Christmas Child

by Diana Hamilton

  Every time.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘DO WE really have to go to this thing tonight?’ Mattie asked.

  She sounded slightly tense, James thought. She hadn’t sounded like that for months—not since they had been together on the island, anyway. So why this evening?

  He closed the bedroom door behind him and started to unknot his tie. The warm glow that crept around his heart whenever he saw her was such a regular occurrence that he didn’t think about it, he just accepted it as part of their satisfactory life together.

  ‘Afraid so,’ he answered, brushing her cheek with the customary ‘Nice To See You Again’ kiss. Clad in a black silk slip, she looked delectable. As always, whatever she happened to be wearing. He tossed his tie onto the huge double bed they now shared with such enthusiasm. His suit jacket followed.

  ‘It’s one of the biggest charity thrashes in London and I’m on the committee, as you know.’ He unbuttoned his shirt and removed his trousers. ‘We have to put in an appearance.’

  Puzzled, he noted the slight droop of her mouth as she sat in front of the mirror and reached for a pot of something or other. It wasn’t like Mattie to baulk at a cocktail do, something that would merely involve circulating for half an hour or so clutching a glass of wine, making small talk.

  Socially, she had blossomed out of all recognition. The quiet academic who had never been happier than when shut away with her work had been consigned to the past, happily consigned on her part, he was sure of that.

  His wife of three months—he didn’t count the couple of months or whatever when they’d been living a sham—had excelled in becoming the best hostess in London.

  The very best, he thought, admiring the clean lines of her slender naked shoulders.

  Naked himself now, ready to take a shower, he went to stand behind her. She’d already had hers. The tendrils of glossy chestnut hair that curved around her jawline were still slightly damp.

  He met her eyes in the mirror. Troubled eyes? Surely not. Yet how was he to know? If Mattie had problems she never came to him with them; they didn’t have that type of relationship.

  No messy emotional scenes of the sort he’d been afraid of when he’d been pussyfooting around the question of whether or not he should tell her he wanted to introduce sex into their marriage. Nothing tortured or angst-ridden to muddy the waters. If Matts had a problem she would simply buckle down and think her way out of whatever it might be.

  ‘Relax,’ he said, putting his hands on her shoulders, pushing the narrow straps out of the way as he began to massage the kinks out of tense muscles.

  Maybe she was simply tired, and had a long day. ‘It will probably bore our socks off, but as long as we show our faces it won’t matter if we leave early. We’ll have supper in our favourite restaurant after—would you like that?’ His hands were caressing now, sliding forwards, touching the soft warm skin that rose just above the top of her slip.

  ‘I’m fine, really I am.’ Her voice now had a definite husk to it. ‘Supper would be lovely.’

  The flush that had stolen into her cheeks made her eyes glitter. There was a tiny zip at the back of her slip. He pulled it down, eased the cups of the silky garment out of the way and stroked her breasts.

  She was, as always, beautifully responsive. Her gorgeous breasts were swelling into his hands, her lips parting, her soft, deliciously scented flesh beginning to quiver, her long, tangled lashes flickering. Whoever would have guessed that the dowdy ill-fitting clothes of his little grey Mouse had hidden a body that was unadulterated, simmering sex? It never failed to amaze him. Or arouse him.

  He shifted closer, pressing against her, his voice thick, his need great. ‘And it won’t matter a damn if we’re late.’

  ‘No?’ An impish gleam suddenly sparkled in her reflected eyes. ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘Very.’ His breath caught in his lungs as she twisted round on the stool and every sinew in his body tightened as he looped his arms around her and lifted her gently to her feet.

  ‘On your own head be it…’ Her voice tailed away on a breathless whisper, the teasing note swept away on a rip tide of desire, her mauve-shadowed eyelids closing as she swayed into the heat of his body and then away again to step sinuously out of her slip, her body naked for him except for the wicked black lace briefs she was wearing.

  Waiting for him, wanting him as he wanted her.

  Beautiful! His head was swimming, his heart pounding as he put one hand on her waist, the other at her nape and took her soft, parted lips with his, drowning in her fevered response to his possessive passion, drowning in the sexy grace of her, the sensual loveliness of her, the utter perfection of her.

  He gasped as he at last released her mouth, his breath shuddering. ‘Witchery… The things you do to me! Sheer witchery—Mattie—!’

  His voice didn’t sound as if it belonged to him. It sounded as if it came from a man in the throes of a deep and wild emotion. No other woman had ever made him lose his grip.

  No other woman—an unheralded thought, as bright as a thread of pure silver, briefly penetrated the fog of desire his brain had become. He tried to grasp it but it slipped away like quicksilver as she insinuated a satin-smooth thigh between his hair-roughened legs and slid her hands down over his stomach to cradle the potent force of his manhood, the movements so erotic it made his bones shake.

  With a muffled groan he swept her up into his arms and carried her to the bed. And kissed her, kissed every silken, scented inch of her skin, sliding the wicked briefs down the length of her lovely legs, taking his time, making this right, needing to give her everything of himself, to make it as perfect for her as she made it for him.

  Her breathing was shallow and fast, her hands touching him, demanding, feverish, her body on fire, burning for his, and he knew her so well, knew every nuance of expression, knew, quite exactly, when to cover her, to slide deep within her, feeling her buck against him, her body arching with need, and when she cried his name hoarsely and he felt her body spasm around him he let himself go and was consumed in the liquid, golden fire that was his Mattie.

  His Mattie. His wife. The woman who had come into his life, made magic, transformed it. Made changes in him he was only just beginning to properly understand, to welcome.

  They were very late, Mattie thought, looking around. The venue was packed with the seriously rich and the type of people who hung around them. The noise level was absolutely incredible.

  ‘I don’t want to leave you,’ James said, taking two glasses of what looked suspiciously like flat champagne from one of the circulating waiters. ‘You look so beautiful. But needs must. We’ll circulate and I’ll meet you back here in thirty minutes. No more. Then I’ll wine and dine you, and after that, who knows?’

  His eyes had the drenched look they always had after they’d made love, Mattie thought, watching him swing away into the throng. Not only once, on the bed, but again in the shower. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other. But beautiful? Well, she did her best. The tawny russet-coloured sleeveless silk sheath she was wearing was one of the ‘Must Haves’ Dawn 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 him she was pregnant.

  Her GP had confirmed it this morning. Three months pregnant. It must have been that very first time in Barbados. The only time they’d made love without using protection. And she’d assured him there would be no consequences and, worse, he’d trusted her implicitly. It made her feel just awful!

  She didn’t know how he was going to take the news. It was something she was going to have to find out, and sooner rather than later.

  He didn’t want children. And she didn’t want the child she was carrying to be unwanted by its father.

  Already she was feeling fiercely protective of the new life inside her.

  But surely, once he got used to the idea of fa
therhood, he’d be happy, too. She knew why he was so adamantly against having a family of their own. It went back to his childhood. He was afraid that he, like his own parents, would be unable to commit to a child, and he wouldn’t condemn any child to the type of upbringing he had had.

  However, she consoled herself as she offloaded her untouched drink onto a passing waiter, she knew him better than he knew himself. He was kind and caring and wouldn’t knowingly harm another living creature. He was capable of love.

  He hadn’t learned to love her, of course, she knew that. He liked her, respected her, and he enjoyed having sex with her. But she didn’t touch his emotions; her female instincts, so finely tuned into him, would have told her if she had.

  But it would be different with his child. Of course he would love it. Wouldn’t he?

  She edged around the knot of people directly in front of her, smiling indiscriminately at those she knew and those she didn’t know from Adam, and looked around for James. Another twenty minutes or so and they’d be out of here. She’d break the news over supper. He’d be relaxed and—hopefully—receptive.

  ‘All alone and no one to play with? What a shame!’

  Mattie would have recognised that cut-glass accent anywhere. Forcing herself not to cringe, she turned round slowly and put an empty smile on her face.

  ‘Fiona.’

  ‘As ever. James deserted you, has he? Again.’

  Mattie refused to let herself rise to the bait. The wretched woman couldn’t have heard of James’ prolonged absence in Spain so soon after their marriage. Could she? Besides, they’d been together since that idyllic month on the island, a loving couple. Well, she amended silently, loving on her part.

  ‘Just making the rounds, doing his duty,’ she said airily. But Fiona ignored that, sweeping her eyes from the crown of Mattie’s glossy chestnut head down to her bronze-toned high-heeled slippers.

  ‘Nice try in the transformation department, sweetie, but not good enough. Nowhere near good enough to hold onto a man like James. He insists on style where his women are concerned. As I should know.’

  Mattie resisted the urge to reach out and slap that lovely but supercilious face. Fiona might sound as if she came out of the top drawer, which she did, sound as if she had a silver spoon in her mouth which, if rumour was right, she didn’t because all the crested family silver had been sold off years ago, but the dress she was almost wearing said something entirely different. Something like tarty. Too low, too short, too tight.

  Fiona was a bitch. For some reason she hadn’t wanted to marry James herself, but she couldn’t stand to see him with someone else. Mattie wasn’t prepared to stand here and take her spiteful put-downs.

  ‘Style?’ she questioned with a sweet smile. ‘You misuse the word, if you’re referring to yourself. The words blatant and obvious spring more aptly to mind.’

  That got to Fiona, it really did, the veneer of sophistication blown away on a blast of temper. The biter wasn’t at all happy about being bit! The cold eyes narrowed and the scarlet mouth spat. ‘You know nothing! It wasn’t you he wanted, it was me. Always me! He was gutted when I broke our engagement. And do you know why I did? No? Then I’ll tell you. He said he didn’t want children. Ever. He even threatened that if I got “accidentally” pregnant he’d leave me to bring it up on my own. On that subject there was no room for manoeuvre. So I called the wedding off.’

  The rush of satisfaction Mattie had experienced when she’d stood up for herself drained away. She felt sick. Fiona didn’t look the maternal type, but then, what did she know? About anything?

  What the other woman had said rang horribly true. It didn’t augur well for her own situation.

  ‘However—’ the cut-glass tones lowered an octave, sensing victory ‘—I’ve had time to reconsider. I’m still as crazy about him as he is about me. And as soon as he knows I’ve changed my mind, that I don’t mind being childless if that’s what he wants, he’ll dump you because all you ever were to him was a poor second best. And if you don’t believe it, just watch me. I’ll prove it to you.’

  And she did. It was incredible, but she did just that.

  But it wasn’t really incredible at all, Mattie thought despairingly, finding a wall to lean against. Hadn’t she always suspected that James hadn’t got over losing the only woman out of the dozens that had gone before that he’d wanted as his wife?

  She’d hoped that time and the obvious pleasure he took in their lovemaking would make him forget, that eventually he’d grow to love her.

  But, watching the two of them together, she knew it wasn’t going to happen.

  Fiona must have intercepted him on his way to collect her. And now the two of them were standing close together, very close, absorbed in each other. For them, it seemed, no one else existed in this crowded room.

  His dark head was bent to hear what she was saying. He looked happy, his mouth softened into the curve of sensuality she recognised so well. It was the look he wore when he was making love to her.

  Only he hadn’t been making love to her, had he? With his body, perhaps, but not with his heart or his head. In his mind he would have been imagining he was with Fiona, his real and only love. That was the hardest thing of all to bear.

  She saw Fiona lift her hand, place her fingers against his mouth, saw him take that hand in his and then someone blocked her view, speaking to her, putting a glass of something into her hand.

  Mattie tried to pull herself out of her nightmare but could only nod now and then and hope that would pass for polite social intercourse. She vaguely recognised the middle-aged male face but couldn’t put a name to it. He was talking about some dinner party or other, mentioning other guests, so they must have met there. She wished he would go away.

  ‘Evening, Lester, I’m afraid I’m going to have to break this up.’ Suddenly, James’ hand was cupping her elbow. Mattie shuddered. He took the untouched drink out of her hand and disposed of it. ‘A supper engagement, you know how it is.’

  He looked so happy it hurt her. Because of what Fiona had been saying? The other woman had given her fair warning, after all. She looked away from him, knowing she had to harden her heart, stop feeling anything for him.

  It was still light outside, a lovely June evening. James hailed a cruising cab. Mattie said, ‘I don’t want supper. I’d prefer to go straight home.’

  ‘Why? Is something wrong?’ He looked disappointed, she conceded. Because, after his intimate tête-à-tête with the love of his life, he had been looking forward to telling her, the stand-in, to hop it, softening her up with good food and lashings of wine first. As she herself had planned on doing before she broke her own news.

  ‘I’m too tired,’ she said, diving into the back of the taxi. Time enough to tell him exactly what was wrong when they were guaranteed some privacy. She was pregnant, that was what was wrong. If he’d threatened Fiona with instant desertion if she ‘accidentally’ fell pregnant, what chance did she have of his support?

  None whatsoever. She hadn’t realised his anti-children feelings were so deep, so strong. He was damaged material.

  Yet she still loved him.

  No, she didn’t, she came back at herself, desperately trying to harden a heart that already felt as if it had been put through a mincer, all small, broken, quivery pieces. She squeezed herself up into the far corner as he joined her after giving the driver their Belgravia address. And he did look concerned, his brows meeting, his mouth a straight line as he said, ‘If you’re feeling unwell, tell me.’

  Concern? Hardly. She was misreading him. He was simply puzzled, even annoyed. He expected compliance from her, an easy passage, no female mood swings, no hassle. Sex on tap. Just sex, with no messy emotions attached. And up until now that had been exactly what he had got.

  ‘I’m not ill,’ she said through her teeth. ‘Just tired, as I told you.’ Tired of being second best, tired of loving with no hope of it ever being returned. And an impulse she couldn’t quell made her add
, ‘Did you have a nice chat with Fiona? I thought she looked particularly—spectacular—this evening!’

  She wasn’t going to say she looked like a strumpet out on the pull! She wouldn’t demean herself by letting her jealousy show through. She did have some pride.

  ‘Ah.’ Just a small sound, but it said it all. He didn’t need to elaborate. She’d heard the complacent smile in his voice, felt the release of the tension that had made the air surrounding them feel prickly.

  The intimate tête-à-tête she had just reminded him of must have been entirely satisfactory.

  The traffic had been relatively light and while he was paying off the driver she let herself into the silent house and went through to the drawing room, the sight of the bowls of flowers that reminded her of their beautiful time in Barbados, the flowers she’d insisted on having here ever since she’d taken over as mistress of his house, irritating her.

  They represented the sham her life had become.

  Moments later, he followed her. He removed his dark jacket, the soft white fabric of his shirt clinging to the width of his shoulders, tucked into the narrow trousers that clipped his taut waist, skimmed the hard muscles of his thighs.

  Mattie closed her eyes. Looking at him hurt her. Would he really wash his hands of her because she’d got pregnant, broken his rules? Even though he was just as much to blame? She recalled the vehemence of his ‘Hell, no!’ when she’d reminded him that he hadn’t taken precautions that first time and rather supposed he would.

  After all, she had assured him—believed herself—that there had been little risk of her getting pregnant at that time.

  ‘You’re very pale, Matts,’ he said, moving closer. ‘Would a brandy help?’

  She shook her head. She didn’t want his polite kindness, his spurious concern. She wanted something real for a change. A true emotion. And that was precisely what she’d get when she broke her news. The way he took it would decide her whole future, and that of their child.