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 d
idn’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.
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