Christmas Child

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.’