse.” Frank grinned, staring pointedly at the man behind her.
It was Zac Turnbull, George Turnbull’s third son.
And he looked really angry.
“Don’t bother with him, Marit,” he growled as he strode over, shooting Frank a cool glare but otherwise saying nothing as he pulled her away.
“Call me!” Marit purred, having sneakily slid a note with her number on it into Frank’s coat pocket before she left.
Frank snorted in turn. “Well, things are getting interesting.”
He returned to his seat, crossing his fingers behind his head while he placed his feet on the table, smiling faintly.
