Excerpt of One Night with the Tycoon by Lee Wilkinson

HER smile as sparkling as a tiara and her heart as heavy as lead, Rebecca Ferris stood in attendance while her eighteen-year-old stepsister married the only man she had ever loved.

Holding the bride's bouquet, she waited while Lisa and the Honourable Jason Beaumont, newly pronounced man and wife, kissed each other. Then, stiff as any robot, she followed them and the rest of the wedding party, into the vestry for the register to be signed.

After an unusually cold, wet start to the summer, the long- range forecast for mid-July had predicted a warm, dry spell, and the wedding day had been set for the sixteenth.

Helen, the bride's mother, had arranged for a late ceremony and an evening reception. As the weather was holding wonderfully the photographs were taken outside Elmslee's old grey church, with a backdrop of ancient yew trees.

Guests stood around in little groups in the early-evening sunshine, discussing what a handsome pair the newlyweds made — the bride, blonde, petite and beautiful, and the slimly built groom, tall, fair and with matinée-idol looks.

When the photographer was finally satisfied, ribbons fluttering on the white wedding cars, they were driven through the picturesque village and back to Elmslee Manor, the Ferrises' family home for more than three centuries.

Lisa, who as a very small child had come with her mother to live at Elmslee, had been impatient to get away. Much preferring the bright lights of nearby London, she had moved into Jason's Knightsbridge flat at the very first opportunity.

Rebecca had been born at Elmslee. She loved the small Elizabethan manor, with its mullioned windows and barley- sugar chimneys, and had missed it sadly when she left.

Now it was to be sold. Helen had put Elmslee on the market and was planning to take a flat in London to be near her newly married daughter.

Knowing how much her father would have hated the idea, Rebecca had ventured to protest.

Her stepmother had said sharply that, money aside, now Lisa had gone, the ten-bedroomed manor was much too big for her, and far too quiet.

Today, however, Elmslee was anything but quiet. The house and gardens were en fête.

A large marquee had been set up on the south-west side of the house, with its smooth lawns and dark cedars. There were space-heaters on the terrace, just in case it turned cool, and a lively orchestra ready for the evening's festivities.

A paved area in front of the old orangery was to be used as an extra car park, floodlights were in place in the grounds, and coloured lanterns had been strung between the trees.

The second Mrs Ferris, well-used — after sixteen years — to playing her part as lady of the manor, had excelled herself. All the arrangements for the reception had been put into place with astonishing speed and efficiency.

Before Jason had time to change his mind again, one of the aunts had observed cattily.

In a hall beautifully decorated with huge swags of flowers, the wedding party lined up to greet the guests as they filed in.

It was an ordeal Rebecca had been dreading but, head held high, she was managing to smile her way through it when Great-Aunt Letty was announced, and began to move down the line.

After presenting her leathery cheek for a kiss, the old lady grumbled, "I don't know why the ceremony had to be so late. Fashion, I dare say. It'll be nearly my bedtime before we get to eat."

Then in a piercing whisper, "I was most surprised when I got a wedding invitation with Lisa's name on it. I understood that you were engaged to young what's-his-name…"

Rebecca swallowed hard. "Well, yes, I was, but —" 'What on earth were you thinking of, letting that spoilt brat of a stepsister steal him from you?"

Seeing the stricken look on her great-niece's face, Letty patted her hand consolingly. "Never mind, love. Take it from me, there's as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it. You might even say better."

Letty moved on, and, lifting her chin, Rebecca continued to smile and shake hands with people she scarcely knew. Then thankfully the last guest was announced, one that she recognised as being her stepmother's special crony.

During a sudden lull in the general noise level, she heard Helen say clearly, "Of course, poor Rebecca's terribly disappointed. But really there was no point in trying to cling to a man who's never really wanted her. So humiliating…"

Well-aware that everyone within earshot was listening avidly, as a couple of waiters began to circulate with trays of champagne, Rebecca slipped away and escaped through a side-door.

Half blinded by a combination of low sun and tears she was struggling not to let fall, she hurried down the garden, her ankle-length, lilac-coloured dress brushing the clumps of summer flowers that edged the paved path.

Stumbling a little in her haste, she skirted the marquee and made her way past the shrubbery to the old, circular summer house that stood on a little knoll. Disused for a long time, the place had been neglected in recent years, and even more so since her father's death.

Climbing the steps, she pushed open the creaking door of what, as a child, had always been her sanctuary when she was feeling unhappy or misunderstood, and sank onto the wooden bench that ran around the walls.

After several days of sunshine the musty air was quite warm, and it was blessedly dark, the grimy windows covered on the inside by spiders' webs, and the outside by rampaging ivy.

While Lisa had flitted from boyfriend to boyfriend since the age of fifteen, Jason was the only man Rebecca had ever wanted, and for the first time since losing him she lowered her guard and let the bitter tears run down her cheeks un-checked.

Suddenly the creak of the door opening made her look up sharply. A bright shaft of low sunlight slanted in, dazzling her. All she could make out was a tall, dark shape filling the doorway.

"I've been told that women always cry at weddings, but don't you think this is overdoing it a bit?" a male voice asked drily.

Mortified, she shielded her face with her hand. He closed the door with his heel, and set his back to it. "I'd like to be alone," she informed him thickly. Mockingly, he said, "You sound like Greta Garbo." 'Go away! Please go away," she begged. After a moment, hearing no further sound of movement, she glanced up.

Leaning nonchalantly against the door, he was holding a bottle of champagne by the neck, and two long-stemmed flutes.

She couldn't see his face clearly in the gloom, but his hair was very dark and his teeth very white as he smiled at her.

"What do you want?" she demanded. "I'm here to offer my condolences." Though his words might have been described as sympathetic, his tone certainly couldn't.

She wasn't sorry. The last thing she wanted was to be pitied by a perfect stranger.

Though he obviously knew who she was. "Who are you?" she demanded.

There was the slightest pause, before he told her, "My name's Graydon Gallagher." Getting no reaction, he added casually, "Most of my friends call me Gray."

Coming over to sit by her side, he looked at her carefully in the half-light.

Her ash-brown hair was taken up into a chignon and adorned with a circlet of fresh flowers. Around her neck, which was long and slender, she was wearing a single string of pearls.

Despite the careful make-up her heart-shaped face looked pale and drawn, her wide-set almond eyes were brimming with tears, and mauve shadows beneath them suggested that she hadn't slept properly for weeks.

In most of the photographs he had seen of her, her face had been serene, her amber-coloured eyes clear, her mouth wide and full, but with hardly any bow at all, looking as if she might smile at any moment.

Though it was not beautiful in the conventional sense, he had found it a fascinating face, full of character, and had thought cynically that Jason's taste was improving enormously.

A lot of the females he had got entangled with in the past had been glamorous gold-diggers, out for all they could get, with beauty their only asset.

This woman, Gray had felt sure, was different. She had brains and — he would have bet any amount of money — strength and resilience.

Though she could be — and considering the family's circumstances, probably was — after Jason's money, she looked the sort that might make that feckless young man a good wife.

In the event she had been pipped at the post by her young stepsister, and was obviously not relishing it.

As he studied her she sniffed, and wiped away a tear that was trickling down her chin.

With a twisted smile at the triteness of it, he felt in his pocket with his free hand and passed her a folded hankie.

"Thank you." She blew her nose and scrubbed at her wet cheeks. "Are you a friend of Jason's?"

"I've known him all his life. For a time we lived in the same London square, only a few houses apart."

"And you've stayed close?" 'Yes, you could say that." During the weeks that she and Jason had been engaged, he had jealously wanted her all to himself.

Not particularly gregarious, and head over heels in love, she had been pleased by this show of male possessiveness. But because he had neglected his usual social circle, she hadn't met all that many of his friends.

His voice ironic, Gray pursued, "I had thought that when he got married he might ask me to be his best man, but…" Broad shoulders lifted in a shrug.

Thinking back, she remarked, "I didn't see you amongst the guests."

"Unfortunately my plane was delayed on take-off at JFK, so not only did I miss the actual service, but I was also rather late arriving at the house."

Frowning, she said, "So you weren't announced?" 'No. After parking my car, I came in by the rear entrance. I was just about to join the merry throng when I happened to overhear your stepmother's rather unkind remarks."

"Oh." She flushed hotly. "I noticed you slip away." 'And you followed me? Why?" 'You looked so unhappy that I thought a drop of vintage champagne might help to alleviate your — er — disappointment."

At close quarters she could just make out that his face was lean and attractive, with a strong chin and a fine straight nose. He must be in his late twenties or early thirties, she guessed. Though his eyes gleamed brilliantly beneath dark brows, she couldn't tell whether they were grey or light blue.

He set the glasses on the bench and, his movements deft, began to open the bottle, observing gravely, "Remarkable restorative powers, champagne."

Stripping off the foil, he untwisted the wire, and used his thumb to gently ease out the cork. "Transporting it may have made it a little lively. However, I'm sure we'll cope."

"Thank you, but I really don't want any champagne." 'Now, is that nice?" he demanded plaintively, as the cork came out with a loud pop and ricocheted off the wooden ceiling. Pouring the foaming wine, he added, "To save wounding my feelings you could at least pretend to be grateful."

"I am, of course. But I —" 'You don't look a bit grateful," he objected, peering at her closely.

Becoming convinced that he was just having a bit of cruel fun at her expense, she said raggedly, "I'd be very grateful if you'd just go away."

"I'll think about it when you've had at least one glass of champagne," he promised.

"I don't want a glass of champagne…any more than I want your company."

"You may not want my company, but I'm convinced you need it."

"Why should I need it?" 'To bolster your ego. It must be quite deflating to be ditched for one's stepsister. Though I gather you all stayed friends, as you're the chief bridesmaid?"

When she said nothing, he observed with mock sympathy, "It can't be easy being a bridesmaid when everyone knows you should have been the bride."

In truth it was the hardest thing she had ever done. Only her pride, allied to a lifetime of concealing her feelings, had made it possible.

It was that same fierce pride that had allowed them all to 'stay friends'. Determined that no one, least of all Lisa and Jason, should know just how devastated she was, she had struggled to hide her anguish behind a façade of calm acceptance.

"However," her companion was continuing blandly, "I do think you should make an effort to put in an appearance at the reception."

Her hands balled into fists. "After what Helen said, I can't…I just can't!"

"So what do you plan to do? You won't be able to hide out here indefinitely. The minute the sun goes down it'll start to get chilly, and, while the marquee appears to be heated, this place certainly isn't."

"As soon as everyone's eating, I'll slip back to the house." He clicked his tongue reprovingly and asked, "How can the evening's festivities — which must, incidentally, have cost your stepmother a bomb — go with a bang when the chief bridesmaid will be hiding in her room indulging in tears of jealous rage?"