Three Weeks in Paris. Barbara Taylor Bradford

head of the family, from the moment he inherited the title and property until he died.

      Like the rest of the rooms in this great stone manse, the bedroom had a grandeur and dignity about it. Of spacious proportions, it had eight windows, one placed on each side of the central fireplace, and three set in each end wall. The fireplace itself was grand and soaring, with an oversized iron grate to hold big logs and slabs of peat, the kind of massive fires necessary in the dead of the Scottish winter. Its mahogany mantel matched the dark beams which floated across the ceiling and the highly polished, pegged-wood floor.

      The elegance of the room was not only to be found in its beautiful proportions, but in its furnishings as well. Set against the main wall, and facing the fireplace, stood the mahogany four-poster bed, with its carved posts, rose silk hangings and coverlet.

      The same rose brocade, with a self-pattern of thistles, covered the walls and hung as curtains at the many windows. It was faded now, having been chosen by Ian’s great-great-grandmother, the famous Adelaide, renowned in the family for her installation of the Victorian conservatory.

      Although she had taste and a great eye for decorating as well as for fashion, Kay had not tampered with anything in the master bedroom. For one thing, Ian loved the room just the way it was, and so did she. So there was no good reason to upset him by making changes to a setting already quite beautiful, and one loaded with tradition and family history.

      In particular, she admired the handsome antique chests, dressing table and other smaller pieces from the Jacobean period, and the Persian rug in the centre of the room. This was very old, its rose and blue tones faded, but it looked perfect against the dark pegged wood; it was priceless, she knew that. A beautiful gilded mirror over one of the chests, antique porcelain lamps and vases, and a charming old grandfather clock standing in one corner were items in the bedroom which Kay cherished as much as Ian did.

      Several comfortable chairs were arranged near the fireplace, and Kay curled up in one of them now.

      It was late, well past midnight.

      Ian was already fast asleep. She could hear the faint rise and fall of his deep breathing; the only other sounds in the room were the crackle of the logs in the grate and the ticking of the clock in the corner.

      Kay was thinking of Ian. She had been overwhelmed by his passion tonight, not only in the conservatory after tea, when he had taken her by surprise and made amazing love to her on the floor, but then later in their bed, when desire had overtaken him yet again. He had been unable to get enough of her, or so it seemed.

      She had found herself responding in kind, meeting his passionate sexual needs, as wild and demanding as he was.

      Hope rose in her that she had conceived.

      Kay wanted a child as much as her husband did. Not that Ian ever made reference to his longing for a son. But she knew, deep within herself, how much he yearned for an heir, a boy to follow in his footsteps as the Laird of Lochcraigie.

      What would happen if she didn’t conceive? Not ever? Would he divorce her and find another woman to bear him a son? Or would he shrug and hope that his sister Fiona would marry, and provide a male child to inherit the title and vast family holdings? The awful thing was, she had no idea what Ian would do.

      Rising, Kay walked over to the window and looked out. It was still snowing; there was a high wind that sent the crystalline flakes whirling about, and on the ground they were still settling. There was a blanket of white below, and under the pale moon this pristine coverlet seemed woven with silver threads. The wind rattled the windows, but the house stood firm and solid as it always had. William Andrews of Lochcraigie had built a manse that had defied time and the harsh Scottish winters.

      If only she had someone to talk to, Kay thought, pressing her face against the cold windowpane. She had never discussed their childlessness with Ian, for fear of opening Pandora’s box; or with her mother-in-law for the same reason. If only Mam were still alive, she thought, and unexpectedly a surge of emotion choked her. Her mother had made her what she was, and put her where she was, in a sense, but her mam was no longer around to reap the benefits or share the joy. Her brother Sandy was long gone, having emigrated to Australia eight years ago, and she never heard from him any more. Sadly.

      I have no friends, at least not close friends, she realized, and thought instantly of Alex Gordon. They had been so very close once, until their terrible quarrel. Sometimes, when she wasn’t closing her mind to those wonderful days at Anya’s school, memories of Alex enveloped her, and she found herself missing the American girl. Not the Italian though; Maria had been a pain in the neck. And Jessica, too, had been difficult. Jessica had been mean to her, teasing her and putting her down. Miss Jessica Pierce was cruel and vindictive.

      A long, rippling sigh escaped from her throat, and she felt a sadness settle over her. But there was Anya Sedgwick. She had always been good to her, not only as a teacher and mentor, but as a true friend, almost like a loving mother. Perhaps she should go to Anya’s party after all. If she went a few days before the party she could meet with Anya privately, unburden herself perhaps. But why wait until June? she now wondered. And thought instantly of Francois Boujon. Once she had an appointment with him she could make a date for lunch or tea or dinner with Anya, who would be thrilled to see her, she had no doubts about that.

      Suddenly, boldly, Kay made a decision. She would go to the party anyway. Out of respect for Anya, as Ian had suggested earlier.

      She couldn’t help wondering how her three former friends would behave towards her. She had become a fashion designer of some renown, after all. And although she seldom used her title away from Scotland, she was, nevertheless, the Lady Andrews of Lochcraigie now.

       Chapter Seven Jessica

      Jessica Pierce was in a fury.

      She stood in the elegant den of her Bel-Air house, looking down at her boyfriend Gary Stennis. He was almost falling off the cream velvet sofa, sprawled out across the cushions, dead drunk.

      Her cool grey eyes swept around the room.

      Everything looked neat, undisturbed in the superbly decorated room. Except for the messy jumble of things he had managed to accumulate on the low, antique Chinese coffee table in front of the fireplace. A piece that had cost her the earth.

      The unusual ebony table, beautifully inlaid with mother-of-pearl orange blossom trees, was littered with a number of highball glasses, one of her best Baccarat crystal goblets, a bottle of Stolichnaya Cristall, half full, and an empty bottle of her Château Simard Saint-Emilion 1988. One of my better red wines, she thought, as her eyes settled on an antique crystal dish. With a flash of irritation she saw that this valuable signed piece of Lalique, a gift from a client, had been carelessly used as an ashtray. It was full of cigarette butts. And God knows what else.

      Sighing under her breath, Jessica picked it up and sniffed. The unmistakable aroma of cannabis was missing. For once he had not been smoking pot with his friends and colleagues. She put it down, relieved.

      A frown furrowed her brow, and she leaned closer to the coffee table, staring at the crystal goblet. It bore traces of lipstick on the rim. But it had been a business meeting, of that she felt sure.

      Pages of his new script were scattered on the floor, along with a yellow legal pad on which innumerable notes had been scrawled. In his handwriting.

      Straightening, now focusing all of her attention on Gary, she studied him at length, through dispassionate eyes. His salt-and-pepper hair was mussed, his face was gaunt and pale, with dark smudges under his eyes. In sleep, his mouth had gone slack, was partially open, and with his furrowed neck it made him look curiously old, worn out.

      Washed up, she thought, and felt a tinge of sadness.

      But no, he wasn’t that. At least, not yet.

      Gary was still a brilliant screenwriter, one of the best, if not the best, in the business, and his past was filled with tunes