There she was. She did not see him; her attention was taken up by some dowager in a pale blue ball gown. The old lady was examining a ring; it had some kind of green stone, and she was slipping it on and off a wizened finger.

Sophie, a vision in rose, was talking to her with polite attention. Her manners were as beautiful as her gown.

Damnation, but she was beautiful. And sexy—so incredibly sexy. He wondered what the slender figure looked like, under that gown. Still in her thirties, and it showed; the woman seemed younger and more vibrant every time he saw her. She stirred his blood, profoundly.

Hugh wanted her.

He struggled with himself. The guilt was ever-present. He tried to summon the vision of his Georgie, his dear Georgie. And she was there; she never went away, but the idea did not work the way it usually did.

Normally, one thought of Georgie and the woman before him would lose all her power, become plain and dull, and put him in no danger.

Not this time. The old woman said something, and Sophie laughed; he watched her, and his guilt withered. Something sparked inside him, something strong. Hugh felt a rush of gladness; at that second, he didn’t care about Massot, or the deal, or anything related to business.

His soul, which had been so long dead in its own winter, started to crack open, just slightly, but perceptibly, like the pale green shoots of snowdrops thrusting up, through snow and ice, into the weak light of a January day.

Hugh’s breath quickened; he felt engaged, immensely glad; he took a step towards her. He had no idea of what he was going to say. Something. It almost didn’t matter.

“Well. Good evening.”

Reluctantly he turned around.

The American girl was there. Standing in front of him. Judy—that was her name—Judy Dean. She was wearing a scarlet dress, a glittering, flashing column of red sequins; it was a perfect choice for her, Montfort thought; it matched the bright rage she took no care to conceal.

She was younger and harder than Sophie in every way. Her personality, but her body too. Attractive arms, tanned and gleaming with body oil, came out of the dress that showed off every trim curve.

But Judy was less attractive now than she had been to him before. The athletic look appealed to a certain type of man; Hugh, however, was not that type.

“Good evening,” he replied, without interest.

That seemed to fan the flames.

“I’m surprised you would dare to show your face,” Judy said.

Montfort looked at her. Her entire outfit was calculated: no jewellery, so on paper she knew the elements of style; the highest heels, the right bag. But she was trying too hard. Everything was a challenge with this girl, he thought with a flash of insight.

He pitied her.