The Sins of Sebastian Rey-Defoe. Kim Lawrence

being so damned grateful when our own mother left us on some step?’

      ‘I’m sure she had her reasons.’

      ‘I don’t care why she did it.’

      It was true, Mari knew it—he didn’t care, and she envied her twin this attitude. He never asked himself why. Or, was it something about me...?

      ‘The fact remains she did... Do you know that the Defoes can trace their lineage back to William the Conqueror?’

      Mari gave a bored yawn. ‘Yes, Mark, you mentioned it.’

      Her twin missed the sarcasm. ‘Now, that’s the sort of background to be proud of.’

      The envy in his voice made Mari’s annoyance grow.

      ‘I’m not ashamed of my background.’ That was thanks to their foster parents; grateful didn’t cover her attitude to the big-hearted couple.

      ‘Neither am I,’ Mark protested. ‘But I was thinking, Mari, perhaps if you could talk to the guy, make him see that we are not—’

      The thought would have been laughable had it not been so horrific. ‘No, I will not!’

      ‘But—’

      ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Mark, grow a pair and stop wallowing!’ The exasperated words were out before she could stop them.

      Why hadn’t she kept her mouth shut?

      * * *

      She pushed away the guilt. It wasn’t her fault, it was his... Her eyes narrowed to midnight-blue slits. She felt light-headed with the depth of the hate she felt as she walked, confident and smiling, past the security guard and into the cathedral. She’d probably leave through the back door and definitely under escort from one of the numerous security guards, but it would be worth it.

      The perfect wedding would have an ugly moment. The rest of their lives might be perfect, but there would be a tiny blemish, a moment when he would be the one being judged.

      * * *

      ‘You sure about this?’

      The question from his best man made Seb lift his eyes from his contemplation of the stone floor.

      ‘Just a joke.’ Jake shifted uncomfortably under the dark stare. ‘Well, it’s so final,’ he tacked on defensively.

      ‘Not always.’

      It was hard to be objective but Seb thought his marriage stood a better chance than many, though his optimism was tinged with a healthy realism—you couldn’t ignore divorce statistics—but he had avoided the usual traps that led to break-ups, the most obvious one being starting from the premise that love and passion were a basis for a successful marriage.

      He did not have to look far to see the perfect proof of this. His parents had had and presumably still did have both, and their turbulent on-again, off-again union could not by any normal measure be called successful except by them, or the tabloids, whose circulation figures always leaped when the infamous pair married, divorced or decided to tell all.

      The only thing the handsome polo player with little interest in the swathe of family acres in Argentina he had inherited had in common with the only child of a titled British aristocrat who knew how to party hard was a total lack of self-control and a selfish disregard for the consequences of their actions.

      Not that the pair could be accused of not trying: they had been married three times, divorced twice and had both had several lovers in between. Seb had been born during their first marriage, and rescued, as he always thought of it, at age eight by his maternal grandfather during their short second marriage and brought to England to live. Had the loved-up pair noticed? Or had they been just a little bit relieved to have the child that demanded too much attention removed?

      His half-sister, Fleur, the result of one of his mother’s in between affairs, had been born at Mandeville and officially adopted by their grandfather. She barely had a relationship with the mother, who had left a week after the birth.

      If in doubt Seb always asked himself what his parents would do, and did the opposite—and it had worked. When asked what he wanted to be when he grew up Seb had said not my father.

      Seb’s decision at eighteen to change his name by deed poll, adding his mother’s maiden name to his Argentine father’s, had been his attempt to say thank-you to the grandparent who had brought him up. Though there had been no display of emotion when he had told his grandfather, he knew without being told that the gesture had pleased him, as had his unspoken determination to reclaim the proud family name.

      Seb had succeeded. When the Defoe family were spoken of now, 90 per cent of the time it was his own financial success that made the headlines, not the latest instalment in his parents’ soap opera of a life. His life was not about to become a spin-off series! His marriage would not be an emotional roller coaster.

      He knew that in his efforts to make the name Defoe one to be proud of he had gained a reputation for ruthlessness. But personal insults aside, no one had ever connected his name with anything underhand or sleazy, which was what mattered to Seb.

      When people called him proud he did not take it as an insult. He was proud—proud of not compromising his principles and of making it work, making the Defoe name synonymous with fair dealing. And the reward had come with the incredible deal that he was about to pull off. A chance like this only came along once in a lifetime and while he hadn’t planned this marriage for that reason, its timing had been perfect and probably, he suspected, swung the deal. The royal family were big on family values and believed a married man was more stable and dependable.

      The idea that marriage could fundamentally change a man tugged the corners of his expressive lips upwards. Seb had no expectation or intention that marriage would change him; he saw no reason it should.

      Success in marriage was about having realistic expectations; of course, there would be some compromises, and he had thought about them, but he was ready to make the commitment. He prided himself on his control and didn’t for a second doubt his ability to be faithful.

      His idea of marriage hell was what his parents had.

      He just wished his grandfather were around to see today, that he could know that the Defoe name would live on, that he had kept his promise. It had been an easy promise to give, because Seb recognised the attraction of continuity, the opportunity of passing on the values his grandfather had given him.

      He and Elise were on the same page. She agreed that stability and discipline were important for a child; they shared the same values, which was essential—in fact they rarely disagreed on any subject. She had even agreed to give up her career to bring up a family. Seb hadn’t realised she had one, but he had been touched by the gesture.

      Jake began to pace restlessly. ‘God, I hate waiting... What if...? No, she’ll turn up. You couldn’t be that lucky... Sorry, I didn’t mean... It’s just...’

      There was a short silence before the screen of dark lashes lifted from olive skin stretched tight across the angle of Seb’s slanted cheekbones. His was a face with no softness in any aspect.

      ‘Just what?’

      ‘It’s such a big step being responsible for someone else, being with them every day.’

      ‘Elise is not...clingy.’ This understatement caused Seb’s mobile mouth to tug upwards at the corners. ‘We will both continue on with our lives much as normal.’ With no emotional dramas, no raised voices or tabloid speculation.

      ‘So why bother getting married?’ Jake immediately looked embarrassed, adding to it by allowing his doubt to slip through into his voice as he continued, ‘Sorry, but you are happy...?’

      ‘Happy?’ Seb did not consider himself a naturally happy person, and the constant pursuit of it seemed to him exhausting. He lived in the present. ‘I’ll be happy when today is over.’

      *