King Of Swords. Sara Craven

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      Tricia had always gushed about Ambermere, its beauty and its history, but she wouldn’t be shedding any tears over the Kendricks’ loss, and the thought of her openly probing their wounds over dinner was unbearable.

      What else can go wrong? Julia asked herself unhappily. How could the passage of a few hours change one’s entire life so fundamentally?

      ‘Cheer up.’ Vivvy linked an arm through hers. ‘She may choke on a fishbone and die before she can start.’

      Julia smiled reluctantly. ‘Can’t we arrange for two fishbones?’

      ‘Never kill off a millionaire unless you’re mentioned in his will,’ Vivvy warned solemnly. ‘What’s he like—old, fat and repulsive?’

      ‘No,’ Julia said colourlessly. ‘I suppose he’s attractive—if you like that sort of thing.’

      ‘I’m sure I could learn to,’ giggled Vivvy. ‘Lead me to him!’

      As Julia took her into the drawing-room, she gave vent to a soundless whistle. ‘Attractive? My God, Jools, are you crazy? He’s gorgeous!’

      Unwillingly, Julia had to concede that Vivvy spoke with a certain justice. In the casual clothes he had been wearing when she first encountered him, he’d looked a force to be reckoned with. Now, in the dark formality of dinner jacket and black tie, Alex Constantis possessed a disturbing, charismatic presence which was drawing every female eye in the room.

      Well, they said wealth and power were aphrodisiacs, Julia thought savagely, then bit her lip. She was being unfair, and she knew it. Even if he were penniless, any woman with blood in her veins would look at him, and look again. Except me, she reminded herself grimly.

      But that was not as easy as it seemed. To her chagrin, Julia found she was placed opposite him at the long oak table in the dining-room, and no matter how rigorously she limited her attention to the companions on either side of her, she was still uneasily aware that he was watching her across the heaped bowls of early roses, and the flickering candle flames.

      Tricia Bosworth leaned forward. ‘So you’re going to be the new master of Ambermere,’ she said in her husky drawl. ‘Do tell us—has Julia persuaded you to change your name to Kendrick yet?’

      Julia put her knife and fork down, her mouth suddenly dry.

      Alex Constantis’s brows lifted. ‘I do not quite understand.’

      Mrs Bosworth laughed. ‘Oh, it’s been a standing joke locally for years. Julia has always sworn that the family name should continue here—either by finding another Kendrick from somewhere to marry her, or forcing some other unsuspecting soul to change his name. I wondered if she’d started her campaign with you yet. She’s always claimed to be prepared to go to any lengths to keep Ambermere hers.’

      ‘So I have already gathered.’ The faint irony in his voice, and the flickering glance he sent the deeply slashed bodice of the midnight blue satin dress, were not lost on Julia.

      ‘I’m sure you have,’ purred Tricia then she paused, smiling. ‘Are you married, Mr Constantis?’

      The dark face was shuttered. ‘No.’

      In the hideously embarrassed silence which followed, Julia prayed for the floor beneath her chair to open, and swallow her for ever. She heard Gerald Bosworth mutter, ‘Tricia, for God’s sake!’ and saw Vivvy’s appalled and sympathetic grimace.

      Into the silence, Sir Philip said pleasantly, ‘As you say, Mrs Bosworth—a standing joke. But I don’t think Julia, as a woman, should have a silly childhood boast held against her. Now, may I offer you some more duck?’

      Conversation around the table resumed again in an atmosphere of relief, which Julia could not share. If Tricia Bosworth had openly gloated that Ambermere had to be sold, it would have been bad enough, but the other woman had deliberately set out to humiliate her in front of Alex Constantis. If she’d received a blow-by-blow account of the day’s events she couldn’t have planted her barbs more effectively, Julia thought, wincing.

      And only he would not be aware that Tricia Bosworth made a speciality of such malice.

      And somehow she had to smile and go on, pretending it didn’t matter. She took a surreptitious glance at her small gold watch, wondering how long it would be before she could make some excuse and seek the refuge of her room.

      Tonight, as never before, she found herself welcoming the duties as hostess with her mother which kept her perpetually on the move from group to group as the house filled with guests.

      She had half expected, half dreaded that Alex Constantis would seek her out with some taunting reference to Tricia’s words. But perhaps he too had been embarrassed by the exchange, for he never came near her.

      Her father was almost always at his side, guiding him through the crowded rooms explaining, making introductions, while their friends loyally strove to mask their surprise and dismay at the news.

      And even now it could all be for nothing, Julia thought with misgivings. Wouldn’t it be hysterical if Tricia proves to be the final straw, and the whole deal falls through? But she didn’t feel much like laughing. Even if Alex Constantis withdrew from contention, another buyer would come along. Ambermere could not be saved, and she had to come to terms with that.

      As midnight approached Julia realised that the toast to the first Lady Kendrick was going to be drunk as usual.

      ‘Oh, God, I can’t face that,’ she muttered to herself, slipping through the partially open french windows on to the terrace.

      There was no breeze, but the night air felt refreshingly cool against her uncovered shoulders and arms. A scent of flowers hung in the air, making her starkly, poignantly aware that this was the last Midsummer night she would ever spend in this house.

      She leaned on the balustrade, gazing sightlessly over the starlit gardens, wondering painfully what changes Alex Constantis would make if he bought the house. He would probably plough up the south lawn and replace it with a swimming pool, and a helicopter pad, she thought scornfully, and she should be glad she wasn’t going to be around to see such desecration.

      She could hear the laughter and the cheering from the drawing room, and the cries of ‘To Julia’, which followed her father’s traditional, humorous speech, and wondered how many of the particpants realised they were drinking the toast for the last time. Julia Kendrick—scandalous wife, daring mistress, Toast of the Town—had reached the end of her reign.

      She felt sudden absurd tears sting at her eyelids, and thought, ‘To Julia’. And heard, with sudden shock, the same words echoed aloud from only a feet away.

      She whirled round, her hands flying to her mouth to cover the little startled cry forced from her. ‘You!’

      ‘Yes,’

      Somehow, in the shadows of the night, he looked taller—more powerful than ever, the dark face an unreadable mask as he stood between her and the sanctuary of the lighted window.

      He said, ‘I came to wish you goodnight, thespinis.’

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