She was transferring dishes from the trolley to the table which had been laid in the velvet-curtained window alcove. Gleaming mahogany set with silver, crystal, a small vase of sweetly scented freesias, candles—the whole caboodle.
She moved beautifully. Gracefully.
Had the sloughing of the smothering things she normally wore liberated her body, freed it up, so to speak? Or had her movements always been so elegant and he hadn’t noticed?
‘We don’t want people gossiping about us and our marriage, do we?’ she asked him earnestly, pointing out, ‘It might suit us perfectly, but that’s between the two of us. If it became known, or even suspected, that ours is a marriage in name only, you would have no protection whatsoever from the droves of females who throw themselves at you—which is what you wanted. And I don’t want to be sneered at because I’m married to a man who doesn’t fancy me in the least.’
Didn’t fancy her? Was she winding him up? he thought irately. Did she dress and put on her make-up without looking in a mirror!
Dammit, what man wouldn’t fancy her, take one look at her and imagine how it would be to slide those fragile straps from those creamy white shoulders, slip the filmy black fabric slowly away from those rounded breasts, dip his head to taste—?
Gritting his teeth, he forced his thoughts from that dangerous path, forced himself to look deep into her eyes, then slowly exhaled, reassured, deeply contrite for his initial unspoken flare of anger.
The golden irises were Mattie’s, his Mattie’s. Wide, trusting, innocent. No hint of teasing. Definitely no hint that she’d been winding him up. And she did have a point. Of course she wouldn’t want to be a source of sniggering speculation. She didn’t deserve that. And she almost certainly wasn’t aware of the deplorable effect she was having on him.
And hadn’t she just said that the type of marriage they’d entered into suited her perfectly?
‘So let’s eat,’ he suggested lightly as he walked across his elegantly furnished drawing room to join her at the table where she was cradling an unopened bottle of wine on her exquisite bosom.
Somehow he was going to have to explain about the way men were. Delicately. That went without saying because, despite the way she looked, Mattie was still wet behind the ears in the matter of sexual behaviour.
‘Would you open the wine? Somehow I always seem to make a mess of it.’ She sounded strangely breathless, still clutching the bottle to her body, her gaze wide and ingenuous. James slanted one dark brow upwards, his mouth softening. She was still the vague, impractical Matts he had grown fond of over the years. How could he have imagined that she’d suddenly transmogrified into a siren?
‘Of course.’ He reached for the bottle. Big, big mistake. Inevitably, given the way she was clinging to the wretched thing, the backs of his fingers grazed the underswell of one exquisitely formed breast. The shock of feeling the firmness, the warmth of the lightly scented flesh through the insubstantial barrier of fabric, sent deep shudders rocketing through the length of his body.
Ye gods! If they were to stick to the sort of marriage that she herself had said, only minutes ago, suited her perfectly, then the lecture he was about to give her couldn’t start soon enough.
His hands were still shaking as he drew the cork, his eyes drawn unwillingly to the grace of slender, naked arms as she ladled what looked like pheasant in a rich red wine sauce onto a plate, adding tiny wedges of crispy roast potatoes.
‘Greens?’ she asked, the small, long-fingered hand that held the silver server hovering over a dish of broccoli. A small smile played at the corners of her mouth.
He nodded curtly, pouring wine. Why had he never noticed the enchanting dimple at the side of her mouth? Because he’d never really looked at her before, he told himself wryly, just accepted the way she looked—at least, the way she used to look—as he would accept the shape, size and colour of an old piece of furniture that had been hanging about the place for years.
He had never seen her potential, never even thought about it. But Dawn had, drat the woman, leaving him with warning bells clanging in his brain, loud enough to permanently deafen him.
‘Mrs Briggs is a wonderful cook,’ Mattie said as they sat down. ‘But, as you told me, she is slowing down. And I’m next to hopeless. So, as I see it, the best way to jump the hurdle of large-scale business entertaining, with almost no notice, is for me to suss out various catering establishments—the sort that work at the speed of light—and make arrangements with them. Mrs Briggs and I can manage the table settings, flowers and so on. I can’t see there’d be any problem. Can you?’
‘What?’ James shook his head to clear the red mist from his eyes. He had barely heard a word she’d been saying, he’d been looking at the way the candlelight enhanced her, casting warm shadows over exposed flesh, deepening the mystery of her, glancing off those high cheek-bones, intensifying the pouty shape of her mouth.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered hoarsely. ‘I’m sure you can work something out. And talking of work, when will you be starting your next project? Did you choose a room for your study?’
This he could handle. He metaphorically grasped the subject with both hands. With her work to engross her everything would return to normal. He was pretty damn sure it would. Out would go the fancy stuff she’d taken to wearing—the soft, lemon-yellow suit she’d worn to the civil ceremony of marriage yesterday and had been particularly fetching—and back would come the comfortable sludge of baggy sweaters, droopy skirts or shapeless old jeans that always seemed several sizes too large.
He’d be out of temptation’s way. The temptation to discover her, know every delicious inch of her, find out for himself whether that ultra feminine body, those sensually full lips would live up to the promise that seemed to be exuding from every pore of her skin.
He shifted his chair closer to the table. Allowing his thoughts along that particular road was having the expected yet, under the circumstances, disastrous effect on a certain part of his anatomy.
But, ‘No,’ she said, laying down her cutlery. ‘Mrs Briggs and I did carry my boxes of stuff up to one of the spare rooms, out of the way. And I’ve been in touch with the agency I use and told them I won’t be taking on any more projects for a while. I want to be a proper wife to you, James.’
A proper wife! Did she know what she was saying?
The way she was looking at him through her lashes, dimpling slightly, would suggest so. He picked up his wineglass and drained it. He was getting overheated again, overreacting. Matts didn’t have a seductive, teasing or wily bone in her body.
And she confirmed it. ‘My job description as your wife includes acting as your hostess, arranging your social diary. Now I’m not used to that sort of thing, as you know. I’ve led a very quiet life. But I won’t let you down, I’ll get my head around it. And for the sake of appearances, I do think it would be politic for us to be seen around together. Act the part of any normal, newly-married couple. Not that this marriage is normal,’ she quickly assured him, ‘but we don’t want everyone—and that means everyone who knows about what happened with Fiona—to know it, too. So we do need to spend a lot of time together.’ She gave him a soft, commiserating smile. ‘Pudding?’
‘No. No, thank you.’ He shook his head distractedly while she served herself a generous slice of bilberry tart, smothering it with fresh cream.
Spend a lot of time together? Wasn’t that why he’d gone into the office today—to put himself out of reach of temptation?
The temptation to make love to his own wife!
The situation was getting farcical. It was time he told her as it was.
‘Matts—perhaps we should have some plain speaking.’ His voice sounded distinctly hoarse. He cleared his throat. ‘We both know what we want out of this marriage. Comfortable companionship for starters, nothing more, nothing less. The business staying in the family, as it were. For you, a good home, the freedom to pursue your career, to run my home as you see fit without having to
play second fiddle and gooseberry to your father and Emily Flax—I think we both know which way that particular wind’s blowing, don’t we? And for me, a wife to deter the hordes of women on the make out there. As I told you, quite frankly, I’ve had it up to here—’ he slashed a line across his throat ‘—with kiss-me-quick, gold-digging harpies. Anything female under fifty, for that matter!’
‘Oh.’ she widened her eyes and laid down her spoon. ‘I’m nowhere near fifty!’
‘Of course not. But you’re not female, either.’
‘I’m not?’ Thick lashes fluttered. The tip of a pretty pink tongue captured a speck of cream from the corner of her mouth.
James shuddered. Lord, was he ever making a pig’s ear of this!
‘What I meant was,’ he said desperately, ‘that I’ve never thought of you as being a female. Just Mattie, brainy and studious. Comfortable to be with and, unlike others of the female sex, totally undemanding of male time and attention. I mean—’ he leaned his arms on the table, warming to the subject, needing to get his message through to her ‘—have you ever given me come-hither looks, asked me if the shade of lipstick you were wearing suited you? No, of course you haven’t. Asked me if whatever it was you were wearing would look better without a bra? No, of course—’ He choked off the words. Why the dickens had he used that example when it was perfectly obvious she wasn’t wearing one?
He made a huge effort to pull himself together, to take control of a situation that was in danger of getting out of hand. ‘Look, what I’m trying to say is I’ve always thought of you as a kid sister.’
‘When you thought of me at all,’ she came back snippily.
Sharp, that. He sucked a deep breath in between his teeth. Hell, no way did he want to hurt her feelings. And of course he’d thought of her. Often. As a little mouse, stuck in her ivory tower. Poring over her books. As different from the brittle, glittery, ultra-sophisticated females who had drifted in and out of his life as it was possible to be.
But anything less mouse-like than his newly-wedded wife was hard to imagine! That was the crux of the matter.
‘Naturally, I’ve thought of you,’ he assured her quickly. ‘After all, I’ve known you for ever. I watched you grow up, applauded louder than anyone when you got your degree, and earlier,’ he reminded her, because suddenly he couldn’t bear it if she thought that she’d never been more than a shadowy, insignificant non-entity in the background of his business partner’s life, ‘when the mother you hadn’t seen or heard of for years was killed on the streets of Manchester by that joy-rider, my first thought after going with your father to formally identify the body was to comfort you. So, yes, Mattie, I have thought of you.’
‘You were very kind,’ she said softly, her eyes limpid. She remembered every word he’d said, the way he’d folded her in his arms and comforted her. She would never forget. It had been then that she had fallen in love with him, the infatuation that had been her secret for the past two years changing into something so much deeper, so very permanent.
‘Yes, well,’ he said gruffly, ‘I’m not asking for plaudits, just reminding you that I have thought of you. As a sister, almost, like I said.’ He dragged in a breath. It was important to stress that aspect of their relationship. Now this was the tricky part. ‘Not in a sexual way at all. We both knew what we wanted from this marriage, and sex definitely wasn’t a part of it.’
Liar, he derided himself. What he most wanted, right now, was to take her to bed. But that would be a monumental mistake, and bad news for her because it wasn’t what she wanted, either. She would never have agreed to a paper marriage if she’d had any feelings for him in that direction.
‘Sex muddies things,’ he told her. ‘It gets in the way. It might be great while it lasts. But it doesn’t. Last, I mean. And neither of us wants that kind of messy complication in what could otherwise be a mutually advantageous partnership.’
He pushed his chair back from the table and levered himself to his feet. Beginning to sweat now. But he made sure he sounded kind, slightly amused, even, when he told her, ‘However, I am a fully functional male, and the way you’ve taken to dressing recently could lead to the type of complications neither of us wants. For our mutual peace of mind I suggest you dress as you used to. I’m sure you understand what I mean.’
Hell—he was coming over as a pompous, patronising nerd. And perhaps he’d put the whole thing badly. But it was said now and he needed to get out of here. Needed a cold shower. He hadn’t felt so out of control, so much at the mercy of his hormones since he’d been a randy teenager!
‘I’ll say goodnight,’ he muttered hoarsely and raced for the door.
Mattie stepped out of the little black slip dress Dawn had insisted was perfect for her and hung it carefully back in the wardrobe with all the other goodies.
If James had his way, she would never wear any of them. Part of her agreed with him. What she was doing was scary. And, if she were to be cruelly honest with herself, decidedly sneaky!
What was it Dawn had said? ‘What have you got to lose? Nothing. So go for it, girl, pull out all the stops. I told you you’d be gorgeous if you made the effort. And if James has seen you as the knock-out you really are, and you’re married, living together, then it doesn’t take a genius to know that sooner or later you’ll end up doing what comes naturally!’
Mattie sighed. It came right up from her toes. Dawn had said she had nothing to lose. But she had. She could lose his friendship, his respect. And she didn’t want him driven to the point of having sex with her—which was what the poor love had been warning her of over dinner tonight. She wanted him to fall in love with her, and that was very different.
An impossible mountain to climb. Hadn’t he told her, when he’d first proposed, that he didn’t believe in the condition?
Jumpy as a kitten on a bed of thistles, Mattie opted for a long soak in the bath instead of her usual quick shower. But it did nothing to relax her and she resigned herself to an uneasy night as she pulled her voluminous cotton nightie over her head, craving the comfort of the familiar and refusing, absolutely refusing, to put herself in any of the slinky satin and lace things that Dawn had insisted were de rigueur for a new bride.
Dawn. Had she made a huge mistake when she’d taken her old friend fully into her confidence, swearing her to absolute secrecy?
That night, only just over a week ago, she’d been convinced that the only sane thing to do was to tell James she couldn’t marry him. But the look of totally unprecedented, blatant male appreciation in his eyes had put her on such a high that she’d done no such thing, as certain as she could possibly have been that, given time, their marriage could become a real one. That, for him, love could grow from such a beginning.
The following morning her mood had swung the other way entirely, helped by the fact that he must have left well before she’d come downstairs to make him breakfast. Just a note in his bold, distinctive hand, left on the kitchen table: “Matts, pack all the gear you don’t need for the coming week. I’ll send someone round to pick it up on Wednesday and transfer it to Belgravia. Speak to you soon.”
He hadn’t even hung around long enough to say good morning! His interest in her went no further than the convenience of having a quiet, unobtrusive wife in the background to ward off female predators.
If the gorgeous creatures who had sashayed through his life with monotonous regularity—culminating in the top-drawer Fiona Campbell-Blair—hadn’t been able to win his love, what hope did she have?
The look she’d seen in his eyes the night before had not been appreciation; how could it have been? Surprise that she was actually wearing something that fitted her, was colourful and suited her for once in her life was much nearer the mark.
Confused, not knowing which way to jump, she’d phoned Dawn and told all. Only to receive the advice she was now acting on.
Bad advice, she thought mournfully. She shouldn’t have listened. When she’d finally come to her senses she sho
uld have acted on what her own brain was telling her, not gone whining to Dawn whose eternal optimism bordered on the insane!
She should have extricated herself from this mess when she’d had the opportunity, not allowed herself to hope, because hope was getting her nowhere, just earning herself a warning-off from a man who didn’t want to find himself wanting sex with her!
Sex wasn’t what she wanted, either. Well, she did—of course she did. With him. He was the only man who had ever made her feel like this. But not sex without love, because it would be meaningless—demeaning, really, if he didn’t love her.
And he didn’t.
Mattie thumped the pillow in a sudden excess of temper, then sagged back weakly, tears springing to her eyes. This was just going round in circles. She’d made her bed and was going to have to lie in it. The trouble was, she didn’t know how on earth she was going to manage it.
CHAPTER FIVE
MATTIE slept in until just gone ten, partly because she hadn’t fallen asleep until the early hours and then only managed fitful snatches and partly because she didn’t want to have to face James—not after last night which, with hindsight, was deeply embarrassing.
But, confident that he would have already left for his office in the City, she pulled her cosy old quilted robe over her bunchy cotton nightie and wandered, bleary-eyed, to the kitchen in search of several cups of strong black coffee to get her kick-started.
‘So there you are, madam!’ Mrs Briggs’ smile was warmly approving. ‘I’ll bring the breakfast through right away, shall I? Mr James is in the study; perhaps you would tell him?’
Mattie’s heart dropped down to the soles of her small bare feet. Why had she taken his departure for the work that would always come first with him so much for granted? And it was painfully obvious from the twinkle in the housekeeper’s faded brown eyes that she thought her new mistress had been sleeping off the effects of a night of steamy passion! Now she would have to face him, the thought made her feel decidedly uncomfortable.
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