The Christmas Child

She swallowed her wine and poured herself another glass, opened her mouth to tell her father that her marriage to James was off, then closed it again as something inside her tightened into a painful knot.

James himself had to be the first to know of her decision; she owed him that much. She asked instead, ‘So did you find a suitable apartment for you—and Emily?’

Was there more to this than met the eye? Mrs Flax had been with them for years, since Mattie’s mother had gone to pieces after the death of her idolised baby son. A year or two younger than Mattie’s father, the widowed Emily Flax was a capable, still handsome woman, kindly and caring. It would be wonderful if they married. Her father deserved to be happy after the dark years of loneliness.

‘Yes. About a ten-minute walk from James’ house in Belgravia, so we’ll be able to see a lot of each other after you’re married. Did you see much of James while you and Dawn were in London?’

‘No.’

Nothing. As far as she knew he had no idea she’d been away from Berrington for the past few days. Though he might have phoned. She’d check the answer machine for messages before she got in touch with him. The only contact she’d had with him since she’d agreed to marry him had been his calls to keep her up to date with the arrangement he was making: a simple civil ceremony, no fuss, no honeymoon because in the circumstances there was no point—which was unflattering but completely understandable when they both knew their marriage wouldn’t be a real one, she thought, her heart aching.

Her father, on the point of rising, sank back in his seat, a frown pulling his brows together. ‘I can’t pretend I wasn’t delighted when James told me you were to marry. I guess every father wants to hand the safe keeping and happiness of his daughter over to a man he can trust implicitly. But until recently he was engaged to that awful woman. You must have discussed it, of course. But are you sure he can make you happy?’

He could, if he loved her. He could make her the happiest, most ecstatic woman on the planet. But he didn’t. And wearing his wedding ring would make her unspeakably miserable, she knew that now. But time enough to tell her father the whole thing was off in the morning, after she’d phoned James.

‘Let me worry about that,’ she evaded, taking his empty cocoa mug over to the sink. ‘Why don’t you turn in? You did say you needed an early night. It’s gone ten o’clock already.’

And she needed time to mentally reinforce her decision to phone James and tell him she couldn’t marry him, explain that it would be wrong for both of them. Despite what he’d said, he was a normal male, with all the needs that implied. Sooner or later he’d face a temptation he would find almost impossible to resist, he’d meet some gorgeous woman who would make him forget he’d said he wouldn’t stray, make a mockery of his cynical statement that he was off the whole idea of sex.

And if he succumbed to that type of temptation he’d be riddled with guilt because he’d made a promise to her, one that was impossible to keep, and he would suffer because he was an honourable man. And she would suffer, too. Unbearably.

She barely heard her father’s goodnight and only realised she was alone when the silence tortured her nerve-endings. Time to bite the bullet, to quash the foolish, flickering hope that, given time, he could learn to love her, that their marriage could become a real one.

It simply wasn’t going to happen.

Passing through the hall on her way to the study, she slid the silk-covered buttons of her jacket from their moorings and shrugged out of it. The thought of what she was going to have to say to James was making her overheat. She’d be throwing away something so very precious.

Her throat closed up, everything inside her tightening. It was as if she were going to the dentist for a particularly gruelling session of deep-root fillings! Only worse.

She turned to head for the study and the phone but the sound of the main door opening had her swinging back, the sound of James’ voice startling her violently.

‘So you are here. I was worried; you didn’t answer my calls, Mattie—’

His voice faded. Mattie stared at him. Framed by the blackness of the night beyond the open doorway, he looked mysterious, dangerous and compellingly gorgeous. How could she tell him she wouldn’t marry him when she wanted him, adored him, with every atom of her being?