over the top?’ enquired Daisy as she leaned precariously over the oak bannister to fasten it so that it hung in fragrant green loops.
‘A bit,’ said Mrs Hamilton. ‘But I expect he’ll love it. He’s been away too long—let’s give him a really English Christmas.’
Daisy thought that she heard the sound of a car’s tyres swishing to a halt on the gravelled drive, and she quickly ran downstairs to peep out of the window.
‘He’s here!’ she said, her voice rising with the excitement which had been building up inside her all day. ‘He’s home!’
She watched as the sleek, dark car glided to a halt in front of the big old house. She was, she realised as her heart hammered away crazily, still an absolutely hopeless case where Matt Hamilton was concerned. Some things, she had discovered ruefully, simply never changed.
She peeped out from behind the heavy richness of the crimson velvet curtains into the gloom of the December afternoon, where the first white flakes of snow were beginning to fall from a pregnant, gun-metal-grey sky.
‘What’s he driving?’ asked the car-mad Mrs Hamilton as she patted her hair in front of the mirror.
Daisy, who was completely useless where cars were concerned, screwed her eyes up so that she could just make out the silver badge which adorned the front of the vehicle. ‘It’s a Bentley, I think—a big, dark green Bentley. Very staid.’ She remembered him driving home in the black, phallic Porsche which had so suited his effortless transformation from Cambridge scholar to hugely successful international financier. But Matt was a family man now ... ‘I’ll go and open the door for him,’ she said.
But by the time she reached the heavy oak door the old-fashioned bell was jangling imperiously, followed by a loud thumping which could not possibly be ignored, and she pulled the door open to the tall figure who stood like some dark, avenging highwayman amidst the cold flurry of snowflakes.
It was not how she had dreamed his home-coming would be.
Matt scarcely acknowledged her as he walked straight past her; he was too busy shielding the baby from the snowflakes which had started to come down in earnest. A bundle of thick white blanket was clasped against the shoulder of his black sweater and at that moment it gave a protesting little squawk.
‘Hell! I’ve flown from one blizzard straight into another!’ he exclaimed, then gave his aloof, rather enigmatic smile which nevertheless could melt the coldest heart. ‘Hello, Mother.’
‘Hello, darling.’ Mrs Hamilton offered him her cheek.
And then the smoky grey eyes were turned in Daisy’s direction. ‘Hello, Daisy,’ he said slowly, in the familiar, deep voice, but she thought that it sounded harder, more cynical than she remembered, and his smile was strangely gritty.
‘Hello, Matt,’ she whispered.
The years had only increased the sheer physical impact he made when he walked into a room. He was tall and lean and rangy, and his eyes were the colour of a stormy sea, his hair as black as a moonless night. The angular slant of his high cheekbones and the firm, jutting squareness of his jaw made him look like some chivalrous Knight of the Realm, who had strayed inadvertently into the wrong century.
The bundle at his shoulder gave another protesting squawk, and his mouth underwent a dramatic and devastating transformation as it widened into the tenderest smile Daisy had ever seen.
‘And this is Sophie,’ he said softly, loosening the top blanket to reveal a chubby-looking baby of about eight months. ‘Little Miss Sophie Hamilton. Say hello to Grandma and to Daisy, darling.’
‘Hello, Sophie,’ beamed Mrs Hamilton, and two wide grey eyes looked around at her with interest.
The baby was the absolute image of her father, Daisy realised as she stared into the smoke-coloured eyes which were so like Matt’s, and at the thatch of dark hair which was already beginning to hint at a recalcitrant wave. ‘Oh, she’s absolutely beautiful!’ exclaimed Daisy involuntarily, and Matt looked down at her and gave her that swift, indulgent look he had always reserved just for her, and for a moment Daisy’s heart stirred into ecstatic life—as it had always stirred when Matt looked at her like that.
‘Isn’t she?’ he said quietly as the baby wrapped her tiny fist around his finger.
‘Shall we take her into the drawing room?’ asked Mrs Hamilton. ‘It’s much warmer in there.’
‘And I’ll make a tray of tea,’ said Daisy, and shrugged when Matt looked at her questioningly. ‘Mother’s away—Poppy’s baby is due any time now.’
‘So Daisy’s filling in for her,’ put in Mrs Hamilton quickly. ‘Doing all the cooking and housework until her mother comes back. Isn’t that good of her?’
‘That depends on whether your cooking has improved,’ he said, giving a theatrical shudder, ‘since you made me that disastrous birthday cake for my eighteenth.’
She remembered the chocolate-covered confection which had looked exactly like a cow-pat. ‘Of course it has!’ she answered indignantly.
He looked unconvinced. ‘Well, I’m not risking it for Christmas lunch,’ he drawled. ‘Think you can book us a table somewhere, Daisy?’
‘I can try.’
‘Good. Oh, and Daisy?’
‘Yes, Matt?’
‘All this domesticity—it isn’t affecting your schoolwork, I hope?’
‘Of course it isn’t!’ she answered hurriedly, and she sped hastily off in the direction of the kitchen before he could read the damning lie in her eyes.
She slammed around putting scones onto a plate and adding hot water to the teapot, thinking that he had always been such a tyrant where she was concerned. Didn’t he realise that she was no longer a child he could boss around? She was eighteen, for goodness’ sake! Old enough to vote. To get married . . .
She added a milk jug to the tea-tray, mentally trying to justify to herself why she had left school so suddenly.
Part of the trouble had been that she had been a year older than the rest of her class-mates, thanks to a badly set broken leg which had had her in and out of hospital for the best part of a year. That year had isolated her, so that when she had eventually returned to school she’d felt an outsider. Added to which she’d been left with a slight limp in her left leg, which had only recently disappeared completely, and she had been badly teased about it for a long time.
In fact the limp had been a pain—in more than just the literal sense. Because it had altered everyone’s attitude towards her. Her mother had fussed. Mrs Hamilton had fussed. Only Matt had refused to let the slight physical defect make any difference to his attitude towards her.
The scent of apple-logs filled the air as Daisy carried the tea-tray into the room. Mrs Hamilton had Sophie dangling on her lap over by the big bay window in which the Christmas tree glittered, and Matt immediately rose to his feet and took the tray from Daisy.
His grey eyes glinted as they looked her up and down assessingly and Daisy found herself, absurdly, blushing.
‘Risking
