“Offend me?” He caught her hands in his; for all her years, her slim, feminine hands were dwarfed inside his; he liked the look of them in there. “Nothing you could ever do could offend me. I think you’re marvellous.”

Judy blushed. “You’re just being kind.”

“I’m not,” Tom said urgently. “I assure you.”

“Well?” She looked at him expectantly. “Do you approve?”

“Very much, and not just of the plan.”

Judy touched her finger to his lips. “You mustn’t tease me, Monsieur.”

“I think you know that I’m quite serious. I want to take you out to lunch. And then to dinner.” And then to bed, he didn’t say.

She stood up, in a single, powerful movement, pushing the Sèvres porcelain cup away from her.

“First let us go and see Mme Katherine,” she said. “It all depends on her.”

Tom called ahead, from the limo, to alert the servants; one didn’t turn up at the dower house with an unannounced guest. His grandmother was a stickler for form, and he feared Judy might be kept waiting in the hallway, or worse, refused entrance altogether.

He waited on the phone until Faubert, Katherine’s ancient butler, announced that Madame had said any guest of Monsieur’s would be most welcome. Tom breathed out in relief. There would be no scenes.

At least, he hoped not.

Everything Tom relished about Judy—her ferocity, her spirit, her independence, even her fitness—his grandmother would disapprove of. He had no doubt about that. He hoped she would have the sense to be self-deprecating, modest, and admiring; to pay Katherine her due, and after giving homage, say very little.

“Perhaps, once we get there, I should do the talking,” he said, eventually. “Grandmother is very traditional.”

“Oh, I understand completely.” Judy turned her head away from the sun-dappled woods leading up to the estate; they would soon be pulling into the driveway of the château itself. She smiled reassuringly at Tom. “You must tell her everything; it’s a family decision. I have nothing to do with it.”

“It’s your plan.”

“An idea, the merest suggestion. Just something I think Pierre would have wanted.”

He nodded. “I know my father would agree. But since he isn’t here, you’ll have to let me be the one to thank you.”

“I’d like that,” Judy said, softly.

“M. Thomas Massot et Mlle Judy Dean,” Faubert pronounced solemnly.

Judy smiled politely; she squared her shoulders. Now was a moment to stand strong, she reminded herself. She would not be overawed by the sumptuousness of the dower house; in many ways, it was superior to Sophie’s château. The Chinese silk wallpaper and Sun King furniture simply illuminated the Georgian grandeur of the house, the dignity of its grey stone lines, the perfect beauty of its lawns and carved yew hedges.