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It was easily recognisable. A family piece. He had never seen the jewel but there had been a portrait of his aunt, as a young and vibrantly beautiful bride, hanging in the main sitting room at Troone Manor. She’d been wearing the pendant.
Years later, shortly before his aunt’s death, he’d remarked on the portrait’s disappearance. Marcus had told him resignedly, ‘Lucia asked me to take it down. She can’t bear the reminder of how she was, and how she is now.’
Swallowing the flip retort that she must have stolen it, mustn’t she? Rosie answered his question levelly.
‘Marcus gave it to my mother. He wanted her to have it. Just before she died she gave it to me. I didn’t want it then and I don’t want it now. I was going to return it when I finally got to meet him. You can do it for me.’
No answer to that, just a bleakly unreadable look before he extracted the sheet of paper. As his eyes narrowed, scanning the strong slanting script, Rosie explained without the slightest trace of emotion in her clear voice. ‘Mum never named my father, but after she died I found that. I knew his identity then.’
Written on Troone Manor headed paper it started, My darling Molly, and ended, I love you always, Marcus. And, in between, the details of a forthcoming assignation. A two-nights booking at a small coastal hotel with the information that, We won’t be known there, it’s right off the beaten track, we can be together, my angel, and treasure every precious moment.
When he finally looked at her his mouth was grim. With extreme care he refolded the letter and slotted it and the jewel back into the envelope. Pinning her with his cold eyes, he ordered, ‘Get changed. We leave for the airport in less than an hour.’
Pompous, autocratic louse! ‘No,’ Rosie shot back at him with a definite crack in her voice now. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going with you!’
Did he really expect her to after what he’d accused her of? So, OK, he had made a roundabout apology, and after seeing the evidence he would have to concede that her claim had some validity—unless it could be proved that her mother had been a promiscuous tramp, which she damn well hadn’t been!
But his swift and humiliating change of attitude after that long night of lovemaking had left her feeling utterly besmirched and it was something she wouldn’t forget in a hurry. It had clearly shown her that he cared nothing for her and had just been using her for sex because she was handy. And randy. Better to part from him right now, forget all about ever meeting her father, and put the whole tangled mess behind her.
‘You come with me, whether you like it or not.’ He was slotting the envelope into an inner pocket of his suit jacket. His voice might have softened but Rosie knew he was still bitingly, furiously angry. It was there in his eyes.
He couldn’t make her. But even as she pointed that out to herself she knew she was in grave danger of losing control of the situation. Snatching at the only subject that could make him change his mind, she knotted her hands together and gabbled earnestly, ‘You’re thinking I might be having your baby, aren’t you? Please don’t worry. I bought that kit, didn’t I? We can find out in a matter of minutes—I already read the instructions.’
Her face went fiercely scarlet. If she hadn’t conceived that first time, she might have done last night. He hadn’t used any protection that she’d been aware of! So much for learning by past mistakes! The test could not be able to give an accurate result this soon. Oh, why was she so unclued-up?
He looked as if he was about to say something really cutting, but all he came out with was, ‘Forget the test. The results, either way, won’t change a thing.’
And what the heck was that supposed to mean? She was about to ask him when his eyes suddenly softened, his warm silver gleaming into her wide, anxious blue, and she forgot her question, melting helplessly because those eyes were reminding her of the most wonderful intimacies—
Reaching her in one long stride, he put his hands on her shoulders and swung her round. ‘Time to change. Go.’ A tiny shove propelled her forwards, despite all her efforts to dig her heels into the carpet, his, ‘You have every right to meet Marcus. I want to be around when you do. This situation has to be resolved,’ ringing in her burning ears.
He could be right, she wearily admitted as she made it to the bedroom she’d been using. Unresolved, she would always wonder. Wonder what her father was like as a person, wonder if he would accept the relationship or throw her out of the door because he didn’t want to be reminded of a past indiscretion he had probably long since wiped out of his memory.
And strangely, since falling in love with Sebastian, she didn’t blame her father too much for what he had done. Wasn’t the average man primitively programmed to cast his sexual favours far and wide to ensure his genes had the best chance of surviving, constitutionally unable to resist temptation?
If her poor besotted mother had behaved as she herself had done with Sebastian then Marcus wouldn’t have stood a chance.
So, no, she no longer felt in danger of whacking him with her handbag, she decided as she changed into her cream cashmere suit with no enthusiasm at all, threw her old clothes out of her suitcase and replaced them with this and that from the lavish choice of garments Sebastian had gifted her. Then trudged out to present herself and her subdued face to the impatiently striding male she now realised she loved and hated in equal measure.
Hatred was simmering uppermost as Rosie buckled her seat belt when the plane began its descent. He hadn’t spoken one word to her during the flight. Not one single word that really counted!
He’d drawn a sheaf of closely typed papers from his briefcase as soon as they’d been seated and that had been that. She might not have existed. And when, feeling really resentful by that time, she’d poked him in the ribs to get his attention, the implacably hard look he’d turned on her, the rasp in his voice as he’d asked her what she wanted, had had her muttering, ‘Nothing’, and flopping back in her seat, doing her best not to cry and embarrass herself.
Didn’t he know how truly awful she was feeling? Didn’t he care?
Obviously not. All knotted up with nerves over the prospect of at last meeting her father and feeling physica
lly ill because she’d worked out why Sebastian was still too angry to do anything other than ignore her.
Having sex with the temporary cleaning lady had been fine by him. An anonymous creature he could do his Pygmalion act on, sort out the awkward possible pregnancy problem and then wave goodbye with a clear conscience because he’d bought her a load of fancy clothes.
But having a very good idea that she was a nasty stain on his precious godfather’s family escutcheon, something the family would rather not speak of in polite company, changed everything.
The warmth hit her as they walked out of the small terminal: a pleasant shock to the system after the chilly English spring. A big black car was drawn up on the tarmac, a uniformed driver walking towards them. Rosie wanted to take to her heels, run as fast and as far as she could. Her stomach churned sickeningly.
Nothing short of sheer panic would have made her forget he would rather not be reminded of her unmentionable presence, so it had to be panic that had her grasping his arm, her fingers digging into the hard muscle and bone, her voice verging on the hysterical. ‘I want to go home! I can’t do this! My—Marcus won’t want a nasty secret from his past popping up in his life! I can’t go through with this, honestly I can’t!’
‘Yes, you can,’ Sebastian contradicted firmly, his voice deep and low. ‘You can’t start something as serious as this and then run away from it. I thought you had more backbone,’ he added disparagingly, then broke off to greet the driver in his own language.
