The Christmas Child. Diana Hamilton

his home and his social diary with clockwork precision?

      Aware that he was scowling, he forced himself to lighten up as he accepted the generous measure of single malt Edward handed him, sank into one of the stiffly upholstered chairs arranged around a rather fine Chippendale tripod table and asked, ‘Where’s Mattie?’ the unprecedented anger at her temerity in passing judgement on something she knew damn-all about beginning to fade with the first gulp of excellent liquor.

      In any case, it had been an unworthy emotion. He hadn’t directed his anger at Edward who had expressed the same opinion, had he? The events of the last week must have affected him more than he’d realised.

      ‘Flapping around in the kitchen,’ Edward replied. ‘With Mrs Flax being away it’s going to be very much a case of pot luck, I’m afraid. Outside her work, Matilda’s as organised as a parcel of two-year-olds lost in a maze.’

      James took another comforting mouthful of whisky. Poor Mattie! He’d foisted his company on them and he knew darned well that, without him, they’d have settled for bread and cheese or something out of a tin until the housekeeper returned. He wasn’t going to let her get stressed out on his behalf. Over the next day or so he’d help her. They’d share the load. The decision surprised him, but he’d stick with it.

      Far from flapping around in the kitchen, Mattie was in her bedroom staring gloomily at her reflection. When she’d heard the sounds of James’ arrival she’d become horribly aware of the way her jeans and sloppy sweatshirt had suffered throughout a long morning spent, not very successfully, in the kitchen, followed by the afternoon scramble in the woods that backed onto their gardens, cutting holly to decorate the dining room.

      But she didn’t look a whole lot more appealing in the soft brown skirt and fawn sweater she’d changed into. Still damp from the quick shower she’d taken, her shoulder-length chestnut-coloured hair looked almost black as she screwed it back in its usual bunch at the nape of her neck. And her skin was too pale and there was nothing she could do about the peculiar yellow colour of her eyes.

      Frowning, she turned from the mirror and collected her discarded clothes for the laundry. There was no point whatsoever in using make-up. She knew she was plain, had always known it. And no amount of staring at her reflection would alter an unremarkable nose, a jaw that was too wide or a mouth that was too fat!

      James wouldn’t notice if she served dinner dressed in a sack. Mouse, that was what he sometimes called her. That was the way he saw her. Something small, quiet, grey. Insignificant. She knew all that, didn’t she? Had accepted the stark truth of it years ago. Why the self-critical appraisal now?

      So get a grip, she admonished herself tartly. He’d never done a single thing to encourage the way she felt about him. Was—heaven be praised—totally unaware of the deep-rooted emotions she had where he was concerned. So deep-rooted that she’d never once actually noticed any other man, not in that way, had never been tempted to follow the example of her friends at university and indulge in casual affairs.

      Instead of mooning over what could never be she should be down there, trying, in her own quiet way, to offer him kindness and understanding over the next few days, hopefully doing something to help ease the anguish of his broken heart.

      Stoically ignoring the pain in her own heart, she lifted her chin, straightened her spine and hurried downstairs.

      ‘Of course I’m going to help prepare lunch,’ James stated unequivocally the next morning. ‘I don’t expect to be waited on hand and foot. Besides…’ one dark brow arched humorously ‘…neither of us has fixed a full-scale Christmas lunch before; the results could be fun.’

      Mattie bit down on her lower lip. Hard. Did he have to look so rivetingly gorgeous? Did her wretched insides have to go into spasm whenever he was around?

      Dressed this morning in hip-hugging, narrow grey trousers and a casual black cashmere sweater that displayed a breadth of shoulder that just invited a girl to snuggle into, he was six-two of male perfection. Top that by the austerity of hard-boned features, and silvery-grey eyes made sultry by heavy lids and lashes that were as thick and black as his hair and you got an endlessly fascinating combination.

      Stop it! she growled inside her head. Think of something else. Anything.

      ‘If you’re afraid of a repeat performance of last night’s supper, don’t be,’ she said as lightly as she could. It had been a complete disaster. ‘The quiche was soggy, the salad still had bugs in it and the mince pies were about as edible as lumps of tarmac.’

      She was wearing one of Mrs Flax’s cotton overalls and it swamped her. Pulling her reading glasses out of a capacious side pocket, she fixed them on her nose. Looking as she did, like someone kitted out for the frump-of-the-year show, was some sort of protection. It served to drive home the fact, emphasise it, that in his book she would never be worth a second glance.

      Reputedly ruthless in business, he had always been kind to her—when he’d got around to noticing her. But that was all. Absolutely all. Sometimes she thought he actually found her amusing and at others he didn’t seem to see her, looking through her, rather than at her.

      Pulling in a deep breath, she rallied, explaining soberly, ‘Fact is, I panicked. Did everything wrong. Because Mrs Flax does all the cooking I’ve never had to learn. But that doesn’t mean I can’t. It has to be entirely a matter of logic and planning. So I sat up last night and made lists, read cookery books, assembled—’ Aware that his gorgeous eyes were sending dancing silver glints in her direction, she broke off, adding tartly, ‘I’ve got the whole operation planned, down to the last frozen sprout.’

      The exercise had left her with bags under her eyes but had at least taken her mind off the fact that he was sleeping under the same roof. Or not sleeping, lying awake, mourning his lost love. ‘And I’m sure you could spend the morning more profitably with Dad. I know he’s eager to discuss the funding of the hotel complex project in Spain—or was it Italy?’

      ‘Spain,’ he said. ‘And that can wait.’ She looked so earnest, her hair scraped back from her plain little face, her owly glasses slipping down to the end of her neat little nose, her golden eyes serious. She was bringing her impressive thought processes to bear on the problem in hand.

      Bravo Mattie!

      ‘Nevertheless, I’m going to help you. If nothing else, I can peel potatoes, supply you with coffee, mop your fevered brow. I promise you, I shall enjoy it. Enjoy your company.’

      And that was the truth. It didn’t surprise him in the least. Mattie was always comfortable to be around. And watching her grapple with alien practicalities—the way her quirky brows would pull together with a frown of concentration, the pink tip of her tongue peep from the corners of her mouth, just as it had done when she had been trying to master the mysteries of her word processor—would amuse him, would take his mind off—off other things.

      ‘If that’s what you really want.’ Mattie pretended to consult the lengthy list she’d left on the butcher’s block table. He wouldn’t enjoy it. He would know that the makings of a huge Christmas lunch that Mrs Flax had left in the deep freeze would have stayed right there if he hadn’t invited himself here. He was doing what he would see as his duty.

      She would not let herself believe that he really did enjoy being with her. She wasn’t into self-delusion. But James, in this warmer, noticing mood was dangerous stuff.

      And went on being dangerous to her equilibrium right through the holiday, his easy charm taking her breath away, making her sometimes believe in that old chestnut that if you wanted something badly enough it came to you. Only occasionally did he seem to withdraw into darkness, his eyes deeply thoughtful, brooding, she was sure of it, on his lost love. Not that Fiona’s name had been mentioned, not once.

      This morning, the day James was due to leave, her father had taken himself off for a walk, complaining that he’d eaten far too much. ‘You did us proud, Mattie,’ he’d said, sounding astonished. And then, as if inner enlightenment had been granted, ‘But then, James was around to see you didn’t