“All this corporate nonsense,” Margerite began as Sydney sat beside her. “I don’t know why you bother. It would have been so simple to hire a manager or whatever.” Margerite added a squirt of lemon to her cup before she sat back. “I realize it might be diverting for a while, but the thought of you with a career. Well, it seems so pointless.”

“Does it?” Sydney murmured, struggling to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “I may surprise everyone and be good at it.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’d be wonderful at whatever you do, darling.” Her hand fluttered absently over Sydney’s. The girl had been so little trouble as a child, she thought. Margerite really hadn’t a clue how to deal with this sudden and—she was sure—temporary spot of rebellion. She tried placating. “And I was delighted when Grandfather Hayward left you all those nice buildings.” She nibbled on a sandwich, a striking woman who looked ten years younger than her fifty years, groomed and polished in a Chanel suit. “But to actually become involved in running things.” Baffled, she patted her carefully tinted chestnut hair. “Well, one might think it’s just a bit unfeminine. A man is easily put off by what he considers a high-powered woman.”

Sydney gave her mother’s newly bare ring finger a pointed look. “Not every woman’s sole ambition centers around a man.”

“Oh, don’t be silly.” With a gay little laugh, Margerite patted her daughter’s hand. “A husband isn’t something a woman wants to be without for long. You mustn’t be discouraged because you and Peter didn’t work things out. First marriages are often just a testing ground.”

Reining in her feelings, Sydney set her cup down carefully. “Is that what you consider your marriage to Father? A testing ground?”

“We both learned some valuable lessons from it, I’m sure.” Confident and content, she beamed at her daughter. “Now, dear, tell me about your evening with Channing. How was it?”

“Stifling.”

Margerite’s mild blue eyes flickered with annoyance. “Sydney, really.”

“You asked.” To fortify herself, Sydney picked up her tea again. Why was it, she asked herself, that she perpetually felt inadequate around the woman who had given birth to her. “I’m sorry, Mother, but we simply don’t suit.”

“Nonsense. You’re perfectly suited. Channing Warfield is an intelligent, successful man from a very fine family.”

“So was Peter.”

China clinked against china as Margerite set her cup in its saucer. “Sydney, you must not compare every man you meet with Peter.”