Her Knight Under The Mistletoe. Annie O'Neil

the bric-a-brac shelf in a family lounge. He hadn’t had to grow up having to prove his worth amongst such a broad pool of high achievers. Nobel laureates. University wings bearing the family name. Heaven knew she’d spent a lifetime trying to prove herself worthy. Only to fail time and again.

      Before she’d had Tristan she’d thought she might just crawl her way back into the good books via her medical career.

      After she’d borne a son out of wedlock to a man she refused to name her parents had made it clear she never would be a “true” Wakehurst.

      “You don’t strike me as the pottery type.”

      Amanda knew it was a lame riposte, but she was clawing for purchase after being casually hip-bumped off the edge of a cliff. Matthew was so calm and in control, and all she could think about was just how throaty a groan he’d given when she’d treated first one and then the other of his nipples to hot, swift licks, chased up by tiny nips of the teeth and then kisses as she’d worked her way down that broad, steely chest of his to more...southern climes.

      “How very astute.”

      Matthew’s smile seemed to suggest he knew what she’d been thinking—which only made turning off the hedonistic thoughts more difficult. She might as well hand him the job on a platter. But she needed it more than he did. Needed the money to raise his son.

      “I was at the museum to see an exhibition of Greek and Roman medical instruments. The only route to get there was through your aunt’s collection, so I had no choice.”

      Amanda bridled. Was that his way of saying, You might have had your wicked way with me once, but never again, my sweet? Fine! She wasn’t interested in revisiting that night either. Not by a long shot. Just because being in the same room with the man was wreaking havoc with her nervous system...

      Oh, pish-tosh to him! It was hardly as if her family had put the exhibit in the way of his precious ancient scalpel display on purpose.

      “Aunt Tilda was the family pariah,” Amanda quipped.

      Just like her. It wasn’t as if announcing her “unsuitability” as a Wakehurst would make a difference to any of the labels Matthew had already lacquered her with. Titled. Privileged.

      If only he knew how far she’d fallen...

      “Sounds like you admired her...spirit.” Matthew’s lips twitched into a smile as she shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

      “There’s nothing wrong with taking your own path!” Whoops. Her lips thinned as she swallowed back the rest of her retort.

      The crease between Matthew’s brows deepened into a single furrow, then smoothed. “That’s not quite how we see things in the military.”

      She knew how they saw things in the military. Black and white. Just like her parents. Just like John.

      A hit of acid shot up her throat. Best not go there.

      Dr. Menzies was watching the pair of them with the intent interest he might give the final match at Wimbledon. Deena was being even less subtle. And was a few steps behind in the conversation.

      “Your auntie has things in the British Museum?”

      “Yes. My great-aunt. She was...she was a unique character. I really admired all the things she achieved. Especially given she did it without the support of her family.”

      She gave herself a mental high five. She’d come this far without the support of her family, and when things got tough She channeled her great-aunt for inspiration.

      Amanda had found the stories about her completely thrilling. A Victorian Adventuress, she’d called herself. A complete madwoman, according to her parents. Much the same thing they called Auntie Florence, who had inherited Tilda’s house when she’d decided to become a painter, and now, of course, Amanda also bore the moniker of madwoman after her...colorful youth.

      Using her trust fund to fly to Las Vegas for the weekend only to end up married to “a bit of rough” from the East End of London had definitely not been one of her better decisions.

      It would have been fine if he’d loved her. But discovering her new husband’s affection had worn off precisely at the moment she told him her parents had cut her off financially had come as a blow. He hadn’t been able to find enough words in the dictionary to let her know how useless he thought she was.

      When she’d spat back the same sentiments to him, the soldier in him hadn’t been able to sign up for another tour fast enough.

      “Better to fight for freedom than to live with a ball and chain,” he’d said as he’d slammed the door shut, duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

      And she had laughed. Laughed.

      When she’d been made a widow at the ripe old age of twenty-one everything had changed.

      It had been as if each particle of joy that had lit her up inside had been switched off. Even more so when she’d gone to her parents for support. Assuming she was only after money, they’d told her it was time for her to grow up. Show some spine.

      Spine?

      They wanted spine? They’d see spine.

      From the moment the door to her parents’ house had closed she had become consumed with a drive to prove them wrong. Prove she was worth more than a mention in the society pages. It wasn’t as if they’d offered her much loving support throughout her childhood. She knew her au pairs better than she knew them. There had never been a gala or dinner party left unattended on their watch. Couldn’t they see how lonely she’d been? How desperate for their affection?

      It was only when she’d been named the youngest doctor in Britain to run her own trauma unit that she had been ushered back into the Wakehurst fold. And that was how she’d found herself at the party that night with Matthew.

      And a few months later, when she’d begun to show, she’d gone straight back to being persona non grata.

      Illegitimate children did that to a family whose raison d’être was ramming a wedge between the privileged and pretty much the whole of the rest of the world who weren’t lucky enough to have been born with the right surname. How her mother could never see that it was just dumb luck to be born into a life of privilege...

      “So!” Matthew clapped his hands, jarring her back to the present. “Was I right? Is this chilblain-inducing home of yours in Bedford Square?”

      She gave him a quick nod. If she wasn’t mistaken, he was putting a bit more emphasis on the “bed” than the “ford.” Cheeky so-and-so.

      Unbidden, an image of the pair of them, completely naked and pressed together as if their lives depended upon it, burnt at the frayed edges of her reserve of cool, calm and collected.

      “Good guess,” she replied as neutrally as she could. “It’s really convenient for the hospital. Just a hop, skip and a jump!”

      She smiled brightly at Dr. Menzies, then turned to give Matthew a let’s-see-what-I-can-figure-out-about-you scan—before stopping herself midway because the man was just too damn sexy for words. He was six-foot-something. She’d fit easily under his chin. Not that she imagined being in a nestling hug with him or anything... One that would feel so protective, with those strong arms wrapped round her, that wall of chest assuring her that everything would be all right. Promising that her son would always be looked after... Their son.

      Again she found herself lost for words as she stared into those beautiful blue eyes of his.

      How am I going to tell him I am the mother of his child?

      “Matthew, here, has a short journey too,” Dr. Menzies contributed, clearly oblivious to the frisson between his pair of would-be directors. “Just across the river—isn’t that right, Matthew?”

      Matthew shot the doctor a difficult to discern look. One that probably said the same thing she’d felt when Matthew all but heat-detected her bedroom in