He went through the same routine, wrinkling up his nose as he took a tentative sip. He put the cup back down again. ‘Doesn’t float my boat, I’m afraid.’
‘You don’t like it?’
‘It’s nondescript.’
‘It’s not nondescript,’ she said. ‘It’s subtle.’
‘It’s just not my cup of tea.’ He flashed her that grin again. ‘Sorry, no pun intended.’
Poppy shook her head at him, trying not to smile. He could be incredibly charming when he put his mind to it. She would have to be careful not to let her guard down. He was the enemy. It wouldn’t do to think of him as anything else. ‘You’re incorrigible.’
‘That’s what my mother used to say.’
There was something almost wistful about his tone. She wondered if he was close to his family. She picked up her own cup and took a sip. ‘Where do your parents live? In France or Italy?’
The light had gone out of his eyes. ‘They don’t.’
‘Pardon?’
‘They don’t live anywhere. They’re dead. They were killed when I was ten.’
‘I’m sorry...’ Poppy bit her lip. Maybe she should have done a little more research on him. The article she had come across had mentioned nothing about his childhood, only about his playboy status, wealth and the latest lover he’d been with.
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘What happened?’
He picked up his teaspoon and began toying with it between his finger and thumb like one would do a pen. ‘They had a high-speed collision with another motorboat on the French Rivera. My mother was killed instantly. My father died in hospital three days later from internal injuries.’
‘I’m so sorry... It must have been a terrible time for you and your brothers.’
A flicker of pain passed through his eyes before he lowered them to look at the spoon he was holding. ‘Yes. It was.’
‘What happened afterwards? I mean...where did you go? Who looked after you and your brothers?’
‘My paternal grandfather took us in.’ He put down the spoon, picked up his teacup and cradled it in his hands.
‘Is he still alive?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you close to him?’
His lip curled but not in a smile. ‘No one is close to my grandfather.’
Poppy could tell he wasn’t keen to reveal too much about his background. But his cryptic comment about his grandfather was rather intriguing. What sort of man was Vittorio Caffarelli? Had he made the lives of the three bereaved boys even more miserable in his handling and rearing of them? ‘What about your grandmother? Was she involved in your upbringing?’
‘No, she died of cancer when my father was a teenager.’
‘What about your maternal grandparents?’
Rafe turned the cup around in its saucer. ‘They died before I was born.’ He picked up the cup and took a sip, grimacing at the taste before he put it back down again. ‘Tell me about your childhood. You said you lost your parents when you were seven. How did they die?’
Poppy looked down at her hands for a moment as she began folding and refolding her napkin. ‘I never met my father. He deserted my mother before I was born. Apparently she wasn’t good enough for him so he married someone else.’
‘So your grandmother raised you?’
She nodded as she met his gaze again. ‘She was wonderful, stepping in to take care of me after my mother died. I had a good childhood, all things considered. Lord Dalrymple was incredibly kind to me. He was a bit of a recluse but he always had time for me.’