Free A Question of Pride by Michelle Reid Page A

Saturday, and she hoped to be able to make herself a pot of very weak tea before having to face them. She was, therefore, brought up short on entering the kitchen, to find James already there, seated at the table with the morning newspapers scattered about him.
    He glanced up and smiled at her. 'Tea's fresh in the pot,' he invited. 'Your mother is staying in bed a while longer—the dreaded morning sickness, you know.'
    Oh, Clea knew! She had personal experience of it.
    'I've got into the habit of taking her a tray up with the statutory slice of dry toast and pot of weak tea,' he admitted, with a touch of rueful mockery meant for himself. It must feel rather strange to James to find himself in this position at his age, but Clea had an idea that he was thoroughly enjoying his new role of prospective father.
    'Does it work?' she enquired as she pulled out a chair next to him and sat down.
    His grin was wry. 'It makes the—er—giving up a whole lot easier, I think,' he quipped, then shrugged.
    'Amy believes it helps and, in the end, that's all that matters.'
    Clea studied him over the rim of her cup. He really was pleased with himself; it showed in every word he spoke—no matter how flippant he was being. 'I suspect it's the pampering she's getting from you that does more good.' She wished there was someone who would pamper her, love her as much as James loved Amy ... Her gaze dropped to her cup; James was forgotten for the moment while she drifted off into a miserable world of her own.
    James watched her thoughtfully, his grey gaze flickering over each strained feature on her pale face.
    'Come for a walk with me,' he invited suddenly, getting up from the table and tapping her hand to gain her attention. 'Come on,' he insisted when she looked reluctant. 'It's cold but fresh outside. It may do us both good.'
    Clea complied, seeing no way out of it without offending him. It was certainly cold outside, and she huddled into her leather blouson, the collar turned up around her ears, hair caught in a high ponytail so that the heavy tresses swung as she walked in easy silence for the length of the beautifully laid-out garden.
    James indicated to a garden seat set beneath an early-blooming blossom tree, and they sat down.
    'It's nice here,' Clea sighed, glancing dully around her. 'I like the house. It has a sturdy, dependable look about it.' It was built in red brick, and had attractive, domed bay windows with criss-cross leaded glass.
    She felt James humph on a grimace. 'Add "like me", and I think I'll have to slap you,' he muttered, then let out a sigh of his own. 'Sometimes I feel my age.'
    'Forty-six isn't old, James,' Clea dismissed wearily. Her gaze was trained on the house, her body slouched in the seat, hands lost in her jacket pockets. 'I wonder, sometimes,' she went on in the same tone, 'if my visits here are solely for the benefit of convincing you two love-doves that you are not over the hill!'
    James was watching her, his expression grave as he followed the drawn line from high cheekbone to turned-down mouth. She was tall and beautifully formed, her long legs, stretched out before her in tight jeans, only emphasised her sleek shape. 'You came here this weekend to find solace, I think,' he remarked quietly.
    Clea threw him a guarded glance. 'Like—flying back to the nest when "the little black rain cloud" settles over one's head?' she mocked grimly, then slid her gaze back to the house. 'Not bad, James,' she congratulated a trifle bitterly. 'No wonder you speculate in the City so successfully.'
    'But instead of finding your much-needed solace,' he went on, refusing the warning she'd just issued in her tone. 'You find yourself further bogged down with—little surprises!'
    'The pun is in the word "little", I presume.' Despite herself, Clea had to smile.
    'Does it bother you?' he enquired. 'To be getting a brother or sister at your age?'
    'No,' she answered abruptly, and honestly, proving it by looking directly into his