Bombshell For The Boss: The Bride's Baby. Nicola MarshЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘I know. More money than sense, but he made an offer that the creditors couldn’t refuse and, since he was prepared to pay a very large premium for his pleasure, he got it all. Family photographs, portraits, all the junk in the attic. Even Mr and Mrs Kennedy, the housekeeper and man of all work, were kept on as caretakers, so it wasn’t all bad news.’
‘Could they do that? Sell everything?’
‘Who was to stop them? I didn’t have any money to fight for the rights to my family history and, even if I did, the only people to benefit would have been the lawyers. This way everything was settled. Was preserved.’
And she’d been able to move on, make another life instead of every day being reminded of things she’d rather forget.
Jeremy putting off the wedding—just until things had settled down. Her mother’s determination to confront the people who were draining everything out of her family home. Her father … No, she refused to waste a single thought on him.
‘I’d moved into a flat share with two other girls by then and had barely enough room to hang my clothes, let alone the family portraits.’ She took the photograph from him and replaced it on the shelf where it had been all her life. All her mother’s life. All her grandfather’s life too. ‘Besides, you’re right. This isn’t just my history. As you said, it was the same for everyone.’
Had he really said that? he wondered as he looked around him.
Longbourne Court was a gracious minor stately home, but from the moment he’d walked through the door Tom had recognised it for what it was. A family home. A place where generations of the same family had lived, cradle to grave, each putting their mark on it.
It wasn’t just the portraits or the trees in the parkland. It was the scuffs and wear, the dips in the floorboards where countless feet had walked, the patina of polish applied by a hundred different hands. Scratches where dogs had pawed at doors, raced across ancient oak floors.
He realised that Sylvie was frowning, as if his question was beyond her. And it was, of course. How could she know what it was like to have no one? No photographs. No keepsakes.
‘Not everyone has memories, a place in history, Sylvie.’
‘No memories?’ He hadn’t mentioned himself and yet she seemed to instantly catch his meaning. ‘No family?’ Then, ‘How dreadful for you, Tom. I’m so sorry.’
She said the words simply, sincerely, his name warm upon her lips. And, for the second time that day, Tom regretted the impulse to speak first and think afterwards. Betraying something within him that he kept hidden, even from himself.
‘I don’t need your pity,’ he said sharply.
‘No?’ Maybe she recognised the danger of pressing it and, no doubt trained from birth in the art of covering conversational faux pas, she quickly moved away and, looking around, said, ‘I was hoping to find Pam. I don’t suppose you know where she is?’
‘Why? What do you want her for? If you’re in a hurry, maybe I can help.’
She hesitated, clearly reluctant to say, which no doubt meant it had something to do with this wretched Wedding Fayre. He thought he was hard-nosed when it came to business, but using her own wedding as a promotional opportunity seemed cold even to him.
But, choosing to demonstrate that he was quite as capable as her when it came to covering the awkward moment—at least when he wasn’t causing them—he said, ‘The truth is I was looking for you in order to apologise for my “sackcloth and ashes” remark. It was inexcusable.’
‘On the contrary. You had every excuse,’ she said quickly. ‘I really should have made more of an effort to stop Geena before she got totally carried away.’
‘You might as well have tried to stop a runaway train.’
‘True, but even so—’
‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘I should have done it myself, preferably without the crash barrier technique. I’m not normally quite so socially inept, but I’m sure you will understand that you were the last person I expected to see at Longbourne Court.’
And, confronted with the growing evidence of her impending motherhood which, two months on from seeing her on the cover of that hideous magazine, was now obvious, he was trying hard not to think about just how pregnant she was.
Trying not to wonder just how soon after that lost moment with him she’d found the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Someone who was a world away from him. Someone she’d known for ever …
‘That makes two of us,’ she said. ‘You were the very last person I expected to see. Candy told me you disliked the country.’
‘I dislike certain aspects of the country. Hunting, shooting,’ he added.
‘Me too. My great-grandfather banned all field sports from the estate. He said there had been too much killing …’ She paused for a heartbeat and then said, ‘You did get my letter?’
He nodded and turned away. He should apologise, explain that he hadn’t meant it the way she’d taken it. She’d earned every penny of her fee. But what would be the point?
In truth, six months spent thinking about what had happened, about her—whether he’d wanted to or not—had left him with a very clear understanding of his responsibility for what had happened.
He’d known what he was doing when he’d called her to his office.
Had known what he was doing when he’d kept her there, forcing her to go through that wretched account, when, in truth, it had meant nothing to him.
Convinced that she had somehow sabotaged his future, he’d wanted to punish her. The truth was he’d sabotaged his own plans, had become more and more distant from Candy as the wedding had grown nearer, using the excuse of work when the only thing on his mind had been that moment when he’d walked into Sylvie Smith’s office and she’d looked up and the smile had died on her lips …
And he’d blamed her for that too.
Then, for just a moment, instead of being a man and woman locked in an ongoing argument, they had been fused, as one, and the world had, briefly, made complete sense—until he’d seen the tears spilling down her cheeks and had known, without the need for words, that he’d got it wrong, that he’d made the biggest mistake of his life.
What good would it do to say any of that now? She had her life mapped out and to tell her how he felt would only make her feel worse. Better that she should despise him than feel sorry for him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘For everything.’
She turned away, a faint blush of pink staining her cheeks as, no doubt, like him, she was reliving a moment that had fired not just the body, but something deeper—the mindless heat of two people so lost to sense that nothing could have stopped them.
Or maybe he was just hoping it was that. It was, in all likelihood, plain guilt.
The fact that just six months later she was visibly pregnant with another man’s child demonstrated that as nothing else could and he’d done his level best to forget her.
From the first moment he’d set eyes on her he’d done his best to put her out of his mind.
That he’d felt such an immediate, powerful attraction to this woman at their first meeting when Candy, the woman he was about to marry, was standing next to him, had been bad enough and he’d kept his distance, had avoided anything to do with the wedding plans. Had buried himself in work and done his best to avoid thinking about her at all.
He’d made a fair fist of it until she’d waved her presence in front of him with that damned invoice.
If she hadn’t added that handwritten ‘Personal’ to the envelope—no doubt in an attempt to save him embarrassment—his PA would have