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Sebastian’s brows tugged down. Where he came from families meant everything.
She shook her head. The wind had blown a heavy strand of hair over her eyes, blinding her. Her hand shook as she brushed it away.
‘You never met them?’ He could scarcely believe it. His own grandparents, all now sadly missed, had treated him like a prince. A glance at her pale, anguished face turned his heart to treacle. He slipped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her slight body close. She was shivering. She was cold.
With an effort, Rosie pulled herself together. She had to, double-quick. The way he was holding her was testing her will-power to the limit. She so wanted to curve her body into his warmth, wrap her arms around him, cling to the wonderful male strength of him and unburden herself, tell him everything.
She mustn’t. It would be a really stupid thing to do. He’d hurt her horribly when he’d said how much he regretted making love to her. She wouldn’t be able to take it if she tried to get closer and he pushed her away, believing she was asking for much more than his comfort.
‘Twice,’ she mumbled. Then amended, ‘They visited Mum after I was born, so I don’t remember that time. Then came again when I was ten.’
Stiff, awkward, disapproving, both of
them. They’d hardly said two words to her and the atmosphere had been really spiky.
Her mother had shot into the bathroom when they’d gone and she’d heard her muffled sobs. But when she’d emerged five minutes later she had smiled, even though her eyes had been red and puffy, and had cheerfully suggested a rare treat, a visit to the cinema where the latest cartoon film was showing, such an exciting event that the incident had been forgotten.
‘You’re cold,’ Sebastian said briskly. ‘Let’s go. The Bull in the village always has a good fire, and a passable menu.’ He had intended to take her further afield, somewhere more special than the local pub. But the poor little scrap was obviously deeply upset and he wanted nothing more than to get her warm and relaxed as quickly as possible.
He wasn’t stupid, he told himself as he started the engine and reversed back along the narrow track. He could put two and two together as well as the next man.
There had just been her and her mother. No mention of a father. It was obvious that her mother had been a single parent, and presumably Rosie’s grandparents had disapproved to such an extent that they hadn’t had their only grandchild over for holidays in the fresh country air, had probably told their daughter never to darken their doorstep, had virtually washed their hands of the pair of them.
Anger punched at his heart. He couldn’t trust himself to speak until he’d got it under control. Had her father been one of the local lads? Had he done a runner when he’d learned that his girlfriend was pregnant, unable or unwilling to face the prospect of fatherhood’?
He couldn’t understand how a man could do that and still live with himself! His stomach clenched. Madre di Dio—if he’d carelessly fathered a child on Rosie he would damned well do his duty! He’d be around for his child, make sure neither of them wanted for anything.
Had he ever seen Rosie’s mother? He must have done. He tried to remember. The summer holidays spent with Marcus and his aunt, sometimes with his parents, sometimes staying on his own, had been too full of adventures—fishing, riding, building tree-houses and generally getting into mischief—to leave much time for noticing the estate workers’ families.
But he had known that Joe Lambert had a daughter. She’d even helped her father in the gardens one summer, he recalled now.
Aware that his silence was doing nothing to make Rosie feel more comfortable, he broke it. ‘Did you take the temporary job at the Manor because you wanted to see where your mother had grown up?’
‘Partly,’ Rosie admitted. She wouldn’t tell him the rest of it; she couldn’t. All he’d ever felt for her was a lust he now hated himself for, so it wouldn’t make any difference to her if he ended up despising her for who she was. But she didn’t want him hating her poor mother for being the woman Marcus had betrayed his adored aunt with.
‘And after—after your mother left the village—where did she go? Where did you live?’ He felt strangely driven to probe.
‘From what I can gather, her parents gave her precious little support. How did she manage?’
The thought of anyone turfing a pregnant daughter out to fend for herself was utterly abhorrent to him. And in this case it felt almost personal, he admitted, the depth of his feelings surprising him into shooting her a hard, level look.
Rosie wriggled in her seat, her stomach churning. He sounded so harsh. Really disapproving. And that look—the condemning silver eyes above those hard cheekbones—had flayed her. Of course, in the wealthy, rarefied atmosphere he inhabited single mothers living a hand-to-mouth existence didn’t exist. If a rich and pampered member of his exalted circle made the mistake of getting pregnant she would be discreetly married off.
Sebastian Garcia might be wealthy beyond avarice, the intelligent driving force behind a highly successful business empire, but he knew nothing about the real world. When had he ever wondered where his next meal was coming from, or drudged all day for a pittance, or dressed in someone else’s cast-off clothing?
Memories of her mother’s tired, pale features, her unfailingly cheerful smile, floated into her mind. No one would belittle her, no one!
Staring ahead at the unwinding country lane, she said proudly, ‘Mum was tough and so was I. The way we lived would probably have killed the likes of you! We had a council flat and we made it nice, despite the surroundings—the graffiti-spattered walls, the broken lifts and stinking stair-wells.’
‘Mum worked hard cleaning offices, and as soon as I was old enough I worked early evenings and Saturdays at Jean’s corner shop. We managed on our own without the benefit of tiaras, fancy clothes, flash cars and servants to shield us from the contaminations of daily life!’
She almost added a childish ‘so there’ but stopped herself in time and stuck her lower lip out mutinously as they drew up in front of an ivy-clad pub on the outskirts of the village.
Exiting the car and skirting the bonnet, Sebastian hid a grin. In spite of her aura of fragile vulnerability, Rosie Lambert had mountains of spirit when it came to something she really cared about. He liked that.
He wanted to tell her to be proud of her mother, of herself, but thought better of it. She would only accuse him of patronising her.
He wanted to tell her that there were things great wealth could never buy: love and loyalty, for instance. But she obviously already knew that.
