She sighed and reached for a handkerchief to blot the dampness from her eyes. ‘Oh, just listen to me,’ she croaked, almost to herself, ‘rambling on like a silly old woman.’
He put the photograph down and turned, barely noticing her words as what she’d said earlier slowly permeated his consciousness.
She didn’t know.
Philly hadn’t told her.
Why on earth wouldn’t she tell her own mother about the baby? Couldn’t she see how much it would mean to her?
He looked back at the mantle, mentally seeing one more photograph—a beaming Philly holding a tiny child—another chance at life and a future.
Didn’t Philly want her mother to see that photograph already? Or was she more worried about the absence of another? His eyes flicked over the wedding photographs. He could almost see the space where Philly’s wedding photo would slot in alongside her brother’s. Was the prospect of an illegitimate child the reason why Philly was holding off sharing the news with her mother?
Was she trying to save her mother hurt by not telling her the truth?
Something shifted inside him, sliding away to reveal a solution which was on the one hand so unexpected, yet at the same time so logical. He could help. He wanted to help. And he would have Philly in the bargain.
‘Maybe all hope isn’t gone,’ he said, taking Daphne’s hand in his own before sitting down. ‘Maybe there’s still a chance for something good, something that could give us all hope.’
She peered up at him, her dark-ringed eyes curious and hopeful at the same time. ‘Whatever do you mean? Why are you here, Mr DeLuca?’
‘I have something to tell you,’ he said, struck by the fragility of her bird-like hand, her thin bones covered by barely more than a paper-thin cover of dry skin. He covered her hand with his other as if to keep her warm. ‘Actually, I have something to ask of you.’
He paused, momentarily wondering if he was doing the right thing, but one look into her eyes told him that for the first time in what seemed like for ever he was doing something that mattered, something that had a beneficial effect beyond just the bottom line. And yet it would still get him what he wanted.
He took a deep breath before he continued.
‘Would you give me the honour of allowing me to marry your daughter?’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THERE. He’d said it. And it didn’t feel so bad. In fact, taking in her sudden gasp of delight, the following smile which lit up the older woman’s face, it felt pretty damned good.
It was the most logical solution. Philly obviously couldn’t cope here, with a sick mother, a full-time job and a baby coming. And marriage would mean the baby would carry his name while Philly would bear none of the stigma attached to being a single mother.
It solved everything. Sure, he’d never intended getting married; in fact, he’d done all he could to avoid it. And he’d spent most of his lifetime alone—it wasn’t as if he needed anyone—but if it meant that his child would be brought up the way he wanted, then maybe it would be worth sacrificing his independence just this once.
Because he’d get to spend his nights with Philly. That would at least be some compensation. He would have settled for mistress, but he’d marry her if that was what it took.
A key grated in the front door lock and he glanced at his watch, surprised at the late hour and realising just how much time he’d spent aimlessly driving around today.
‘I’m home,’ came Philly’s voice from the small entrance hall. She sounded tired. She should have come home when he’d told her. Except he wouldn’t have been here now if she had.
He rose to his feet and swung around alongside Daphne, his hand resting on the back of her chair.
‘What are you doing here?’ Philly felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up as she took in the cameo, her mother and Damien together, empty tea cups on the table where they’d sat opposite each other, much too cosily.
She should have known something was up when she’d spotted the sleek black coupé across the road. A car like that in this street was as unlikely as Damien stopping by for a cup of tea. And yet he was here…
‘What’s going on?’
‘Sweetheart,’ her mother said, battling her way to her feet with Damien’s help by way of his hand under her elbow. ‘Congratulations. I had no idea.’ Her mother pulled her close, so close she could feel her wasted ribcage pressing into her through the thin cotton housecoat.
She glared at Damien over her mother’s shoulder. ‘You told her?’ she said.
‘Of course he told me,’ said her mother, resting both her hands on Philly’s shoulders. ‘How else could he ask for my permission? Oh, you’ve made me so happy, I can’t quite believe it. How soon do you plan to be married?’