The Christmas Child
Diana Hamilton
James Carter's proposal of marriage was a surprise to Matilda Trent. Nevertheless, Mattie loved James, and she accepted - intending to prove she could be more to him than just a convenient wife.The result was unexpected - a baby due at Christmas! But before Mattie could tell James she was expecting, she discovered something that forced her to keep her joyful news a secret.
“You look so beautiful.”
James’s eyes had that drenched look they always had after they’d made love, Mattie thought. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other. But beautiful? Well, she did her best. The russet-colored silk dress she was wearing was one of the “must haves” her friend had insisted she buy all those months ago. Soon she wouldn’t be able to get into it.
Which was why she hadn’t wanted to come here tonight. She needed to tell James she was pregnant.
DIANA HAMILTON is a true romantic and fell in love with her husband at first sight. They still live in the fairy-tale Tudor house where they raised their three children. Now the idyll is shared with eight rescued cats and a puppy. But despite an often chaotic lifestyle, ever since she learned to read and write Diana has had her nose in a book—either reading or writing one—and plans to go on doing just that for a very long time to come.
The Christmas Child
Diana Hamilton
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
‘SO IT’S going to be your usual quiet Christmas,’ Dawn stated from the depths of the armchair which was cosily close to the state-of-the-art kitchen range. ‘Poor old you! You really should learn to have fun, Matts—you never know, you might get to like it!’ Her soft, pretty mouth formed a small moue of condemnation as she wriggled her curvy body with barely suppressed excitement and Mattie, glancing across at her oldest and best friend, wondered if her mother would have loved her if she’d been more like Dawn, pretty and curvy, outgoing and bubbly, instead of—
She pushed the thought roughly away. All that was over. Her mother had died nine years ago, for heaven’s sake, when Mattie had been just sixteen and there was no point at all in dwelling on the past—nothing would bring it back, or alter it.
‘Whereas your place will be bursting at the seams,’ Mattie put in through a gentle smile, sensing her friend’s excitement and knowing the reason for it. She reached for her reading glasses and peered at the recipe book. At Christmas time especially, The Old Rectory on the other side of the picture-book Sussex village would act like a magnet for the large and happily uncomplicated family Dawn’s parents had created. And the rambling, slightly shabby house would be filled with children and grandchildren, love and laughter.
In stark contrast to the rather austere grandeur of this place, the home she shared with her widowed father.
‘The whole shooting match,’ Dawn agreed comfortably, her hazel eyes bright as she raised her left hand and gazed at the emerald sparkling on her ring finger. ‘Plus Frank and his parents,’ she added breathily. ‘They’ll be arriving tomorrow, Christmas Eve, so you’re invited for lunch on Christmas Day—bring your father—with Mrs Flax being away it will save you having to cook. And I won’t take no for an answer. I can’t wait to introduce my brand-new fiancé to my very best friend.’
‘Sorry.’ Mattie fed flour onto the kitchen scales. ‘But James is spending the holiday here; he phoned this morning and invited himself.’ Her heart squeezed painfully beneath her breast as she spoke his name. He must be feeling dreadful. His plans for Christmas would have been far more glamorous, much more romantic than a quiet few days out in the sticks. ‘I know you’re going to say bring him too, but I don’t think he’ll feel like partying—not under the circumstances.’
More than half expecting her friend to persist, she tipped the flour into the mixing bowl with such a gesture of finality that airy clouds of it rose palely to the ceiling.
But far from insisting that her invitation be accepted, Dawn said, ‘Wow!’ wriggling round in the chair, resting her elbows on the fatly padded arm, cupping her chin in her hands. ‘Major tear-mopping time coming up?’
‘I don’t think James Carter knows how to cry,’ Mattie stated, her tone matter-of-fact. In all the years she had known him, as the son of her father’s business partner, and later, at the relatively young age of twenty-five, stepping into his father’s shoes at his death around eleven years ago, she had never seen him show a strong emotion. He was always self-assured, completely collected, detached. Almost frighteningly remote at times, seeming to live in a world where nothing could touch him.
But right now he must be hurting. Being so publicly jilted by the woman he’d intended to marry had to be a painful experience. But, knowing him as well as she did, she was sure he wouldn’t show it.
‘Well, he wouldn’t parade his feelings in public,’ Dawn conceded. ‘But with his parents both dead now, you and your dad are the closest thing to a family he has, so he might cry on your shoulders. And I guess his ego has taken a heck of a pounding if nothing else. I mean, when you look back a couple of months to those burblings in the gossip columns about the wedding of the year—“Society Beauty, the Hon. Fiona Campbell-Blair to Wed Business Tycoon,” and her quoted as saying it would be a marriage made in heaven and how besotted with each other they were, and then, only last week her ladyship announces that she’s called the whole thing off because, and again I quote, “Jimmy didn’t live up to her high expectations”—well, I mean, he’s got to be feeling absolutely gutted.’
‘Probably,’ Mattie responded tightly, wishing her friend would drop the subject. She hated to think of James being hurt and she wanted to take the wretched Fiona’s elegant neck in her own two hands and do her a serious damage! And she couldn’t imagine any woman who wasn’t certifiably insane jilting a man who was as starkly, compellingly male as James Carter.
‘Look,’ she suggested, ‘why don’t you make coffee?’ Anything to stop this post-mortem prattling. She peered again at the recipe book and began rubbing butter into the flour. ‘I’m trying to make pastry for mince pies here. I just wish Mrs Flax hadn’t decided to take her annual leave right now!’
When their housekeeper had announced she wanted a winter break in the sun with her sister she had had their blessing. Mattie’s dad had never liked the festive season—not after his wife, Mattie’s mother, had walked out on them all those years ago—so they tended to treat Christmas as just another ordinary day. But with James expected she was going to produce all the trimmings. Even if it killed her!
‘Consider it done.’ Dawn unwound herself and wandered over to the table, casting her eyes over the recipe Mattie was so laboriously following. ‘It says add water, but you’ll get a much nicer result if you use beaten egg instead,’ she advised. ‘Want me to take over? I’ve been helping Mum with the cooking practically since I was born and you’re nothing but an academic. Brainy but a total fluff-head when it comes to anything practical.’
‘Then it’s time I mended my ways,’ Mattie responded lightly, resisting the impulse to clutch the mixing bowl jealously to her under-endowed chest. She couldn’t do much for James—she had enough common sense to be fully aware of that—but she could and she would, and with her own hands, make a proper Christmas for him.
‘On your own head be it—or should I say on your guest’s stomach lie it!’
Mattie grimaced wryly as her friend swung away to fill the kettle. Although only a couple of weeks separated them in age, she sometimes felt a thousand years old around the ebullient Dawn. A point reinforced when the other girl tossed over her shoulder, ‘Play your cards right, Matts, and you could catch him on the rebound.’
Mattie dropped the rolling-pin on the floured board as a savage pain thrust its jagged way through her. Closely followed by a searing anger that made her voice dagger-sharp. ‘Sometimes, Dawn, you talk like a particularly stupid ten-year-old!’
James Carter wouldn’t look twice at the plain, insignificant Matilda Trent. He went for the beautiful ones, the stylishly elegant ones. Women like his ex-fiancée. Women who stood out in a crowd, not ones who faded into the wallpaper. Dawn had to know that; how could she not?
‘If you say so.’ Unfazed by the rebuke, Dawn brewed coffee. ‘But think about it. Before I went to work in Richmond the two of us were practically joined at the hip, which means, of course, that I saw him almost as often as you did.’ She reached for mugs from the dresser, found the milk and sugar. ‘Around you, he always seemed sort of—protective, gentle. It’s difficult to put a finger on it, but there’s definitely a healthy dollop of affection there. And after being dumped by that high-class, empty-headed trollop he’s going to appreciate someone who’s intelligent, loyal, nice to know, calm. You fell in love with him eleven whole years ago when you were fourteen, you know you did, so go for it, Matts.’
Calm! She was seething! Dawn had stuck a knife between her ribs and was blithely twisting it—too insensitive to imagine how much it was hurting!
Golden eyes narrowing behind her lenses, Mattie snapped, ‘I got a crush on James around the same time you “fell in love” with our science master, remember? I grew out of it before you switched your eternal devotion to some mangy pop star or other! So drop it, will you?’
Only the trouble was, she was lying—she hadn’t grown out of it at all. She’d tried to, heaven knew she had. But her feelings for James, kept secret for so long now, had stubbornly refused to do anything but grow until they were positively awesome.
James slid from behind the wheel of the Jaguar, locked it and pocketed the key. A million stars patterned the winter night sky and the frosty air bit into his lungs as he pulled in a deep breath and felt himself begin to relax. Despite the turmoil going on in his life he could still recognise the magic of Christmas Eve. Strange, that.
Lights glowed dimly from a couple of curtained windows, but otherwise the stately bulk of Berrington House was in darkness. On the drive out from London he’d been having second thoughts about the wisdom of spending the festive season with the Trents. But standing here, in the silence, he knew he’d been right to invite himself to stay for two or three days.
After the messy drama of the past week it was what he needed. The flavour of that final scene with the woman he’d decided to marry was a sour taste in his mouth. And as for what had happened—unconsciously, he shrugged wide, hard-boned shoulders, the twist of his mouth cynical—he could understand why Fiona had gone to the press even though he deplored the way she’d made the breakup so damned public.
He needed to put the whole humiliating and painful episode behind him, and he could do it here.
Over the years, this house had come to represent a second home to him, both he, and his father before him, preferring to talk business over a civilised dinner or long weekend with Edward Trent, co-partner in their now huge construction empire.
It wasn’t the house itself—Berrington was a touch too severe for his taste, more like a showcase for traditional perfection than a lived-in home. Neither was it his partner’s company that had drawn him here, at this time.
It was Mattie, he recognised now. Her undemanding presence was exactly what he needed.
His frown darkened. That admission wasn’t something he was happy with. He’d learned to be self-sufficient at an early age. He didn’t want to need what another living soul could give him.
But her impressive intelligence stimulated him, her serenity soothed him, and her foibles—such as her complete inability to master anything vaguely practical—gently amused him. It had taken her months to learn how to use the word processor he’d finally persuaded her to install and eight failed attempts to pass her driving test. Even now, she was the worst driver he knew.
Then there was her refreshing lack of female vanity—she had to be the least clothes-conscious woman born, the least sexually aware. She didn’t suffer from fluttering eyelashes, siren pouts, come-bed-me glints seductively shafted from sultry eyes.
That, he worked out with a surge of relief, was what he really needed: the company of a woman who didn’t throw out sexual challenges, who didn’t attract him physically, and didn’t want to.
Mouse. The hard slash of his mouth softened fractionally. Dear old Mouse.
Tightening his grip on his overnight bag, he strode over the perfectly raked gravel, heading for the main door, wondering, apropos of nothing in particular, whether she was still struggling with the intricasies of translating that bulky scientific tome from the original German to Italian or whether it was done and dusted, back with the publisher, put safely to bed.
He was confident it would be the latter; he knew his Mattie. Financially, she had no need to work, but once she had a project on the go she tended not to surface until it was completed. Perfectly. As soon as she answered to his ring, he’d ask.
But it was his partner who opened the door. For a man nearing his sixties his face was relatively unlined, personable, only his iron-grey hair and thickening waistline betraying his age. And his eyes were betraying his embarrassment.
Edward Trent wasn’t comfortable with emotions. If he had any he kept them firmly locked away and expected everyone he came in contact with to do likewise. James was the same in that respect, which was probably why they worked so well together.
Best get it out of the way.
‘Good of you to give me houseroom for a day or two,’ James stated, walking over the threshold. ‘I felt the need to go to ground for a while. But I’m not going to bore you with all the gory details, or get maudlin over the port. So I suggest we put the whole subject of my publicly broken engagement under wraps.’
‘Best thing.’ Edward gave an audible huff of relief. ‘Though before we drop it, I’ll tell you you’re well out of it. As you know, Mattie and I only met her once but we both agreed she wasn’t good enough for you. A fine pedigree, granted. And she’d have made a first-rate hostess, and now you’ve taken over the reins of the company that’s something you need. But the woman’s shallow, selfish, hard. It would never have worked out. That said, would you like to go to your room and freshen up, or join me in a drink before supper?’
‘I’ll settle for that drink,’ James agreed tautly, feeling his blood pressure rise. He dropped his overnight bag at the foot of the broad staircase and followed his host into an immaculately kept, minimally furnished sitting room.
So Mattie hadn’t thought Fiona good enough for him! What the hell did she know about it? he derided savagely. In his opinion his partner’s daughter didn’t live in the real world, holed up here in her ivory tower backwater, dedicated to her work, a total innocent, ignorant of what went on between adult, sexually active men and women.
She had no right to pass judgement.
As far as he knew she had no sex life, so how could she possibly begin to understand the male ache to possess a woman as beautiful, as sinfully provocative as the Fionas of this world—the desire to have such a woman share his bed, grace his table at the many business dinners he was forced to host, run his home and his social diary with clockwork precision?
Aware that he was scowling, he forced himself to lighten up as he accepted the generous measure of single malt Edward handed him, sank into one of the stiffly upholstered chairs arranged around a rather fine Chippendale tripod table and asked, ‘Where’s Mattie?’ the unprecedented anger at her temerity in passing judgement on something she knew damn-all about beginning to fade with the first gulp of excellent liquor.
In any case, it had been an unworthy emotion. He hadn’t directed his anger at Edward who had expressed the same opinion, had he? The events of the last week must have affected him more than he’d realised.
‘Flapping around in the kitchen,’ Edward replied. ‘With Mrs Flax being away it’s going to be very much a case of pot luck, I’m afraid. Outside her work, Matilda’s as organised as a parcel of two-year-olds lost in a maze.’
James took another comforting mouthful of whisky. Poor Mattie! He’d foisted his company on them and he knew darned well that, without him, they’d have settled for bread and cheese or something out of a tin until the housekeeper returned. He wasn’t going to let her get stressed out on his behalf. Over the next day or so he’d help her. They’d share the load. The decision surprised him, but he’d stick with it.
Far from flapping around in the kitchen, Mattie was in her bedroom staring gloomily at her reflection. When she’d heard the sounds of James’ arrival she’d become horribly aware of the way her jeans and sloppy sweatshirt had suffered throughout a long morning spent, not very successfully, in the kitchen, followed by the afternoon scramble in the woods that backed onto their gardens, cutting holly to decorate the dining room.
But she didn’t look a whole lot more appealing in the soft brown skirt and fawn sweater she’d changed into. Still damp from the quick shower she’d taken, her shoulder-length chestnut-coloured hair looked almost black as she screwed it back in its usual bunch at the nape of her neck. And her skin was too pale and there was nothing she could do about the peculiar yellow colour of her eyes.
Frowning, she turned from the mirror and collected her discarded clothes for the laundry. There was no point whatsoever in using make-up. She knew she was plain, had always known it. And no amount of staring at her reflection would alter an unremarkable nose, a jaw that was too wide or a mouth that was too fat!
James wouldn’t notice if she served dinner dressed in a sack. Mouse, that was what he sometimes called her. That was the way he saw her. Something small, quiet, grey. Insignificant. She knew all that, didn’t she? Had accepted the stark truth of it years ago. Why the self-critical appraisal now?
So get a grip, she admonished herself tartly. He’d never done a single thing to encourage the way she felt about him. Was—heaven be praised—totally unaware of the deep-rooted emotions she had where he was concerned. So deep-rooted that she’d never once actually noticed any other man, not in that way, had never been tempted to follow the example of her friends at university and indulge in casual affairs.
Instead of mooning over what could never be she should be down there, trying, in her own quiet way, to offer him kindness and understanding over the next few days, hopefully doing something to help ease the anguish of his broken heart.
Stoically ignoring the pain in her own heart, she lifted her chin, straightened her spine and hurried downstairs.
‘Of course I’m going to help prepare lunch,’ James stated unequivocally the next morning. ‘I don’t expect to be waited on hand and foot. Besides…’ one dark brow arched humorously ‘…neither of us has fixed a full-scale Christmas lunch before; the results could be fun.’
Mattie bit down on her lower lip. Hard. Did he have to look so rivetingly gorgeous? Did her wretched insides have to go into spasm whenever he was around?
Dressed this morning in hip-hugging, narrow grey trousers and a casual black cashmere sweater that displayed a breadth of shoulder that just invited a girl to snuggle into, he was six-two of male perfection. Top that by the austerity of hard-boned features, and silvery-grey eyes made sultry by heavy lids and lashes that were as thick and black as his hair and you got an endlessly fascinating combination.
Stop it! she growled inside her head. Think of something else. Anything.
‘If you’re afraid of a repeat performance of last night’s supper, don’t be,’ she said as lightly as she could. It had been a complete disaster. ‘The quiche was soggy, the salad still had bugs in it and the mince pies were about as edible as lumps of tarmac.’
She was wearing one of Mrs Flax’s cotton overalls and it swamped her. Pulling her reading glasses out of a capacious side pocket, she fixed them on her nose. Looking as she did, like someone kitted out for the frump-of-the-year show, was some sort of protection. It served to drive home the fact, emphasise it, that in his book she would never be worth a second glance.
Reputedly ruthless in business, he had always been kind to her—when he’d got around to noticing her. But that was all. Absolutely all. Sometimes she thought he actually found her amusing and at others he didn’t seem to see her, looking through her, rather than at her.
Pulling in a deep breath, she rallied, explaining soberly, ‘Fact is, I panicked. Did everything wrong. Because Mrs Flax does all the cooking I’ve never had to learn. But that doesn’t mean I can’t. It has to be entirely a matter of logic and planning. So I sat up last night and made lists, read cookery books, assembled—’ Aware that his gorgeous eyes were sending dancing silver glints in her direction, she broke off, adding tartly, ‘I’ve got the whole operation planned, down to the last frozen sprout.’
The exercise had left her with bags under her eyes but had at least taken her mind off the fact that he was sleeping under the same roof. Or not sleeping, lying awake, mourning his lost love. ‘And I’m sure you could spend the morning more profitably with Dad. I know he’s eager to discuss the funding of the hotel complex project in Spain—or was it Italy?’
‘Spain,’ he said. ‘And that can wait.’ She looked so earnest, her hair scraped back from her plain little face, her owly glasses slipping down to the end of her neat little nose, her golden eyes serious. She was bringing her impressive thought processes to bear on the problem in hand.
Bravo Mattie!
‘Nevertheless, I’m going to help you. If nothing else, I can peel potatoes, supply you with coffee, mop your fevered brow. I promise you, I shall enjoy it. Enjoy your company.’
And that was the truth. It didn’t surprise him in the least. Mattie was always comfortable to be around. And watching her grapple with alien practicalities—the way her quirky brows would pull together with a frown of concentration, the pink tip of her tongue peep from the corners of her mouth, just as it had done when she had been trying to master the mysteries of her word processor—would amuse him, would take his mind off—off other things.
‘If that’s what you really want.’ Mattie pretended to consult the lengthy list she’d left on the butcher’s block table. He wouldn’t enjoy it. He would know that the makings of a huge Christmas lunch that Mrs Flax had left in the deep freeze would have stayed right there if he hadn’t invited himself here. He was doing what he would see as his duty.
She would not let herself believe that he really did enjoy being with her. She wasn’t into self-delusion. But James, in this warmer, noticing mood was dangerous stuff.
And went on being dangerous to her equilibrium right through the holiday, his easy charm taking her breath away, making her sometimes believe in that old chestnut that if you wanted something badly enough it came to you. Only occasionally did he seem to withdraw into darkness, his eyes deeply thoughtful, brooding, she was sure of it, on his lost love. Not that Fiona’s name had been mentioned, not once.
This morning, the day James was due to leave, her father had taken himself off for a walk, complaining that he’d eaten far too much. ‘You did us proud, Mattie,’ he’d said, sounding astonished. And then, as if inner enlightenment had been granted, ‘But then, James was around to see you didn’t go dishing up any more disasters!’
Mattie resented that, she really did. She’d worked hard to bring some sort of logic to the mysteries of turning basic raw ingredients into palatable meals. She deserved some credit, she thought grumpily as she pushed the vacuum cleaner around the house with more passion than purpose and was thrusting it back into its cupboard in the kitchen when James walked in.
‘Ready to go?’ She sounded calm, sensible. Inside she was a mess. She would miss him dreadfully. She probably wouldn’t see him again for months. Only last night she’d happened, in passing the sitting-room door, to hear her father tell him that he’d travel up to the London head office in a day or two to discuss the funding for the Spanish project with him and their company accountant. So he wouldn’t be dropping by in the near future.
‘Almost.’ He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, his arms folded over his chest, as if barring her exit. Mattie took one look at him—he was so beautiful, even the worn old denim jeans and ancient leather jacket couldn’t detract from the lean, powerful elegance of his tall, whippy frame—and looked swiftly away.
She really did have to stop thinking this way. She’d managed to keep her emotions off the boil for years, tucking them away, refusing to let them churn her up. She could do it again. Hell’s teeth, of course she could!
Closing the cupboard door, she turned again to face him, smoothing down the smothering folds of the unflattering borrowed overall.
‘Can I get you a coffee before you go?’ That was better—she’d subdued the painful lump in her chest that might have made speech impossible. She was back to being calm and helpful.
‘Not for me.’ He levered his hard frame away from the door, walked towards her, his silver eyes intent. ‘There’s something I want to ask you. And before you jump down my throat, I want you to consider it carefully, bring your usual unruffled intelligence into play.’
He stopped walking, left a few feet of space between them, smiling wryly as that well-known puzzled little frown appeared between her eyes. The idea had come to him suddenly, and it was a good one. He’d thought about it long and hard since it had occurred to him last night, after his discussion with Edward.
It made good, practical sense. And he knew his Mattie. Once she got used to the thought of having to uproot herself she would see that.
‘Mattie,’ he said levelly. ‘Will you marry me?’
CHAPTER TWO
SOMETHING scary had happened to her, Mattie thought wildly. A sudden rush of blood to her head, maybe? It had boiled her brain, sent her loopy, made her hear things.
James proposing? To her?
‘Mattie?’
Even through the shock of fearing herself to have suffered a mortal affliction, she was bright enough to detect a note of wry amusement when she heard one. So that was it. A joke. An unfunny joke.
Oh, how dared he? It would serve him right if she took him seriously, flung herself at him, dewy-eyed and babbling about big white wedding dresses and having his babies. All those barren, hopeless years of loving this man didn’t stop her from wanting to punish him!
But common sense eventually did just that. Pretending to take him seriously would hurt her more than it hurt him. Winding her arms around him, covering his face with kisses, would be torture.
She uprooted her feet from the floor and trudged to the sink to fill the kettle. She needed coffee, even if he didn’t. At least she was moving now, thinking clearly. She said flatly, ‘Be careful, James. Jokes like that could rebound on you. You might be taken seriously.’
‘I meant it, Matts,’ he said from right behind her.
She froze. Everything inside her turned into stone. This was not possible. How could he mean it?
Lifting his hands, he took her shoulders, turning her to face him, and that brought her to life, blood coursing madly through her veins at his touch. She shrugged his hands away. He had never touched her before, not even accidentally, and much as she might crave this small intimacy she couldn’t handle it, not right now, not if she were to find out what his agenda was.
‘Has this got something to do with Fiona dumping you?’ she asked, her brain clearing. ‘She jilts you, so you immediately get engaged to someone else, just to show her she’s not the only pebble on the beach?’
Her heart twisted painfully. Was she right? Could he be that cruel? Would he use her like that, just to get his own back on the woman he loved? Buy her a flash engagement ring, make sure the whole world knew about it, then quietly break the whole thing off when the dust of Fiona’s public jilting had settled?
‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘No slick answer for once?’ His bleak silence spurred her on to angry sarcasm. ‘Or have you suddenly fallen madly in love with me? Somehow that would take a lot of swallowing!’
James glanced at the discreet face of his Rolex. He’d meant to spend the afternoon back in his apartment, going through a raft of paperwork. This was going to take longer than he’d thought.
‘You sell yourself short, Mattie. You really should break the habit.’ The words emerged on a breath of impatience, softened by slight amusement. ‘And no,’ he went on with no inflexion whatever, ‘I have no more “fallen madly in love” with you than you have with me. In fact, I don’t think the condition actually exists.’
He resigned himself to the loss of a full afternoon’s useful work. He’d been over-optimistic when he’d imagined he could put his reasons for marriage in front of her in two minutes flat, and it would only take another three or four for her first-class brain to accept that the reasons and terms were both workable and desirable. Far from looking receptive, her face was screwed up in what could be nothing else but suppressed fury.
‘All I ask is that you take time to listen to what I have to say. To kick off—’ The sound of Edward letting himself in through the utility adjoining the kitchen made him bite his words off. Hell! He hadn’t expected his partner back so soon. He’d scripted this as a rational, businesslike discussion, over in a few minutes, and it was rapidly turning into a farce.
His jawline grim, he narrow-eyed the older man as he walked into the room, blowing his fingers, his face ruddy from exercise in the bitingly cold air.
‘So you decided to stay for lunch after all?’ Edward hazarded. ‘Thought you’d be well on your way by now. And, Mattie, if you’re cooking, nothing for me. Getting a paunch.’
‘Actually,’ James drawled, thinking on his feet, mentally postponing that paperwork until later, much later, ‘I’m taking Matts out to lunch, as a thank you for all the hard graft she’s put in over the past few days.’ His narrowed eyes impaled her with silver command. ‘Go get your coat.’
Her instinct was to tell him not to dish out his orders in that brisk, authoritative voice, as if she were some lowly employee. Tell him to ask her nicely, and she’d think about it. But she’d controlled her emotions where James was concerned for more years than she cared to remember and she’d be a fool to give way to the need to snap and shout, indulge in a verbal stand-up fight.
He would simply turn his back on her, walk straight out, and she’d never discover what in damnation he’d been thinking about when he’d come out with that unbelievable proposal of marriage.
Besides, his eyes were positively glacial when he bit out, ‘Scoot, Mattie. We don’t have all day.’
The tone of his voice sent shivers down her spine. She had heard he was a force to be reckoned with, a man no one but an out-and-out fool would dare to cross, but in all the time she had known him she had never been afraid of him, or had the feeling that he was taking control of her life.
She went, almost tripping over her own feet, leaving the room before he could say or do anything else to add to her sense of angry confusion.
Of course she wasn’t afraid of him, she told herself as she pulled Mrs Flax’s overall over her head and searched in the hall cupboard for her serviceable waxed jacket. Afraid of what he was making her feel was more like it.
Disorientated. As if her brain had been put in a blender.
Stuffing her feet into leather boots, she tucked the bottoms of her trousers in with shaky fingers and James, dangling car keys, asked ‘Ready?’ making her jump out of her skin.
Impatient, she thought, glancing up at his tight jawline, the thin line of his mouth. And not the impatience of a man desperate to get his woman to himself. He’d been very quick to respond to her sarcastic question—of course he hadn’t fallen in love with her. Any more than she’d fallen in love with him, he’d added.
If only he knew!
‘Yes, I’m ready. And curious to know what this is all about,’ she answered steadily enough, even though her heart was jittering about like a flying beetle trying to get out of a paper bag.
‘I’ll tell you over lunch.’ And he’d throw in a bottle of wine. He wouldn’t be drinking because he’d be driving later, but she looked as if she needed something to help her relax. She’d pulled a black woolly hat on her head, her bunched-back hair making it sit at an odd angle, the unflattering colour emphasising the pallor of her face. Poor little scrap!
He’d had this idea, had carefully examined it, found it to be sound and, as always, intended to act on it. Right now. No messing about. But she hadn’t a clue what was in his head. He couldn’t blame her for looking as if the world had gone insane around her.
‘Let’s go,’ he said gently.
They drove half a mile to the village pub. Not far, the journey didn’t give her nearly enough time to get her head together. James actually did want to marry her. He’d said so, but she was having difficulty taking it in.
Years ago, before she’d learned to control a tendency to indulge in foolish daydreams, she’d imagined him proposing. Down on one knee, moonlight and roses and all that stuff, vowing he’d always loved her, had been waiting for her to grow up.
Reality was totally different from the daydreams of a teenager. Wasn’t it just!
The slack period between Christmas and the New Year celebrations meant they had the tiny, heavily beamed restaurant to themselves. The fire in the inglenook had only just been lit and the room was chilly. Mattie kept her bulky jacket on, but James plucked the woolly hat from her head as she scanned the short menu.
‘That’s better,’ he said and she glanced across the table and caught the smile that softened the sculpted hardness of his mouth. He looked in full, complacent control. Suddenly, she wanted to slap him.
She laid the menu down. ‘I’m not hungry. I just want you to tell me what’s behind your singularly unromantic proposal of marriage.’
The clipped tone of her voice told him she was firing on all cylinders again. So right, his suggestion of marriage had confused her, but she was dealing with it. It was one of the things he admired about her—her ability to look at a problem from all angles and, eventually, to solve it, be it learning to drive or cooking a three-course meal.
‘Over lunch, like civilised people. Choose something light if you haven’t much appetite. I’m going for the lasagne.’
Civilised? Well, she supposed she could manage that. Just. She opted for an open prawn sandwich and drank a glass of the red wine he’d ordered while they waited. Her stomach closed up entirely when she saw the sheer size and bulk of her supposedly simple sandwich.
Gulping down more wine, she nibbled at a prawn. One down, five thousand more to go. How could he attack his loaded plate with such gusto? Easy. His stomach wasn’t full of jitterbugging butterflies; his heart wasn’t racked with painful contractions; he was completely unaffected.
She laid down her fork. ‘I warn you, James, if, as I suspect, you want to get engaged in such a hurry to pay Fiona back, then you can forget it as far as I’m concerned. Find someone else to play games with.’
‘Right.’ He laid his fork down on his almost empty plate and leaned back, his eyes pinning her to her seat. ‘I don’t recall mentioning an engagement. What would be the point when we could be married within three weeks? And let’s leave Fiona out of it.’
‘We can’t do that.’ He was everything she’d ever wanted, but she wouldn’t let herself be used. She wouldn’t let herself in for that much pain. Living with him as his wife, knowing that every time he made love to her he would be pretending she was Fiona.
Her voice thick in her throat, she reminded him, ‘You called being in love a “condition” and said you didn’t think it existed. You’ve been dating gorgeous women for almost as long as I can remember, but it took Fiona to make you want to settle down and marry. You must love her.’ Instinctively her voice lowered, softened with compassion; she didn’t want to rub his nose in his hurt but it had to be done. ‘I can imagine your pain when she rejected you, but jumping into marriage with someone else won’t make it go away.’
She wanted to reach out and take his hand, comfort him, but he looked so formidably detached she didn’t quite dare. She drained her wineglass recklessly. ‘When you got over the Fiona thing and came to your senses, you’d find yourself saddled with a wife you couldn’t love. And I wouldn’t want to go through life knowing I was a poor second best.’
‘You’re not cut out to be an agony aunt, you don’t know what you’re talking about.’ With difficulty he controlled his annoyance. She was thinking along the lines of a normal marriage, and that wasn’t what he had in mind at all. And if she’d stop talking about Fiona for five seconds he’d put her in the picture.
He refilled her wineglass, sat back, and told her as much as her harping on about his broken engagement had made necessary. ‘I took a look at my lifestyle and decided I needed a wife. Fiona was eminently suitable, beautiful to look at—’ no need to mention her inventiveness in bed, that was his business ‘—a highly accomplished hostess. Essential, because, as you know, along with my home I inherited Mrs Briggs from my father. She’s getting near retirement and is fine as far as the day-to-day running of the household goes, but ask her to organise a dinner party for half a dozen visiting businessmen who we’re pitching a project to—plus their wives—and she’s completely at sea. Well, you must have some idea what I’m talking about. So marriage seemed to be the answer. But it didn’t work out. So, OK, the experience has probably soured me, put me off the man/woman bit, which is why, Mattie, what I’m proposing is what is loosely termed a marriage of convenience. In name only, that goes without saying.’
She was sure the smile he gave her was meant to be reassuring but the ache inside her intensified and the tiny spark of hope finally flickered out. Loving this man, she’d harboured the small but unquenchable hope that if she agreed to marry him then he might, in time, grow to love her. Regardless of the highly probable self-destructive outcome.
Stupid!
Rapidly gathering her considerable mental resources, she gave him a cool smile. ‘You could hire someone—a good catering company, for instance—to organise sophisticated dinner parties at the drop of a hat. And I’m sure you could get one or other of the lovely young things you seem to attract like bees to a honeypot to act as hostess. You don’t need a wife.’
‘A wife would act as a deterrent, Mattie,’ he said with a thin smile. ‘Keep the swarms away from the honeypot. I’m no longer interested,’ he added tiredly.
That figured, she thought, melting. He was still in love with Fiona and her rejection had hit him hard. Doubly hard, since it had to be a first. And he did look weary. There were shadows beneath his eyes and taut lines at the sides of his mouth. She wanted to take his hurt away, and knew she couldn’t.
Instead she told him briskly, ‘I can understand why you feel that way at the moment. But, believe me, it won’t last. Women throw themselves at you, and eventually you’ll be tempted. You’re a sexy man, James Carter.’
He blinked at her and swallowed hard. Tried not to smile. She almost sounded as if she knew what she was talking about. What did she know about the lusts of the flesh? Zilch.
‘Mattie, if we marry, I promise you I won’t play around. You have my word on that.’ It couldn’t have been an easier promise to make. Sexual relationships were more trouble than they were worth. A jaded opinion, granted, but one he would firmly stick with.
His word. Once given, he never went back on it, she knew that. So if they married she wouldn’t have to wonder where he was and who he was with if he didn’t come home at night. Not that she had the slightest intention of accepting his proposal.
It was unthinkable.
Slurping more wine, she pointed out, ‘You haven’t thought this out. You’re going to want children.’
He poured the last of the wine into her empty glass. She wanted chapter and verse, so he’d give it to her. He was beginning to enjoy this verbal fencing match. ‘I was ten years old when I realised that I was just a nuisance as far as my parents were concerned. I demanded things of them they were unable to give. Time, consideration, thought. Love. I was sent away to school and it was a case of out of sight, out of mind. During the holidays there was the hired help to see that I was adequately fed. If I had worries, problems, triumphs—whatever—my parents didn’t want to know. So no, I don’t want children. I wouldn’t be sure I could commit myself as thoroughly as a child deserves. My parents couldn’t bring themselves to be interested in their offspring and the laws of nature mean I’ve inherited their genes.’ He sketched a shrug. ‘I wouldn’t want to risk it.’
‘Oh!’ It was all Mattie could say. She wanted to throttle his parents but she couldn’t because they were both dead. Killed years ago when the light aircraft they had been in had crashed into an Italian Alp. And she wanted to tell him that she would love any child of his like the most precious thing on earth, but she couldn’t. Wanted to tell him that she could give him all the love and devotion his heartless parents had denied him. If he wanted it. But he didn’t.
So she couldn’t do that, either. She said, her voice very soft, ‘I never knew that. About your unhappy childhood.’ It went a long way towards explaining his aura of detachment, the untouchable quality that made him seem so in control of the events and people that surrounded him. ‘You and your parents always seemed to get along together.’
‘When we were together, which wasn’t often, we were polite,’ he conceded. ‘I adapted as a child and learned not to wear my heart on my sleeve.’ His dark brows drew together as he glanced at his watch. ‘However, this isn’t about me, I’m merely explaining why I don’t have any desire to father children.’
‘And Fiona was happy with that?’ He didn’t like her talking about his ex-fiancée. Well, he wouldn’t, would he? But the wine had made her reckless, reckless enough to make an astute guess. ‘I don’t suppose she wanted to spoil her fabulous figure, or get baby dribble on her best Lacroix!’ She batted back incipient tears. He hadn’t asked if she wanted children, if she would be happy in such a sterile relationship. In fact, he wasn’t considering her feelings at all. He probably thought she didn’t have any.
‘What would I get out of your proposed arrangement—except the stress of having to arrange dinner parties?’ she demanded gruffly, beginning to regret her unprecedented intake of alcohol. Any minute now she would start to get over-emotional, blurt out things that would reveal her true feelings for him. Already there was a lump the size of a small house in her throat.
‘Mattie—’ he leaned closer, his forearms on the table, his eyes warmer now. ‘—believe me, I’ve given this a whole lot of thought. It would be a satisfactory arrangement for both of us. Forget the social entertaining side of it—you’re bright enough to get the hang of it, do anything you want to do. We get along well together, always have. I’ve enormous respect for your intelligence, your capacity for hard work. You’re no raver, you won’t play games or take me for a sucker—you’ve too much integrity. You’re comfortable to be around. You’re very soothing company. We’d make a good team. As for what you would gain from such an arrangement—’ he smiled expansively, dazzling her, making her breath shudder in her lungs ‘—you get my name, my protection, my assurance that the demands of your work will always come before your duty as my wife—I know how much it means to you. You get a good home in one of the more sought-after areas of London.’
‘You make me sound like a stray dog that needs to be taken in!’ she spluttered, glad to stop puzzling over the compliments that had come over as not being complimentary at all and made her sound inexpressively dull.
James smothered a sigh. ‘You’re nearer the truth than you imagine. Your father might not have told you yet, but he’s all set to sell up and move to an apartment in town. Taking Mrs Flax. And he’s already making substantial noises about handing his shares in the business over to you, going into full retirement. If we marry, you have a home to go to and the business stays in the family.’
She was smart enough to see the sound common sense of that, but she was looking more poleaxed than ever. He tugged in a slow breath and asked gently, ‘What do you see as the problems from your side? Face it, Matts, you’re twenty-five years old and as far as I’m aware you’ve never been in a relationship. If your ambitions had run along the lines of a husband and family you’d have done something about it before now. Got out more, shown an interest in what you wore. Done the things a woman does—you know, hairstyles and make-up. That being said, where’s the harm in two people who like and respect each other teaming up and forming a successful partnership?’
Mattie stared at him, her eyes wide and unfocussed. She felt as if the bottom had dropped right out of her life and suddenly marriage to James seemed a rock she could cling to. Forget his astute reasoning behind his desire to control her father’s fifty-per-cent holding in the company, forget that he didn’t love her, and never could. She could handle that; she’d had plenty of practice over the last decade.
What she couldn’t handle was this sense of betrayal. She had believed that her father, at least, saw her worth, valued her. But he hadn’t bothered to consult her over his decision to sell the family home, hand over his business shares.
It really hurt.
Early on in her life she’d realised she was a disappointment to her mother. Straight, lank hair, plain little face, skinny body. Nothing her mother could do made her pretty—she’d told her so often enough. When her beautiful baby brother had been born her mother had as good as forgotten she’d existed. And when he’d died from meningitis she had gone to pieces, had never recovered, shutting both her daughter and her husband out until, eventually, she’d left them.
But she, Mattie, had discovered how to make her father proud of her. Good grades at school. Not only good, the best. She’d learned to keep her head down, keep at her studies, make the best get better.
But he couldn’t have been proud of her, rated her very highly. If he’d thought anything of her he would have discussed such life-changing decisions with her first. Wouldn’t he?
She stood up unsteadily, the sight of her barely touched meal, the dregs of wine in her glass, making her feel slightly nauseous.
‘I’ll marry you, James. Just let me know the date and venue and I’ll be there.’
CHAPTER THREE
MATTIE stuck her hands in the pockets of her jacket—quilted amber silk; Armani, no less—and shivered. More from apprehension than the darkly bitter January evening air.
What would her father think of the way she was dolled up?
She shot an aggravated glance up at the monitor over the windy platform. His train was late. After a week in London, on some unspecified business or other, he’d phoned last night and asked her, in Mrs Flax’s absence, to meet his train.
The drive into Lewes had been a nightmare. She loathed driving at night; it made her more than nervous. Oncoming headlights always blinded her and when she scrabbled around for her own dip switch she usually managed to activate her wipers instead or, even worse, indicate a turn she had no intention of making.
To add to her jitters she’d been agonising over what her father would make of her new image. Someone unsuccessfully trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear? Pitiful, perhaps? Tarty? Oh, heaven forbid! Or simply and shamingly hilarious?
Not that her father’s reaction would trouble her overmuch, of course, but it would give her a good indication of what James would think.
And all of it was Dawn’s fault!
She’d arrived in the middle of last week, pounding on the front door as if the Mafia were after her. ‘I’ve taken a few days off to help you out, Matts. We’ve got to get you sorted! Ten days until the wedding and I bet you haven’t given a single thought to what you’re going to wear! Where’s your father?’
‘In town for a week.’
‘Good. That’s where we’re heading and if he’s away we won’t have to waste time explaining what we’re doing—or, knowing you, asking for his permission! All you have to do is grab your credit cards and lock the doors.’
‘You’re mad!’
‘No. Fairy godmother or angel of mercy. Either will do me so take your pick. You’re going to get a make-over, and you’re going to like it. And even if you don’t, I’m pretty sure James will.’
No, he wouldn’t. Mattie’s thoughts were mutinous. He picked me because I’m comfortable, soothing, not a raver. A mouse.
‘He proposed to me as I am,’ she pointed out tartly. ‘Warts and all.’
‘And full marks for playing your cards right! I told you to, remember?’ Dawn grinned back at her. ‘But your transformation will be the icing on the cake as far as he’s concerned. Haven’t I always told you you could be really gorgeous if you put your mind to it and stopped dressing like your own grandmother? Now I’m going to prove myself right.’
A vivid flash of memory. Her mother buttoning her into yet another frilly dress, tying ribbons in her hair. Sitting back on her heels surveying the unpromising result with an exasperated frown. ‘I don’t know why I bother—stand up straight, child, and stop scowling! Why can’t you be more like your little friend, Dawn? I don’t know where you got your plain looks from—certainly not from my side of the family!’
For the very first time a stab of defiance had gone through her. What if she were to prove her mother’s opinion of her irredeemable plainness wrong? Could she? Maybe with her best friend’s advice on clothes that might actually suit her instead of merely keeping her decently covered she could look a little more interesting?
But the three days they’d spent in London had left her with very mixed emotions. Arriving home late yesterday evening with what seemed like a trailer-load of exclusive carrierbags, a bucketful of cosmetics, seventy-five per cent less hair and a severe hole in her current account, she’d begun to have serious doubts.
Without her friend’s enthusiasm, energy and sheer pushing power she was beginning to doubt the wisdom of the exercise.
True, her hair felt better for being styled into a sleek, jaw-length bob. It looked better, too. Shinier, the colour a richer shade of chestnut. But the clothes she’d been dragooned into buying—she wasn’t too sure about them; not sure at all, if she was honest.
She didn’t feel like herself any more. James wanted a quiet, unobtrusive wife to cope with the business entertaining he had to do, to stop other women making a play for him because after the Fiona fiasco he was off the lot of them. Would he call the whole thing off when he saw her like this because a tarty-looking wife was not what he wanted?
She glanced down at the narrow, butter-soft, cream-coloured leather trousers, the high-heeled ankle boots that admittedly made her legs look longer and more elegant than they really were, and shivered.
And if he did call the wedding off, would that be such a bad thing? The thought edged its way into her brain and stuck there.
She’d probably overreacted to the way her father had neglected to give her even a tiny hint of his far-reaching future plans, she thought with a miserable flash of insight. She’d put her whole future happiness on the line when she’d agreed to such a sterile relationship with a man who could never love her.
It wouldn’t have been nearly as bad if she couldn’t love him, either. But she could. And did.
When the train finally arrived she scanned the alighting passengers, chewing on the corner of her lower lip, saw her father and straightened her shoulders. He would have walked straight past her until she touched his arm and said with unprecedented sharpness, ‘You could have used your mobile and warned me your train was running an hour late. And unless you want to end up as an accident statistic you can drive home.’
She’d been brooding over his insulting secrecy, the way he hadn’t bothered to so much as mention his future plans to her, not even when she and James had told him of their marriage, and her annoyance spiked her voice. But Edward Trent didn’t comment on her less than welcoming greeting.
His eyes widened. ‘Mattie? Good Lord, I didn’t recognise you—what have you done to yourself?’
Which didn’t augur well. What if James’ reaction was the same? Incredulous shock!
He scrutinised her under the platform lights. ‘It’s not like you to wear bright colours—you look like a stranger! And you didn’t get that fancy outfit in one of the local shops.’
‘Dawn and I went up to London for a day or so,’ she responded stiffly. He was grinning now. Actually grinning. Did she look that funny? She must do. He never commented on what she was wearing and he certainly didn’t burst into laughter at her appearance.
‘I might have known she’d be behind it.’ He chuckled. ‘She’s always been a flashy dresser. Pretty with it, mind. By the way, like the way you’ve done your hair. Cut some of it off, have you?’ He started to walk. ‘Let’s get a move on. Damned cold, standing here.’
‘Tell me about it!’ Mattie muttered, following. So it was all right to wear bright clothes, but only if you were pretty! And she most certainly wasn’t!
The fragile confidence in her new appearance, brought to tenuous life by Dawn’s insistence on her visiting a top hair stylist, learning how to apply make-up properly, choosing the designer labels that her friend vowed suited her so well, had never been strong and was rapidly ebbing away completely.
Thankfully, her father was only too happy to take her ignition keys. He didn’t rate her driving skills any more than James did. She settled herself into the passenger seat and sank into her dreary thoughts.
The jaunt to London had been an expensive waste. She should never have let Dawn talk her into trying to turn herself into something she wasn’t. The only sensible thing to do was push the new clothes she’d splurged out on into the very back of her wardrobe and go back to wearing the plain, serviceable things she was used to and felt comfortable in.
And the second sensible thing to do was phone James. Tonight. Explain that she’d reconsidered, call the wedding off.
It was the only course of action to take, she told herself sternly when the car finally swept up the driveway to Berrington House. She couldn’t imagine what had made her accept his cold-blooded proposal in the first place.
But she could. Of course she could, she reminded herself as she stood in the hallway waiting for her father to garage her car. When her father had taken James into his confidence, told him he was thinking of taking full retirement, of selling the family home and moving into an apartment with Mrs Flax to look after him, he had overlooked her entirely, just as if she didn’t even exist.
It had felt like abandonment. Brought back the feelings of betrayal and inadequacy she’d experienced when her mother had walked out all those years ago, never to get in touch again, or remember her birthdays, or even ask how she was.
It had made marriage to James, even a marriage that would be no marriage at all, seem like a haven of security.
She was going to have no part of it.
She could stand on her own, make a life for herself. She could travel, take up private tutoring. With her qualifications she could easily find employment teaching English to Spanish children—or French, German or Italian. She wasn’t the hopelessly vague and impractical creature everyone seemed to think she was.
‘I think you have something to tell me,’ she stated as her father closed the door behind him, dropped his light leather suitcase on the floor and began to unbutton his overcoat.
‘I have?’
‘I think so.’ They were going to have this out before she phoned James to tell him she wouldn’t marry him. Tonight she was going to take the initiative for probably the first time in her life, even if the thought of turning James down did make her feel weak and tearful. ‘Retirement, handing over the shares in the business to me, an apartment in town for you and Mrs Flax. Does that jog your memory?’
‘Ah.’ He had the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘So James told you. I would have told you—’
‘When?’ she broke in. ‘When the new owners moved in here and you finally remembered I existed, couldn’t really be left behind like a piece of unwanted furniture they could either make use of, or throw on the nearest skip?’
If possible, he looked more incredulous than he had at the station when confronted by her new appearance. He wasn’t used to her standing up for herself.
‘Nothing like that!’ he answered gruffly. ‘Look, let’s go through and make cocoa. I fancy an early night, and while we drink it I’ll explain everything.’
Tight-lipped, Mattie led the way to the kitchen and took a bottle of the white wine left over from Christmas out of the fridge and busied herself with the corkscrew. She felt in need of something stronger than the ritualistic bedtime mug of cocoa.
Apart from raising one bushy eyebrow, Edward said nothing, just set about making his own hot drink, and when that was done he found his daughter looking at him almost aggressively over the rim of her glass.
‘Sit down, Mattie. You weren’t meant to feel left out of my plans.’
‘Then why was I?’ she returned, but less sharply. He really did look tired, she thought with a pang, and she normally didn’t have a confrontational bone in her body.
She did as he’d suggested and joined him at the table, cradling the bowl of her wineglass in her small, long-fingered hands. ‘Have you reached a firm decision about moving?’ she asked, determined to cool down for his sake.
‘Yes,’ he acknowledged. ‘But only forty-eight hours ago when I found the ideal apartment. Since my GP advised me to take things more easily—no, it’s nothing to worry about,’ he said quickly, seeing the sudden flare of anxiety in her eyes. ‘Problems with blood pressure, nothing that can’t be sorted. But it did start me thinking. James is more than capable of running the business without my input. And I could sell out to him, but I’d rather the shares went to you, stayed in the family.
‘Naturally, I discussed the possibility with him. And this barn of a place—’ he spread his hands expressively ‘—the three of us have rattled around here for too long. I sounded Mrs Flax—Emily—out. I said nothing definite, of course. An apartment in London would be easier for her to cope with. Close to the things that make life more agreeable. Emily and I share several interests—light opera, the theatre, visiting museums, Italian restaurants, that sort of thing. And more of a social life for you, I thought. You spend too much time alone here.
‘And then you and James dropped your marriage bombshell and you were out of the frame where my plans were concerned. What had been vague ideas became a little more solid then. So I spent the week in London. Apartment hunting, meetings with the company solicitor arranging for my shares to be transferred to your name. And I hadn’t mentioned any of this to you.’
His eyes smiled at her. ‘Not because I’d overlooked you, but because nothing was definite, not at that stage. You’re not the most practical person I know, happiest when shut away with your work. I didn’t want you getting into a flap until I’d really decided that the move, if I were to make it, would work.’
‘You thought I’d run around like a headless chicken,’ Mattie commented wryly. It seemed that everyone had an unflattering opinion of her. And no doubt she had earned it. Well, she thought robustly, things were going to change. She was going to change.
She swallowed her wine and poured herself another glass, opened her mouth to tell her father that her marriage to James was off, then closed it again as something inside her tightened into a painful knot.
James himself had to be the first to know of her decision; she owed him that much. She asked instead, ‘So did you find a suitable apartment for you—and Emily?’
Was there more to this than met the eye? Mrs Flax had been with them for years, since Mattie’s mother had gone to pieces after the death of her idolised baby son. A year or two younger than Mattie’s father, the widowed Emily Flax was a capable, still handsome woman, kindly and caring. It would be wonderful if they married. Her father deserved to be happy after the dark years of loneliness.
‘Yes. About a ten-minute walk from James’ house in Belgravia, so we’ll be able to see a lot of each other after you’re married. Did you see much of James while you and Dawn were in London?’
‘No.’
Nothing. As far as she knew he had no idea she’d been away from Berrington for the past few days. Though he might have phoned. She’d check the answer machine for messages before she got in touch with him. The only contact she’d had with him since she’d agreed to marry him had been his calls to keep her up to date with the arrangement he was making: a simple civil ceremony, no fuss, no honeymoon because in the circumstances there was no point—which was unflattering but completely understandable when they both knew their marriage wouldn’t be a real one, she thought, her heart aching.
Her father, on the point of rising, sank back in his seat, a frown pulling his brows together. ‘I can’t pretend I wasn’t delighted when James told me you were to marry. I guess every father wants to hand the safe keeping and happiness of his daughter over to a man he can trust implicitly. But until recently he was engaged to that awful woman. You must have discussed it, of course. But are you sure he can make you happy?’
He could, if he loved her. He could make her the happiest, most ecstatic woman on the planet. But he didn’t. And wearing his wedding ring would make her unspeakably miserable, she knew that now. But time enough to tell her father the whole thing was off in the morning, after she’d phoned James.
‘Let me worry about that,’ she evaded, taking his empty cocoa mug over to the sink. ‘Why don’t you turn in? You did say you needed an early night. It’s gone ten o’clock already.’
And she needed time to mentally reinforce her decision to phone James and tell him she couldn’t marry him, explain that it would be wrong for both of them. Despite what he’d said, he was a normal male, with all the needs that implied. Sooner or later he’d face a temptation he would find almost impossible to resist, he’d meet some gorgeous woman who would make him forget he’d said he wouldn’t stray, make a mockery of his cynical statement that he was off the whole idea of sex.
And if he succumbed to that type of temptation he’d be riddled with guilt because he’d made a promise to her, one that was impossible to keep, and he would suffer because he was an honourable man. And she would suffer, too. Unbearably.
She barely heard her father’s goodnight and only realised she was alone when the silence tortured her nerve-endings. Time to bite the bullet, to quash the foolish, flickering hope that, given time, he could learn to love her, that their marriage could become a real one.
It simply wasn’t going to happen.
Passing through the hall on her way to the study, she slid the silk-covered buttons of her jacket from their moorings and shrugged out of it. The thought of what she was going to have to say to James was making her overheat. She’d be throwing away something so very precious.
Her throat closed up, everything inside her tightening. It was as if she were going to the dentist for a particularly gruelling session of deep-root fillings! Only worse.
She turned to head for the study and the phone but the sound of the main door opening had her swinging back, the sound of James’ voice startling her violently.
‘So you are here. I was worried; you didn’t answer my calls, Mattie—’
His voice faded. Mattie stared at him. Framed by the blackness of the night beyond the open doorway, he looked mysterious, dangerous and compellingly gorgeous. How could she tell him she wouldn’t marry him when she wanted him, adored him, with every atom of her being?
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