Tom walked to the window and stared out of the lead-paned glass, looking down on the kitchen garden; two of the cooks were out there gathering herbs for dinner. He did not want Judy to see the hatred that was brightly written on his face.

“Yes,” he said heavily. “It does seem that way.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what,” Judy said, twisting the knife. “I’m not sure I want to have your child. At any price. I can’t stand you, and I can’t stand your family. If I do go through with it, I’m going to want independence. You’ll be buying me an estate—in my own name, and you’ll pay all the taxes. I’m going to need staff....” she dragged one manicured finger across the back of a Louis XVI chair, rustling its velvet cushion. “You can keep me in the manner to which I’m going to be accustomed, if you want me to keep your baby.”

“Blackmail,” Tom responded flatly.

She smiled condescendingly. “Tom, darling, that’s such an ugly word—after all we’ve meant to each other.”

“I’ll pay your price,” he said. He didn’t turn around to look at her.

“Oh, I know you will,” Judy said coolly. “But I haven’t decided if that’s what I want to do. I’m not that maternal a person.”

There was a rustle, the sound of her crocodile-skin bag slithering off the chaise longue.

“I’m leaving,” she said. “I’m going to my flat; I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

There was the sound of the door closing. Tom stayed motionless, listening to the clack-clack of her Manolo spikes on the sweeping marble staircase.

He thought of how the day had started—watching his mother marry Hugh Montfort, watching the mutual love in their eyes, the profound happiness that had radiated from his mother, visible in every gesture, every glance.

And here he was, begging to be allowed to spend the rest of his days subsidizing some nasty American bitch.

He felt sick. And tired. He wanted to just lie down on the bed, go to sleep, and wake up back in his old life. Back at Oxford, back dating Polly, back before any of this had ever started.

But his life was going to go on. And he was all out of options.

Judy drove. It was fortunate that the journey back to the city was second nature to her now, because her mind was churning, like her belly; she was sick with excitement, and malice; she hardly saw the road.

Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

There was no way she could ever marry the Massot boy. None. He was too like Pierre, and too different—a cheap mock-up, a cardboard cutout. He revolted her. The thought of him inside her sickened her. There was no dominance, no magic—just a cocky boy, easy to manipulate.