by Maya Rodale, Caroline Linden, Miranda Neville, Katharine Ashe
“No wonder you weren’t worried about my mother’s special brownies.”
“Nanny’s seen it all and nothing bothers her. Mummy and Daddy have given up mind-altering substances now, in favor of extreme diet fads. Although who knows what they are up to in Bali.”
“What didn’t you mention any of this?”
“I didn’t want to frighten off a nice, normal American girl.”
Champagne trickled down her throat while joy bubbled out of her. “The irony is killing me. All my life I wanted to be normal, but let me tell you about life on the farm.”
He listened to the description of her parents’ place, asking the occasional question and laughing at her recitation of the animals, from Ferdinand the bull, through cows, goats, and chickens, all the way to Karma the cat and Dharma the dog.
‘“It sounds delightful,” he said.
“You know, it sort of is,” she said in wonder. “My parents are kind people, to one other and to the world. I couldn’t live there now, but I had a happy childhood, once I got over my embarrassment about their marital status and being so different.” She wiped traces of chocolate icing off the plate with her finger and licked it. “Now if only my dad would show up and put an end to my mother’s nonsense about leaving him. What does she think she’ll do by herself? She’ll be lost.” She sighed deeply and slumped against the nearest warm vertical object, which happened to be Harry. “Your place is pretty neat too.”
Some understatement.
“Sometimes it seems so beautiful I think I’m in a dream,” he said. She knew just what he meant; together they looked down through the fairy-tale gardens to the great house, every tall window ablaze with light.
She wasn’t trashed like the night in the Gold Saloon, just pleasantly buzzed. Maybe it was the single glass of champagne talking, but she no longer felt any reticence around Harry. “Do you know something? I was conceived at that ashram. When Mom found out she was pregnant, they came home and bought the farm as a healthy place to bring up kids.”
“I’ve known you all your life, then.” He drew her close and brushed his lips over her temple. “I knew there was a reason we never felt like strangers.”
“We did too. Our first couple of meetings sucked.”
“I was anxious about the wedding and the Internet. But I knew. The first time I saw you, when I had to back your car down the lane.”
“What?” The way he looked at her was making her dizzy.
“That you might be the one.”
Her breath hitched. “You are full of shit,” she said half laughing. “You were trying to look up my skirt.”
“Fine-looking legs and fated meetings are not mutually exclusive. In fact they complement each other very well.”
She didn’t believe him but… Her mind whirled. Could it possibly be this simple? “Perhaps you are too,” she whispered. “The one.”
He took the glass from her hand and placed it on the table. With equal care, deliberation even, he examined her face with his hands, tracing her eyebrows and nose, the rim of her mouth. Then he gave her a soft but lingering kiss. “You’re incredibly pretty.” He made simple praise sound like Shakespeare. Another kiss, and another. “I could fall in love with you.”
Oh God, total mush. Every bone in her body turned to liquid and they melted into each other. She was on her back on the narrow bench with his weight pressing her down and they were kissing like they’d never stop. He tasted of champagne, chocolate, and strawberries and every other good thing in the world.
She heard the buttons of her blouse give way, felt his onyx dress studs cold against her breast, his hands hot on her thighs as he tugged at her skirt. She wrenched her legs apart to gather him in and hit something with her foot. The sound of broken glass on stone penetrated her lust-crazed brain.
“There goes the champagne,” Harry said in a strained voice.
“That’s a two-hundred-dollar bottle.”
“Don’t care. But we are in full view of any passing paparazzi or guests looking out of the window.”
“Ew. I don’t want that creepy Snooper watching us. He’s probably already staking the place out for tomorrow.”
“Let’s go inside.”
“The house?” she said stupidly. “It’s awfully far.”
“My darling Elf! Have you forgotten that the gazebo has been furnished with every comfort for the use of our Web-surfing guests?”
Of course it had. A cooler filled with beers, sodas, and bottled water. A selection of snacks. And a couple of comfy sofas. Big ones.
Her shoes had fallen off. “Careful, there’s broken glass,” he said and scooped her into his arms and carried her into the little building. There was a lot to be said for the muscle development of oarsmen.
He’d never carried a woman around, like Rhett Butler striding up the stairs in Gone With The Wind. She wasn’t a large girl, but he was damn glad he didn’t have to manage a staircase. And that the sofa was close by. They collapsed onto it, breathless and laughing before falling on each other again.
Thanks to Arwen, Harry was about to live out another of his adolescent fantasies: shagging in the Mausoleum. Gazebo was a perfectly good name for it; no one was actually buried there. It was merely a temple filled with life-size white marble statues, benevolent shadowy witnesses in a room lit only by the fairy lights strung up outside.
Better than the fantasy was the woman who would fulfill it. His chest was light with tenderness even as he responded to her on a baser level. No one had ever made him harder or happier. “I’m in charge this time,” she said, ruthlessly disposing of his jacket and shirt. Studs and cufflinks pinged on the marble floor.
“I have a feeling you’re always in charge.”
“Turnabout is fair play.” He watched hungrily as she wriggled out of her clothes and enjoyed her naked perfection while she stripped off his lower garments, fishing a condom out of his pocket. “You came prepared.”
“Just like a boy scout.”
“Day-um, yes,” she said in what he took to be a kind of comic or regional American accent, making him laugh until she straddled his hips and the friction of her rubbing against his cock sent him out of his mind.
He was taken and ridden hard, her hands gripping his shoulders. Her hips twisted and, when she found the angle that pleased her, the clenching of her muscles drove him mad with pleasure. Their flesh grew hot in the chilly temple as their bodies clashed in desperate passion. His moans and her cries echoed off the stone walls. His eyes never left her face, beautiful in its intensity as she rode herself to climax. Then they rolled over onto their sides and he drove into her until he once more felt the shudders of her orgasm before he came.
They collapsed into a sweaty tangle of limbs and he held on to her as though he’d never let her go. Because he didn’t intend to.
“Bloody marvelous,” he said when capable of speech.
“Damn straight.”
He had to kiss her, couldn’t stop himself. He’d have liked to carry on all night, but he felt the chill on his damp skin. Groping on the floor he found his trousers and shirt. Not very elegant, but she needed something to keep her warm. He arranged the garments untidily over their shoulders and moved her against the back of the sofa to protect her from the night air.
“Thanks,” she said, curling into him. They lay in a contented silence she was the first to break. “It’s weird being surrounded by all these statues, even though they seem quite friendly. Who are they? Gods and goddesses?”
“Some of my ancestors: former Lords Melbury and their wives in classical dress.”
“So we were doing it in front of a bunch of great-grandparents. What did they think?”
“Remember, I told you my family believes in love.” No response. It was the second time he’d inched toward the word, said it even, but without declaring himself. He was mad about Arwen, but he wasn’t sure she wouldn’t bolt if he pressed her. He felt hopeful but not overconfident.
He adjusted his
position so she fit against him like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle and idly stroked her spine and the delicious curve of her arse.
Keep it light. For now.
“Will you follow in the family tradition?” Her palm ran over his right pec and shoulder, kneading the muscles. He’d better find a place for some serious rowing if he was to maintain an aspect of his physique that she seemed to enjoy. “You’d look cute in a toga.”
“I’m not sure I want to be carved in stone, every blemish recorded for posterity. What about you?”
“When the Kilpatricks and the Stantons want family portraits, they use a camera.”
“The Comptons have also discovered modern technology.” He retrieved his phone from his trouser pocket, conveniently located near her left breast. “Let’s get a picture.”
“You have to be kidding! Like this?”
“I promise not to share it with anyone else. Come on. It’ll be fun.” Half grumbling she turned in his arms, and he held the phone over them. After a few tries he had a shadowy dual portrait that she agreed was acceptable. He e-mailed it to her, thinking it would be an amusing addition to a family photograph album, an (edited) story for their grandchildren.
Chapter Nine
After Arwen kissed the “bridegroom” and sent Harry and Molly on their procession up the hill to the gazebo, she took out her phone and smiled goofily at the selfie Harry had taken last night. She couldn’t stop looking at it.
He’d mentioned love twice. Did it mean something? Did she want it to mean something? She rather thought she did.
With half her mind she dealt with complaints: from Jane’s mother, who didn’t understand the reason for the decoy wedding and was sure she was missing something; from one of Duke’s software developers who needed to go up to the gazebo and check e-mail immediately; and a particularly horny couple who had become notorious for doing it everywhere, and just wanted to be alone, anywhere.
While fending off their attempts to escape the house, she mooned about Harry and wished the wedding—both weddings—were over and done with so she could think about important matters.
Up on the hill, Harry and Molly said “I do” in front of Mark, dressed in an outfit he’d found in the attic: purple silk and breeches that once belonged to Harry’s great-great-uncle the Bishop of Bath and Wells. A dozen estate employees armed with shotguns rounded up Snooper MacBracken and a few other paparazzi, who had arrived just in time for the ceremony they couldn’t possibly miss. They went quietly. As predicted, they were anxious to broadcast to the world that Duke Austen had been married in jeans and Jane Sparks wore feathers and sequins by an unknown designer. Later it was speculated, in the days before People magazine revealed the truth, that the bride’s mother had insisted on having the gown made to her specifications.
Just as Duke, in the Savile Row suit he’d ordered for the wedding, and Jane, in Monique Lhuillier, were about to say their vows, Harry joined Arwen at the back of the great tent, lavishly decorated in Jane’s wedding colors.
“Well,” he whispered, his arm about her waist. “Are we home yet?”
“One more minute and we’ll have done it. Don’t jinx it now.”
The reception was in full roar. People were eating, drinking, talking, and dancing in another of the Super Luxurious Persian tents, furnished to resemble a Turkish harem. Six people had asked Arwen about doing weddings for them and two had expressed interest in Brampton House as the site. A number more promised to come back for vacations.
“We’re both going to be busy,” Arwen said to Harry as they took to the dance floor. “Awesome job, partner.”
“I wish you were,” he said, his English tones for once entirely serious. “My partner. It won’t be the same running an event here without you.”
She fixed her eyes on his neck, tanned against a crisp shirt of palest blue that brought out the color of his eyes. “I have a business in New York,” she said, trying to think practical thoughts when his hands, loosely guiding her hips, sent her brain to the bedroom.
“From what you told me, Valerie seems to have it under control. How about opening an overseas branch of Luxe Events?”
“I suppose I could commute back and forth between New York and London.” His palm moved around to her ass. “I can’t concentrate when you’re feeling me up like that.”
“Great news.” He did it some more. “You could have an office in the family wing here. We’ll have excellent Internet, I promise. I cannot tell you how impressive the Wi-Fi is when it’s working.”
She looked up and his smile made her even more dizzy. “The size of your bandwidth tempts me.”
“Is that all?”
No, that wasn’t all. They danced on, to a song she didn’t recognize, while she considered the madness of a trans-Atlantic life change because of a man she’d known for little more than a month. But cool logic was crowded out by the joy of Harry’s presence and a lead weight in her chest at the thought of being without him. Sure, she could handle her stressful life without his calm support, but she didn’t want to. Beneath his gaze, heated and a little bit anxious, she felt her heart become light as a feather.
Taking a deep breath and about to make the big commitment, her damned wedding planner’s brain was distracted by the bride in her white dress. It struck her as odd, for Jane had changed into something slinkier for dancing. The couple whirling by were Molly, still in the hideous decoy gown in which she managed to look rather beautiful, and a man with a pony tail and a neat graying beard wearing a bolo tie: her father, Benjamin.
Thank God.
“Arwen!” Molly called. “Hari! Look who finally showed up.”
The four of them stopped for introductions. “Do I take it you’ve forgiven Dad for having the nerve to want to marry you?”
“Better yet,” she cried. “I’ve accepted him. If I’d known weddings were so much fun I’d have had one years ago.”
“Congratulations!” Choking up a little, she hugged them both. Harry kissed Molly and slapped Benjamin on the back.
“I’m doing the wedding,” Arwen said. “What do you want? Something in a field at home with all the animals wearing color-coordinated ribbons?”
“Oh no, honey. We thought we’d do it up properly and hold it at Brampton.”
“Excellent idea,” Harry said. “I’ll give you the family rate. I expect Lionel and Sonia will want to come from Bali.”
“Wow,” Arwen said, when she and Harry were dancing again. “I didn’t expect that.”
“Our first booking. You definitely need that office.” He drew her closer so she could feel his heartbeat against her chest.
Threading her fingers through his thick dark hair she drew his head down for a kiss. “That’s not all I need,” she said.
About the Author
Miranda Neville grew up in England, loving the books of Georgette Heyer and other Regency romances. She now lives in Vermont. Her historical romances published by Avon include the popular Burgundy Club series, about Regency book collectors, and The Wild Quartet. She contributed to the anthologies At the Duke’s Wedding and Christmas in the Duke’s Arms. The Best Laid Planner, which allowed her to use her lifelong knowledge of English roads, pubs, and kitchen appliances, is her first contemporary romance. She always has the most fun working with The Lady Authors.
For more information about Miranda and her books, and a link to a fabulous feline book trailer, visit her website www.mirandaneville.com. She loves hearing from readers via email, Facebook or Twitter.
Other Books by Miranda Neville
The Burgundy Club Series
The Wild Marquis, Book 1
The Dangerous Viscount, Book 2
The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton, Book 3
Confessions From an Arranged Marriage, Book 4
The Wild Quartet Series
The Second Seduction of a Lady, prequel novella
The Importance of Being Wicked, Book 1
The Ruin of a Rogue, Book 2
&n
bsp; Lady Windermere’s Lover, Book 3
The Duke of Dark Desires, Book 4
Other Historical Romance
Never Resist Temptation
P.S. I Love You, novella in anthology At the Duke’s Wedding
Licensed to Wed, novella in anthology Christmas In the Duke’s Arms
Chapter One
Duke Austen and Jane Sparks
request the honor of your company at their wedding.
Please join the happy couple for a week of festivities and celebration.
Archer Quinn turned over the expensive invitation. It was a quarter-inch thick and gold-edged, but it didn’t list a location. “That’s weird,” he muttered.
His secretary Denise looked up. “Something wrong, Mr. Quinn?”
“One of my clients is getting married.” He looked around for the envelope. “But I have no idea where.” He tapped open the envelope and let the enclosed cards fall into his hand. One was the RSVP card with the dates of the event, which noted in small type that the wedding was being held in England, but precise directions would be disclosed only upon receipt of a guest’s acceptance, for privacy reasons. “I knew he was getting married, but I didn’t expect to be invited.”
“Who is it?”
“Duke Austen.”
Her eyebrows went up. “That will be quite an event. Are you going?”
Archer smiled halfheartedly. A week of festivities, the invitation said; he couldn’t fathom taking off that much time just to attend a wedding, not even a client’s wedding.
