Christmas Child

by Diana Hamilton

  “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.

  Books by Diana Hamilton

  HARLEQUIN PRESENTS®

  2132—BOUGHT: ONE HUSBAND

  2178—CLAIMING HIS WIFE

  Diana Hamilton

  THE CHRISTMAS CHILD

  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 rea
lised.

  ‘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?