Inherited by Her Enemy. Sara Craven

the cup from Ginny’s grasp to the carpet, and spilling its contents down the taupe dress in the process.

      Lady Welburn’s mouth tightened into a line of disapproval.

      She said to her husband, ‘I think perhaps we should be going, my dear.’

      Andre Duchard walked forward. ‘Au contraire, madame. Please do not disturb yourself. I am clearly de trop and the one who should leave. My apologies for spoiling a pleasant evening, although the cause of the disagreement was not of my choosing. Bonsoir.’

      He offered a tight-lipped smile and walked to the door, where he turned to look back at Ginny, down on one knee retrieving the cup and saucer from the rug.

      ‘I wish I could regret also the damage to your dress, mademoiselle,’ he said softly. ‘But, hélas, that is impossible. I see it rather as an act of God.’

      And, with that, he went.

      She should have felt insulted, she realised as she stared after him. Instead, incredibly, she had to fight to control the great gust of laughter suddenly welling up inside her.

      ‘You see, Lady Welburn.’ Rosina’s voice throbbed into the startled silence, reminding her there was nothing to laugh about. ‘You see how impossible it is to deal with this—creature. God knows what pressure he brought to bear on my poor Andrew. I know he would never have given up this house of his own free will, not when he knew how much it meant to me.’

      She rounded on Ginny, who had risen to her feet, holding the unbroken china. ‘This is all your fault. I knew that inviting this Duchard here would be a disaster.’

      Lady Welburn rose too. She said quietly, ‘I hardly think Virginia can be blamed for her late stepfather’s decisions, Mrs Charlton. Like you, she probably wasn’t consulted.’ She paused. ‘I feel we should leave you to think quietly about the situation.’ She gave Ginny a kind smile. ‘Why not go upstairs and take off that dress, my dear. Perhaps soak it in cold water.’

      Or throw it in the bin, thought Ginny. Quite apart from its lack of appeal, it would always be a reminder of an evening best forgotten.

      Up in her room, she quickly exchanged it for the ruby velvet robe which had been Andrew’s last birthday gift. She’d have given anything simply to go to bed, but there was still clearing up to be done, so she waited at the top of the stairs for the Welburns to depart before she ventured down again.

      But as she reached the hall, the front door opened and Jonathan came in, white flakes of snow clinging to his hair and dark overcoat.

      He checked when he saw her. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Dad forgot his scarf.’

      ‘It’s there on the hall table.’ She paused as he retrieved it. ‘Jon, please apologise to your parents. I—I had no idea the evening would turn out like this.’

      He gave a short, harsh laugh. ‘That goes for me too. What on earth was Cilla doing—coming on to that man like that?’