The Christmas Child. Diana Hamilton

      Slurping more wine, she pointed out, ‘You haven’t thought this out. You’re going to want children.’

      He poured the last of the wine into her empty glass. She wanted chapter and verse, so he’d give it to her. He was beginning to enjoy this verbal fencing match. ‘I was ten years old when I realised that I was just a nuisance as far as my parents were concerned. I demanded things of them they were unable to give. Time, consideration, thought. Love. I was sent away to school and it was a case of out of sight, out of mind. During the holidays there was the hired help to see that I was adequately fed. If I had worries, problems, triumphs—whatever—my parents didn’t want to know. So no, I don’t want children. I wouldn’t be sure I could commit myself as thoroughly as a child deserves. My parents couldn’t bring themselves to be interested in their offspring and the laws of nature mean I’ve inherited their genes.’ He sketched a shrug. ‘I wouldn’t want to risk it.’

      ‘Oh!’ It was all Mattie could say. She wanted to throttle his parents but she couldn’t because they were both dead. Killed years ago when the light aircraft they had been in had crashed into an Italian Alp. And she wanted to tell him that she would love any child of his like the most precious thing on earth, but she couldn’t. Wanted to tell him that she could give him all the love and devotion his heartless parents had denied him. If he wanted it. But he didn’t.

      So she couldn’t do that, either. She said, her voice very soft, ‘I never knew that. About your unhappy childhood.’ It went a long way towards explaining his aura of detachment, the untouchable quality that made him seem so in control of the events and people that surrounded him. ‘You and your parents always seemed to get along together.’

      ‘When we were together, which wasn’t often, we were polite,’ he conceded. ‘I adapted as a child and learned not to wear my heart on my sleeve.’ His dark brows drew together as he glanced at his watch. ‘However, this isn’t about me, I’m merely explaining why I don’t have any desire to father children.’

      ‘And Fiona was happy with that?’ He didn’t like her talking about his ex-fiancée. Well, he wouldn’t, would he? But the wine had made her reckless, reckless enough to make an astute guess. ‘I don’t suppose she wanted to spoil her fabulous figure, or get baby dribble on her best Lacroix!’ She batted back incipient tears. He hadn’t asked if she wanted children, if she would be happy in such a sterile relationship. In fact, he wasn’t considering her feelings at all. He probably thought she didn’t have any.

      ‘What would I get out of your proposed arrangement—except the stress of having to arrange dinner parties?’ she demanded gruffly, beginning to regret her unprecedented intake of alcohol. Any minute now she would start to get over-emotional, blurt out things that would reveal her true feelings for him. Already there was a lump the size of a small house in her throat.

      ‘Mattie—’ he leaned closer, his forearms on the table, his eyes warmer now. ‘—believe me, I’ve given this a whole lot of thought. It would be a satisfactory arrangement for both of us. Forget the social entertaining side of it—you’re bright enough to get the hang of it, do anything you want to do. We get along well together, always have. I’ve enormous respect for your intelligence, your capacity for hard work. You’re no raver, you won’t play games or take me for a sucker—you’ve too much integrity. You’re comfortable to be around. You’re very soothing company. We’d make a good team. As for what you would gain from such an arrangement—’ he smiled expansively, dazzling her, making her breath shudder in her lungs ‘—you get my name, my protection, my assurance that the demands of your work will always come before your duty as my wife—I know how much it means to you. You get a good home in one of the more sought-after areas of London.’

      ‘You make me sound like a stray dog that needs to be taken in!’ she spluttered, glad to stop puzzling over the compliments that had come over as not being complimentary at all and made her sound inexpressively dull.

      James smothered a sigh. ‘You’re nearer the truth than you imagine. Your father might not have told you yet, but he’s all set to sell up and move to an apartment in town. Taking Mrs Flax. And he’s already making substantial noises about handing his shares in the business over to you, going into full retirement. If we marry, you have a home to go to and the business stays in the family.’

      She was smart enough to see the sound common sense of that, but she was looking more poleaxed than ever. He tugged in a slow breath and asked gently, ‘What do you see as the problems from your side? Face it, Matts, you’re twenty-five years old and as far as I’m aware you’ve never been in a relationship. If your ambitions had run along the lines of a husband and family you’d have done something about it before now. Got out more, shown an interest in what you wore. Done the things a woman does—you know, hairstyles and make-up. That being said, where’s the harm in two people who like and respect each other teaming up and forming a successful partnership?’

      Mattie stared at him, her eyes wide and unfocussed. She felt as if the bottom had dropped right out of her life and suddenly marriage to James seemed a rock she could cling to. Forget his astute reasoning behind his desire to control her father’s fifty-per-cent holding in the company, forget that he didn’t love her, and never could. She could handle that; she’d had plenty of practice over the last decade.

      What she couldn’t handle was this sense of betrayal. She had believed that her father, at least, saw her worth, valued her. But he hadn’t bothered to consult her over his decision to sell the family home, hand over his business shares.

      It really hurt.

      Early on in her life she’d realised she was a disappointment to her mother. Straight, lank hair, plain little face, skinny body. Nothing her mother could do made her pretty—she’d told her so often enough. When her beautiful baby brother had been born her mother had as good as forgotten she’d existed. And when he’d died from meningitis she had gone to pieces, had never recovered, shutting both her daughter and her husband out until, eventually, she’d left them.

      But she, Mattie, had discovered how to make her father proud of her. Good grades at school. Not only good, the best. She’d learned to keep her head down, keep at her studies, make the best get better.

      But he couldn’t have been proud of her, rated her very highly. If he’d thought anything of her he would have discussed such life-changing decisions with her first. Wouldn’t he?

      She stood up unsteadily, the sight of her barely touched meal, the dregs of wine in her glass, making her feel slightly nauseous.

      ‘I’ll marry you, James. Just let me know the date and venue and I’ll be there.’