Mattie managed the disguise of a smile, albeit a tight one as she reluctantly turned to do as she was bid. The older woman’s bewildered suspicions of the day before seemed to have been allayed so she should be feeling pleased with herself. But she wasn’t.
So, OK, last night she had told James that it was important that they nip possible speculation and gossip in the bud, that to the world at large they should appear as a deliriously happy newly-wedded couple.
This morning, though, she felt ashamed of herself. If they went down that road they would be living a lie, and she didn’t like the idea of that. No, more than that, she hated it.
Her slender body shuddered beneath the smothering folds of her positively frumpish nightwear. She was going to have to be completely honest with him.
Well, not completely honest. She couldn’t tell him how she really felt about him—it would humiliate her and embarrass him. But she could tell him he had been absolutely right. The way they conducted their marriage was no one’s business but their own. They didn’t have to pretend because it didn’t matter what other people thought.
A complete contradiction to what she’d said last night. But then, she hadn’t been herself, had she? She’d been a painted, perfumed, silly doll, pulled out of character by what Dawn had said and her own mysterious descent into stupidity.
This morning she was back to being herself. An ordinary—a very ordinary—woman, with enough brain power to recognise how stupid she’d been, and enough character to stiffen her backbone and get on with a way of life she’d allowed herself to be talked into accepting.
She could cope with being the paper wife of a man she had always adored, the only man she had ever wanted to make love with. Of course she could. She could do it because she had no other option.
But she wasn’t so sure when she pushed open the study door and saw him. He looked as fiercely, compellingly male as ever. He was wearing a beautifully cut hand-crafted dark suit, his austere features dangerously uncompromising, and his potent presence sent a shaft of shuddering sensation down the entire length of her body, making her bare toes curl into the deep pile of the carpet.
He ended the call he’d been making and stood up, the height and power of him overwhelming. ‘Good morning, Matts.’ His smile was perfunctory, as if her late rising irritated him. ‘I need to spend time at head office again today,’ he told her, ‘but I managed to get two tickets for The Haymarket tonight. We can go for supper.’ The tone of his voice was urbane, detached, chillingly smooth. ‘Breakfast?’
‘Yes, Mrs Briggs said she was bringing it through,’ Mattie mumbled, wishing she weren’t so aware of her unalluring attire, weren’t so tinglingly aware of him! ‘You really needn’t have waited; I overslept.’ She was scurrying ahead of him, stumbling over the hem of her bulky robe, her voice breathless because he was following closely, putting her in a tail-spin.
Flinging open the breakfast-room door, she gritted her teeth. Somehow she was going to have to get back to normal, cope with the effect he always had on her. She’d done it before, very successfully; she could do it again.
‘You could have eaten hours ago,’ she said thinly.
‘And missed the opportunity of breakfasting with my brand-new wife? I don’t think so. What would Mrs Briggs think?’
His voice was the rough-edged purr of a great jungle cat. Mattie shuddered. He had taken her misguided comments of last night on board and was acting on them. Hence this encounter and the theatre tickets. And how on earth he’d managed to get two seats for a production that was sold out for months to come was beyond her. Clout, she supposed glumly, and wondered what she thought she was doing, married but not wedded—in the strict sense of the word—to one of the world’s shakers and movers.
‘Here we are, then!’ the housekeeper cried, trundling her heated trolley into the quiet, wood-panelled room.
Mattie swallowed a gulp of shame. The wretched contraption Mrs Briggs was pushing reminded her far too clearly of the silly charade she’d played out over dinner last night.
‘Bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms, juice, toast and coffee,’ Mrs Briggs recited happily, placing the offerings on the small oval table with the air of a conjurer pulling rabbits out of a hat. She beamed at them. ‘Will you both be in for lunch?’
James shook his head. ‘Working, I’m afraid,’ he said, managing to sound suitably regretful. ‘Darling?’
Mattie stared at the plate of food he’d put in front of her with shuddering distaste and felt her face flame. Calling her darling was taking things too far. He didn’t mean it, and it was unnecessary. She was going to have to tell him she’d changed her mind about the garbage she’d spouted last night.
‘I’ll be out, too, Mrs Briggs,’ she said in a squeaky voice she didn’t recognise as her own. ‘Shopping.’ For something suitable to wear. She should be hung, drawn and quartered for letting Dawn bully her into cramming all her old things into bags for the bin men to take away!
‘And we won’t be in this evening. I’m taking my wife to the theatre and we’ll grab something to eat later,’ James stated, pouring coffee for them both. ‘So I suggest you put your feet up, take things easy.’ His smile was pure charm. ‘You can run along now, we’re happy to look after ourselves.’
Mattie bit her lip as she caught the older woman’s look of flustered pleasure. Did he know how easily he could charm the female of the species—no matter what her age or situation? Did he use it like a weapon to get what he wanted?
Whatever, this morning he was well and truly back to normal. Smooth, urbane, but definitely detached. Very different from the obviously uncomfortable male who’d confronted her last night and as good as told her to get back into the sort of things she used to wear before he jumped on her!
Before she could work out whether the frisson of wicked delight at the idea that she could, if she kept flaunting herself at him, drive him to the point of doing just that was totally out of order and thoroughly despicable, he said levelly, ‘Matts, about what I said last night.’
‘Hmm?’ She dragged her unfocussed eyes from the view of the part of the winter-bare garden that could be seen from the tall sash window and unwillingly looked at him.
His dark brows were pulled down, his slightly hooded eyes steady. ‘I was wrong to tell you what you should or should not wear. I had no right.’
It was the last thing she’d expected to hear. Colour flooded her face. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she cut in quickly. She didn’t want to think about why he’d told her to revert to her sackcloth-and-ashes style of dress, and she didn’t want him to think about it, either. For either of them to think of sex in the context of their present relationship was far too intimate. It would make her resolve to cope with the situation even more difficult than it already was.
‘It does matter.’ He reached for toast and spread it with butter. ‘To my certain knowledge you’ve never given a thought to the way you look, simply pulled on the first lumpy old thing you found in the morning, tied your hair into a bunch and got on with your day.’ He smiled at her across the table, as if to rob his words of any insulting intent, and Mattie grabbed her coffee-cup, cradling it with both hands.
That smile transformed his almost frighteningly strong features, revealing the compassion and the caring that very few people suspected him capable of, the side of him that had transformed the fantasy of her young love into something rock-solid and enduring.
She gulped miserably. Everything would be so much easier if he treated her like a stranger who happened to be living under his roof. Perhaps she should open her mouth and tell him as much.
But he said, leaning back in his chair now, watching her, ‘I can’t tell you what you should or should not wear, Matts, you have a perfect right to show yourself off as the gorgeous, striking, sexy woman that you are.’
Again that smile, accompanied by a minimal shrug of wide shoulders. ‘Forget what I said last night. Forget what you perceive my reputation to be. I don’t have uncontrollable
urges to leap on every beautiful woman I see! You’re quite safe from unwanted attentions,’ he added a touch dryly.
‘Oh!’ For the moment she could think of no other response, her brain was whirling too fast to make the stringing together of words that made logical sense an impossibility.
Gorgeous, sexy, striking—his words beat at her mind. Did he really, truly think that? But safe. From unwanted attentions. He could take her or leave her, was that what he was implying? But if she told him his attentions were wanted, would he—?
‘Oh!’ she said again. Swallowed her coffee, gathered herself, dragged in a breath deep enough to swell her lungs to bursting point and decided to come clean, to put things straight. ‘Look, designer gear isn’t really my style. Quite honestly, I don’t much care what I wear. When Dawn suggested I had a make-over, I objected at first. But then I decided to go for it. I wondered if it was possible to—’ she shot him an agonised glance, revealing past pain ‘—to look presentable; not pretty, I knew I could never be that. But more—female. That was something I’d given up on, you see.’
‘Since when?’ The silver eyes were kind now, the long years of brotherly friendship there. Not veiled with amusement, either, the shimmer of laughter that had been there when viewing her ham-fisted attempts to master anything vaguely practical.
She took heart. He was her friend, above all else he was that. She had always been able to talk to him. She could confide in him now.
‘Since I was a scrawny, plain little thing with gingery hair and what I was told was a permanent scowl,’ she answered. ‘My mother despaired, poor thing. She wanted a cute, cuddly daughter and she got me instead. Then Liam was born. He was a beautiful baby, blond, blue-eyed, cute dimples, a heart-wrenching smile. I can imagine her sigh of relief when she gave up on me and turned all her attention to him.
‘When she went away I knew it was partly my fault. If I’d been beautiful, like the child she’d lost, she could have loved me, and stayed with us. You see, after Liam died she couldn’t bear me near her—’ she was speaking earnestly, making him understand ‘—then when Dawn pushed me into changing my image I thought that maybe I could prove my mother wrong, prove to myself that I wasn’t the ugly no-hoper she’d made me believe in.’
‘You were never ugly, or a no-hoper,’ James told her, the savagery in his voice carefully contained. ‘You are lovely. And that is precisely why—’
‘You think I should carry on wearing—’
‘Exactly.’ His heart kicked with an unexpectedly strong emotion. Had Mattie’s mother still been alive he would have told her exactly what he thought of her. She had effectively killed her daughter’s confidence in herself as a woman. The cruelty some parents inflicted on their children was beyond belief—yet not unusual, as he knew only too well.
He stood up from the table, walked round it to stand beside her. ‘I have to go now. Be ready to leave at seven.’ He leaned over and brushed her cheek with a kiss, and his voice was gentler than she had ever heard it. ‘Finish your breakfast, Matts.’
And ten minutes later she was still there, the tips of her fingers on the skin his lips had touched. He had never kissed her before. It hadn’t been a real kiss, of course, but he hadn’t been playing to the gallery, either. Affection. It was a start, wasn’t it?
She hadn’t got round to telling him that she’d been wrong last night, that they didn’t have to pretend their marriage was something it wasn’t for the benefit of other people. Tonight. She’d tell him tonight.
In the meantime, she had things to do. She didn’t want him to find her too sexy, or too obvious. Affection, she thought with an upsurge of hope, was a much more solid base to build on.
Mattie put on her make-up, painstakingly recalling the instructions she’d been given. She supposed that one day it would become second nature—always provided she lived that long!
Her hand hovered over an army of lipsticks in shiny, gold-coloured tubes. She opted for the palest. Putting her steel-framed glasses on, she read the tiny label. ‘Hint Of Pink.’ A hint was all that was required. Forget the lush scarlets, the shimmering bronze tones, the glowing cerise that, even to her own eyes, made her mouth look like a crushed peony.
Pale pink it was, then. She applied it carefully then stood up, wincing as she pushed her aching feet into the heavy, flat black shoes that had been her final purchase of the long, dark winter afternoon.
Shopping in Oxford Street had been a nightmare. Cities always stressed her. The crowds, the traffic, the endless streets of buildings gave her claustrophobia, made her long for the open spaces, the wide skies and sheer peace of the Sussex downs.
But she was on a mission and wouldn’t allow herself to give up until it was accomplished. At least Dawn wasn’t with her to push her at over-the-top, far too expensive designer labels. She would stick with the chain stores.
At least she now had clothes that weren’t too showy or provocative. Despite her husband’s change of heart she would dress as she felt fit. Driving him to think lustful thoughts—even if he’d said he wouldn’t act on them—wasn’t on her agenda. If their relationship were to develop it would need more than basic animal instincts as a foundation.
If.
Suddenly swamped by negative thoughts, she eyed her reflection. Who the hell did she think she was kidding? Of course he wouldn’t fall in love with her.
So, OK, he’d as good as admitted he found her sexy when she was all dressed to reveal. So what, he could handle it, hadn’t he said so, only this morning? For as far back as she cared to remember he’d been swarmed over by females far more glamorous and seductive than she could ever hope to be. And he hadn’t fallen in love with any of them.
Except Fiona, of course. Despite what he’d implied—that he’d picked her merely because he’d needed a wife and Fiona had fitted the bill because she was beautiful, came out of the top drawer and would be a credit to him—she didn’t buy it. He had loved Fiona, he must have done, and she had hurt him badly.
So why the heck should he forget everything Fiona had meant to him and fall in love with her?
It was out of the question and she should do herself a favour and stop even thinking of the possibility.
At least he wouldn’t find her even remotely sexy in this thing. A grey suit. It fitted but it didn’t flatter. Everything she’d bought today had been grey, with the exception of a couple of unexciting tops in beige. Nothing startling. Startling was out.
A comb through her gleaming hair and she was ready. She kept her reading glasses on because they made her look even more staid and sensible.
She’d do.
Spot on time, she clumped downstairs to keep her theatre date with her husband.
‘Do you really need to wear your glasses?’ James enquired mildly as he shot out a hand to save her from blundering into a large woman wearing a fake fur stole over a shiny emerald dress.
‘Of course. I do intend to read the programme.’ She repressed a shiver. The warm strength of his hand made her breathing rapid and shallow.
‘The stage will be a blur,’ he warned. ‘You won’t see a thing.’ Amusement enriched his voice and his fingers closed more tightly around her arm.
‘You can let me go,’ she snipped because she had to. Any more physical contact and she’d be wriggling into the side of his lean, hard body, melting closer and closer. She just knew she would. She wasn’t made of stone. ‘I’m not about to fall over my feet.’
‘Looking at those shoes, I’m not so sure.’
She ignored the amused dig at her choice of foot-wear and wrenched her arm away. She knew he’d been silently laughing at her ever since she’d stumped into the drawing room and found him engrossed in his light reading—the financial pages of the evening newspaper. She’d seen it glittering in his eyes, heard it in his voice. Well, laughing was better than lusting. Wasn’t it?
‘I think we’d better find our seats,’ she reminded him, peering round the thronged theatre foyer. It was years since s
he’d been to see a play, and that had only been in the village hall, the local school children doing The Importance of Being Earnest. Badly.
In an odd way she was looking forward to it. To broaden her social horizons? Or because she’d be sitting close to James, close enough to touch, close enough to revel in the spicy male scent of him, to feel his warmth?
Not a real question because she knew the answer. She despaired of herself!
She had refused to remove her reading glasses, but had perched them on the end of her nose so she could watch the stage over the top of them. Uninterested in the performance, James watched her profile, the curling sweep of her thick, long lashes, made smudgy by the dim lighting, the clear line of her neat little nose, the pout of soft lips and firm line of her jaw where the sleek fall of her hair caressed it, the poetic length of her throat.
Her obvious attempt to hide the delectable attractions of the ultra feminine body she’d only just discovered she possessed beneath the matronly grey suit, clumping shoes and steel-rimmed glasses had amused him. Now it made his heart lurch with a fierce, elemental tenderness that he had never experienced before.
Matts had certainly taken his warning about jumping on her to heart, despite the reassurances he’d given her this morning. Was she really afraid of him? Didn’t she know he would never do anything to hurt her?
Silently, vehemently, he cursed his lack of control the night before. A lack of control that shamed him in more ways than one. He, who justifiably prided himself on his ability to control every aspect of his life, had lost it. The way she had looked had turned him horny. Had made him issue those crazed stipulations.
He didn’t know what the hell had come over him—dammit all, it was a scant six weeks since his broken engagement had supposedly turned him off women and the messy complications of sex for the rest of his life!
Christmas Child Page 6