“I might say the same about you,” he responded wearily.

Judy tossed her head. “Like you’re so lily-white.”

“Nobody is. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must—”

“Judy,” Sophie said. “How nice to see you.”

They both spun around. Sophie had wandered through the crowd; Judy hadn’t noticed her, and she flushed, an unattractive red; Montfort also felt discomfited.

“Chérie.” Judy moved forward smoothly and kissed Sophie on both cheeks. “You look stunning,” she said, dutifully.

“And so do you. What a dress,” Sophie replied.

Judy smiled, but her heart ached. Sophie—how, how did she do it—the black had gone, and that gown, that perfectly soft and feminine gown. If Sophie could have seen Judy’s choice in advance and deliberately picked the one outfit to overshadow it . . .

She couldn’t help herself. She glanced at Montfort, and saw her own judgement echoed in his eyes. He was gazing at Sophie with an admiration even Judy could not ignore.

She felt faint with envy. And hurt. Why did she always, always come second?

“The party’s going very well, don’t you think?”

Sophie was looking at Judy, but talking to them both. Hugh Montfort looked dazzled, and Judy felt it happening, all over again. The man who had refused her advances drooling over Sophie—older, soft-bodied Sophie, with the tiny wrinkles around her eyes and mouth.

It was Pierre again. Sophie was preferred. Sophie was the choice.

“Very well,” Judy said, softly. “I must circulate. Promotion. Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Montfort. Buy some Massot jewels.”

She raised her champagne flute and pivoted on her heel, walking away from the two of them as fast as she could manage on three-and-a-half-inch heels.

Sophie looked after Judy, approvingly.

“She’s a hard worker,” she said. “You should see the files she showed me. Ten years of press clippings, and she didn’t have much to work with. Our fashion line was a disaster.”

“Unlike your jewellery?”

“The jewellery was fine,” Sophie said. She couldn’t quite look Montfort in the eye. The look he was giving her disturbed her. She felt that treacherous attraction in the pit of her stomach; she tried to ignore it. “It was the presentation that was the problem.”

“This presentation is perfect,” Montfort said.

“Why, thank you.” Sophie tried for humour, but the look on his face stopped her cold. She took refuge in a sip of champagne.

“But as I said, it is too expensive. And too late.”

“I think not,” Sophie said. “Have you listened to the guests?”

“I have just arrived.”

“Then you haven’t heard them talking. House Massot, from tomorrow morning, will be a going concern again.”

“You’re drinking white champagne,” Montfort said. He wanted desperately to shift the conversation from business. “Rosé would have matched your dress.”

Sophie laughed. “But I prefer demi-sec,” she said, lifting her glass. “Sweet champagne—I suppose you think that’s frightfully bourgeois.”