At the Billionaire’s Wedding

by Maya Rodale, Caroline Linden, Miranda Neville, Katharine Ashe

  Unwilling to insult Nanny’s notion of haute cuisine, or hurt her feelings, Arwen swallowed some of the nauseating concoction while answering questions about what exactly a wedding planner did.

  “We hope to have lots of weddings here,” Harry said. “We should pick your brain.”

  “How much I do depends on the bride. Sometimes a girl has been planning her own event practically since the cradle and my job is to make her dream a reality, usually within the bounds of an impossible budget.”

  “Is Miss Sparks like that?”

  “We went to high school together and she was always pretty laid-back. She knows what she wants, but she isn’t unreasonable. Still, when you’re engaged to a billionaire, your standards are different from a professional woman who needs to squeeze every drop of value out of her hundred grand. Not that I blame my clients,” she added hastily. “Weddings are expensive.” She could have said a lot more about the demands of outrageous Bridezillas who could leach all joy out of a wedding planner’s job. She put on her best tough businesswoman expression, developed to browbeat recalcitrant caterers, florists, and banqueting managers. “This afternoon I would like an in-depth tour of Brampton House so I know I can deliver what Jane wants. I never settle for less than perfection.”

  Harry looked less than browbeaten. “Are you full or can you find room for some Stilton?”

  “Yes, please,” she said with fervor.

  The cheese and crackers were divine with the wine and the meal concluded with a fruit compote drenched in heavy cream. Apparently low-fat was not a known concept here. Luckily for her chances of staying awake that afternoon, Harry made espresso served in exquisite demitasses while Nanny fixed herself a huge cup of instant. “That foreign coffee’s too strong for me,” she said. “I like a nice English cup of Nescafé or Maxwell House.”

  “Are you ready for the tour?” Harry asked. Instinctively she reached for her phone to check email and messages, before she remembered.

  “You said there were places I could get signal,” she said.

  “Bedrooms first?”

  “And then the public rooms and the hotel kitchen. I assume your guest won’t be fed on meals produced on that.” She nodded in the direction of the giant black stove.

  “And then the Mausoleum. A lovely spot to make telephone calls, with a view that would inspire anyone to eloquence.”

  “I’ve always heard that England is full of history but I had no idea the dead were equipped with cellular service.”

  “I told you Brampton offers all modern conveniences.”

  Chapter Two

  Miss Arwen Kilpatrick had a mind like a computer and the body of a Turkish sultan’s favorite harem girl. The first Harry found enviable, the second mesmerizing, and the combination irresistible and frequently distracting from the details of bedrooms and bathrooms and room service. He was confident that the conversion of two stories of Brampton to hotel rooms satisfied the blend of country house elegance and state-of-the-art luxury for which he planned to charge his guests a fortune. But Arwen left nothing to chance. Watching her prod the mattresses and inspect chests of drawers gave him ample opportunity to examine her less cerebral virtues.

  “Why aren’t there fridges and minibars in the rooms?” she asked, bending down to peer into an empty cupboard.

  He dragged his dirty mind from an appreciation of her assets. “May I remind you that we are doing a favor to Duke Austen by opening the hotel early to please the fantasies of his historical romance writing bride?”

  “For which you will be well compensated.”

  “Of course,” Harry said. “Without mini-bars, the future Mrs. Jane Austen’s wedding guests will be able to imagine themselves in the pages of a Jane Austen novel.”

  “I saw the Keira Knightley version of Pride and Prejudice. Those Bennet girls lived in a pretty filthy place.”

  “That was Longbourn,” he said firmly. “Think of Brampton as Mr. Darcy’s house.”

  “Right, Pemberley. No mud. Will you have footmen in powdered wigs?”

  “Unfortunately, it’s hard these days to find trained staff prepared to dress that way, especially at short notice.” He didn’t add that most likely room service would be delivered by local women who would have to be talked out of Gap jeans and into maids’ uniforms. “We’re still working on finding people but I can assure you that there will be no lack of comfort. Now for the honeymoon suite.”

  Even the steely-eyed wedding planner seemed impressed by the first Lord Melbury’s rooms. In their youth, the current Melburys had furnished them like an eastern souk. All the pseudo-Ottoman drapes and pillows had been tossed out, along with the leaky hot tub. The original gilded plasterwork was restored at vast expense, and the original furniture dug out of the attic and spruced up with the most lavish pseudo-eighteenth-century materials Colefax & Fowler could provide. My Lord’s dressing room became a bathroom, complete with a brand new Jacuzzi bathtub. Arwen sat on the edge of the massive four-poster bed and tested it with a delicious bounce. “Good mattress,” she said approvingly.

  His throat went dry and he turned away so she wouldn’t see him licking his lips. Down, Harry. This business was too important to blow.

  “Okay, I think we’re done up here. Now for the reception rooms.”

  He was happy to see even Miss New York Elf struck silent by the State Rooms. As he pointed out the features of the three chambers he was, as always, awed by their magnificence and reminded why he had chosen to live in this impractical house. Realizing that she wasn’t taking in his history lesson, he let her admire in silence.

  “Wow,” she said in the Gold Saloon. “Just wow. Can we use these? I feel like I should be wearing white gloves to even touch anything.”

  “It wouldn’t do to get too wild in here, but I—we—intend to let them out for formal occasions.”

  “Am I allowed to sit down?”

  With a little bow he offered a Chippendale armchair, part of several groupings of seats arranged around the sixty-foot-long room. “You look dazed. Is it the wonders of Brampton or jet lag?”

  “A little of both, I think.” She sat down with her back straight, as though frightened to connect with the tapestry back. In her neat black jacket and tidy jeans she seemed like a creature from another planet set down in the seventeenth century. The contrast pleased him. But then pretty much everything about her pleased him.

  “Relax. You won’t break it. Thomas Chippendale made furniture for gentlemen with giant bellies from consuming large amounts of roast beef and three bottles a day. Does jet lag always hit you hard?” He took the matching chair on the other side of the fireplace.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been to Europe before. I studied environmental science and did my study abroad in Central America.”

  “We’ve tried to watch our carbon footprint in designing the hotel. The swimming pool is heated with solar, for example. How does one go from environmental science to party planning?”

  Finally accepting that Chippendales were for sitting, she leaned her head back and half closed her eyes. “I was in the middle of a rain forest in Costa Rica waiting for the rain to stop with nothing to read in the camp except a stack of ancient American magazines. I found a feature on Malcolm Forbes’s famous seventieth birthday party in Morocco and I was enthralled. I realized I quite desperately wanted to be there with jet planes, and beautiful gowns that didn’t smell like mold, and fruity drinks, and above all dry desert air, instead of where I was.” She paused. “I sound shallow, don’t I? It’s not that I don’t care about pollution and global warming and so on, but I didn’t want to devote my life to it. I think I only chose the major to please my parents.”

  “Oh yes, them. The things we do because of our parents.” Damn. He’d left himself open to awkward questions. Not that she’d shown much personal curiosity about him. She believed he was some kind of not-so-glorified lackey and, for the moment, he preferred to leave it at that. “What’s the most lavish event you’ve ever
planned?”

  “Nothing like the Forbes bash. This one, I hope.”

  “I remember reading about an Internet magnate holding a Lord of the Rings style wedding that cost ten million dollars. I thought maybe that was one of yours. The name, you know. You have to be the queen of hobbit-inspired parties.”

  Arwen took his teasing in good part. “That was Sean Parker of Facebook. I’ll have you know that I wouldn’t touch a Tolkien-themed event, even for the commission on ten mil. No orcs, ents, or hobbits is stipulated in my contracts.”

  “Is Duke Austen’s wedding going to cost that much? I do hope so.”

  “I bet you do. And it’s my job to make sure my customer isn’t overcharged.” She was wide-awake and all-business again.

  “I have been duly warned and terrified.”

  “What exactly is your job around here?”

  “I am the representative on the spot of the Brampton Estates.”

  She rose shakily to her feet and he could see that computer mind going back to work. “I’d better move before I fall asleep. I don’t think we can hold the wedding in here. It’s a big room but there isn’t room for almost a hundred guests to sit down.”

  “We’ve always assumed big ceremonies and receptions would be held outside in marquees. Tents, I mean. As soon as you’re ready we’ll go to the gardens. There are all sorts of possibilities.”

  She had no trouble seeing them. Harry was awed by the way she envisioned a village of tents and awnings among the terraces, gardens, and lawns that stretched down to the lake from the south front of Brampton. She seemed to be able to calculate measurements in her head, using her phone only to write down a few notes, her small fingers flying over the screen.

  “We can make this work. I think the lawn will be best for the wedding itself.”

  “Risky. It can rain a lot in August.”

  She nodded. “I’ll have a backup plan.”

  He took a deep breath. That sounded awfully promising. “Are we going ahead with the wedding here?”

  “I’m not ready to commit. I’ll need to see the kitchen and make a few calls. Where’s this cellular hotspot you promised me?” She followed Harry’s pointed finger up the hill to the Mausoleum, a domed temple surrounded by an open colonnade that soared above the park.

  “That gazebo thing?”

  “It’s a Mausoleum.”

  “That’s depressing. Can we rename it?”

  “If you hold the wedding here you can call it anything you like.” Thus ruthlessly tossing out the two-hundred-and-fifty-year history of one of William Kent’s most inspired creations. Arwen looked weary at the sight of the steep hill.

  “Why don’t we call it a day? We have plenty of time tomorrow. You should sit down and rest. Watch telly, read a book, sleep.”

  “I’m here to work,” she said, as though relaxation was a foreign concept.

  “No one should work all the time.”

  “I do. Wedding planners have to be on the job twenty-four-seven.”

  “Sounds grim.” Also what he’d always heard about Americans and their work ethic. “Shall I carry you up the hill?” he said softly.

  An absurd offer, for a quarter mile walk, even with a smallish girl in his arms. But she was a smallish girl he rather desperately wanted to get close to. Spending weeks with the wedding planner was another incentive for getting her to agree to Brampton as the site of the billionaire’s wedding.

  She shook her head. “No need. My calls can wait. Let’s take a look at that solar-heated swimming pool.”

  Brampton House was fabulous. Of this Arwen was convinced, after an afternoon touring the house and grounds followed by a disgusting dinner—thank God for Stilton and red wine—and her much-needed and totally comfortable bed. She awoke feeling jet lag free and ready to get to the bottom of any major potential problems before she okayed the wedding.

  She found Nanny in the kitchen concocting something dire over the AGA, which she’d learned was the correct name for the monstrous stove, and watching the news on a small television nestling among cookbooks, piles of magazines and antique china on a priceless wooden hutch. Refusing fried eggs and Nescafé, she accepted a container of yogurt—the first syllable rhyming with jog according to Nanny—and eagerly awaited the arrival of Harry. Not that she was attracted to the handyman, not at eight in the morning at least, but he was the only one who could operate the espresso machine.

  “Have you been at Brampton long?” Arwen asked Nanny.

  “I came to Lord and Lady Melbury thirty years ago. I had another job for a while, but H— … but I came back to be cook and housekeeper here five years ago. I’m a pensioner, but I don’t think much of retirement. I like to be busy and I don’t like knitting. It’s a shame we have to turn the house into a hotel, but it can’t be helped. It’s too big to live in and I never liked seeing it open to the public. All those day-trippers dropping sweet papers on the floors and in the grounds. Don’t they teach children not to litter?”

  “I’d hate to see people spill things in the State Rooms.” Arwen envisioned them as the site of the rehearsal dinner: cocktails and hors d’oeuvres in the Blue Drawing Room, dinner in the State Dining Room, and dancing in the Gold Saloon, which, far from a seedy bar turned out to be the swankiest room in the house. The thought of a bunch of drunken techies in such an environment did concern her.

  Nanny smiled indulgently. “Boys will be boys and luckily you can get champagne out of anything. I could tell you such tales of parties they used to have here when Lord Melbury was young and later…” She paused. “Let me just say we’ve seen some quite wild times at Brampton.” Whatever it was she was concealing, she didn’t seem to disapprove. Discretion about the family, perhaps.

  “Do the Melburys have any children?” Arwen had assumed Nanny was a nickname but perhaps it was an occupation requiring a title, like Doctor or Professor.

  “Good morning.” Harry’s mellow tones came from the doorway. “You’re looking rested,” he said with a glint of admiration in his blue eyes. He smiled at her in an unsettling way. Flustered, she tried to smooth her thick hair, which was completely insane, either because of the English water or the English hairdryer.

  “Bacon and eggs, dear?” Nanny asked.

  “Yes please, but first coffee for Arwen. Cappuccino or latte?”

  “Latte please.” Harry the Handyman was a hero and she could have kissed him right there.

  Fortified by caffeine, she was determined to remain businesslike and not be distracted by how cute he looked holding a tiny cup of espresso in his big hand. Her father always said that real men took their coffee black, though he probably didn’t have demitasses in mind. “I’d like to see the kitchen this morning. By noon I must find signal for my phone and call my partner in New York.”

  “Partner?” Harry raised his brows. “What kind of partner?”

  “Valerie, my partner in Luxe Events. She’ll be coming to join me here nearer to the wedding.” Harry looked gratified. “Assuming I decide to recommend Brampton to Miss Sparks and Mr. Austen.”

  “What can I do to persuade you?”

  “Is it your job to persuade me?”

  “For the moment, yes. On the financial side Mr. Austen has been conducting his negotiations with the man of business for the Brampton Estates. I’m here to answer your practical questions.”

  “Like where’s the Internet?”

  “I expect to have service restored by tomorrow morning.” He smiled winningly, but Arwen resisted the urge to be won. Eight in the morning was far too early to be lusting after muscles. And twinkling blue eyes should never affect one’s decisions. Time to get tough and ask some hard questions.

  Arwen knew how to ask the questions he’d rather not answer. By four o’clock, Harry felt like he’d been put through a wringer. On the plus side, the telephones were working, though not the broadband. It was time to call in reinforcements. He escaped to the estate office, put his feet up on the desk and punched numbers into the th
ankfully functional phone.

  “Mark? It’s Harry. I need you to come to dinner.”

  “Tonight? I love you but I need a bit more of incentive before I make a two-hour drive, especially when I have a hot date.”

  “You have to come and impress Duke Austen’s New York wedding planner.”

  Mark whistled. “That would be a coup. Those Internet billionaires are vulgarly extravagant, with an emphasis on the extravagant, just the way we like our customers. The press are mad about them so it’ll be great publicity. What seems to be the problem?”

  “She’s mad about Brampton, but she’s a bit worried about the level of service at the hotel. I need you to reassure her.”

  “Tell her the truth,” Mark said impatiently. “That the best hotel manager in London has been bribed to leave Claridges’s and take over the job.”

  “I did, but he doesn’t start for three months.”

  “Since you aren’t planning to open for four, that’s about right.”

  Harry coughed. “I might have told her we could host this affair a month from now.”

  Mark’s laugh carried the same disbelief with which he’d greeted the news that ten-year-old Harry had a crush on the headmaster’s wife. “You’ve lost your mind. You don’t even have a commercial kitchen license.”

  “I’ll see if I can hurry up the inspectors.” Hopefully he’d have better luck with the Food Safety Department than with the telephone people. “She already understands that our kitchen staff isn’t in place and she’ll have to use a caterer. It’s guest comfort that concerns her. I told her our brilliant temporary manager comes to us from the Delaville Group.” A perfectly true statement. Mark had spent all his university vacations learning the business from the ground up at his family’s international chain of luxury boutique hotels. He had a little money and a lot of expert advice invested in the conversion of Brampton House to luxury resort.