At the Billionaire’s Wedding

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

  In the meantime, everybody assumed they were real and unfortunately, Damien had to keep up the charade—even while joining the stag party for a day of shooting with the armed and angry groom and all of his friends.

  Duke’s stag party was made up of a bizarre group, including a bunch of geeky developers, an assortment of billionaires and millionaires, and, oddly, an English lord or two.

  Duke had stubbornly worn his uniform of jeans and a free T-shirt, though he conceded to fashion and tradition by adding a hunting jacket. Some of his friends dressed like him, but others—the hipsters, Damien thought with a cringe—took this opportunity to layer themselves in tweed trousers and flat caps, Barbour hunting jackets, and Hunter boots.

  Someone—perhaps the best man, his assistant, or the wedding planner—ensured that everyone was gifted with a flask engraved with their initials and brimming with whiskey.

  The drinking began immediately.

  It was eight o’clock in the morning.

  Damien had been born and raised an English country gentleman. He’d been hunting and shooting since the age of four. He wanted very badly to comment on how adorable it was to see them all dressed up and pretending to know what they were doing.

  But the loaded guns.

  And the whiskey.

  And the pictures that were not supposed to be public.

  Damien was more than capable of defending himself against them. But as a gentleman “in the wrong” he was obliged to let them take their shots—in a manner of speaking. That didn’t mean it was agreeable to him.

  He took a swig from his flask and thought of Roxanna. If she were here, she would probably best them all. For some reason, he was sure she was a terrific shot. If she were here, he would have the perfect person to whisper snarky comments to. She would diffuse any tension with a sarcastic remark, or twenty. She was, in short, the kind of woman a man wanted by his side. Badly. Always.

  He took another swig of his whiskey.

  Us. We. The talk.

  They had almost had that conversation yesterday, but he sensed that she was just as skittish as he. Things were perfect; why ruin it with labels?

  Damien lounged against a tree, shotgun at his side, taking occasional swigs of whiskey and brooding over a woman. What a start to the day. This stag party couldn’t start fast enough.

  After a basic shooting demonstration for the novices, presented by Jacobs, the gamekeeper, they all set out for a day of adventure, but most likely danger in spite of taking all the necessary precautions.

  “I don’t know about you, but giving these guys loaded shotguns and whiskey seems like a terrible combination,” Piers said, after strolling over to Damien.

  “Someone is going to shoot their eye out,” Damien cracked. “At least they are not angry with you for ruining the wedding.”

  The two of them were clearly the grown-ups in this group—as well as the only ones who had grown up shooting.

  “I’m surprised to see you here,” Kyle said, coming up to Damien and Piers.

  He had been introduced earlier as one of Duke’s developers, and Damien would have guessed as such. Kyle was in his mid-twenties and wore a hunting vest over his plaid shirt, and a pair of heavy boots. “I thought you’d be out at the hen party.”

  Damien stared at him coldly. Kyle hastily added, “To take pictures. For the Internet.”

  “Or are you here to take pictures of us to leak online?” some other guy, Dave, with thick, black-rimmed glasses, asked. He was decked out in tweed breeks, a vest, and a flat cap.

  “He’s here so we can keep an eye on him,” Duke said, glaring mightily at him. Damien stifled a sigh. “Also, he was invited.”

  “Is he the reason we had to leave our phones behind?” asked Rupert, another one of Duke’s developers. “I feel bereft.”

  Everyone adopted tragic expressions. Damien bit back laughter.

  “Yeah, and he’s the reason I had to spend an hour consoling my fiancée and her mother. They were both upset about the photos being leaked and it fucks up our deal with People magazine. They wanted exclusive pictures in exchange for a donation to Little Paws Rescue. Archer might be able to save it. But if not…” Duke turned away from his group of friends to level an accusatory stare at Damien. “You have deprived the puppies and kittens.”

  If it weren’t for the shotgun in Duke’s hands, Damien would have laughed. But that was why he wanted to laugh. It was a bit rich, championing the animals while embarking on a day of shooting.

  “I wasn’t the one to post the pictures,” Damien said, pointing out a minor technicality.

  “But it was you who threatened Roxanna with being fired if she didn’t. What was she supposed to do?”

  Given that he had done no such thing, and had no idea how that rumor started, he wasn’t sure how to answer that. Nor was he clear on what stories Jane and Roxanna had concocted, or why. He’d do best to keep his mouth shut and let them think whatever they wanted.

  His newspaper depended on it.

  But Damien wasn’t thinking of that now. His thoughts were drifting to Roxanna, and marveling at the efforts she made in order to protect her best friend. And him.

  “Those poor puppies and kittens,” someone muttered.

  “I might find that more upsetting if we weren’t literally loading shotguns in preparation to go hunting more small, defenseless animals,” Damien pointed out. Everyone looked sheepishly at the shotguns they carried. He made a note to make a sizable donation to an animal-friendly charity.

  “What are we hunting, anyway?” Duke asked.

  “Foxes,” Rupert answered resolutely.

  “Foxhunting was banned in 2005,” Damien informed them. His father had not been pleased with the passage of that law. “And even then no one ever shot foxes.”

  “Stags,” Kyle said. “We’re hunting stags.”

  “No.”

  “I thought this was a stag party.”

  “The term ‘stag party’ is the British equivalent of what you deem a bachelor party,” Damien informed him in what Roxanna would probably deem his “haughty, oh-so-posh aristocrat accent.” The woman was working her way into his brain. If he wasn’t careful, she’d end up sneaking her way into his heart. Or had it already happened?

  Now was not the time to ponder his feelings. Not with a batch of armed and angry and increasingly intoxicated men milling about.

  “Are we hunting posh aristocrats who ruin weddings?” Kyle asked.

  “No,” he answered. “We didn’t secure the necessary permits.”

  “And who gives those out?”

  “Posh aristocrats,” Damien drawled. “Gentlemen, we’re shooting grouse. Since you don’t have your phones and thus cannot Google it, I’ll tell you what that is. A grouse is a type of bird. It has brownish feathers and is slightly larger than a pigeon. They live in moorland areas, such as the one we are about to traverse. You are to point your shotgun at the bird and only at the bird and pull the trigger. ”

  The day progressed. Whiskey was drunk, even though—or perhaps, because—it was an ungodly early hour.

  Shots were fired. Thankfully, no one was hit. In fact, their shooting was deplorable. As the day was winding down only Damien, Piers, Duke, and a few others had been successful in downing a few birds in spite of all the shots fired by the rest of the bachelor shooting party.

  “Man, I’m so much better at Big Buck Hunter,” Kyle muttered as they trudged back. The group was tired, hungry, drunk, and perhaps even hungover from drinking steadily throughout the day.

  But then, a noise—a rustling in the foliage. They had been primed all day to listen for birds, or other creatures.

  “Guys … that sounds like something big,” Rupert whispered.

  “Get ready,” Duke ordered.

  All the guys lifted their shotguns and aimed them at whatever was in the bushes. They crept closer. Uneasy glances were exchanged: what could it be? A deer? A bear? Did they have bears in England? Why couldn’t they Google it
right now?!

  Closer and closer still they crept, visions of monsters and aliens in their heads. Damien had a sneaking suspicion he knew what was hiding there—and what was in for a nasty surprise. He felt no pity.

  Finally, whatever was mucking about in the foliage emerged, revealing itself to be that same damned paparazzo from the day before. He froze at the sight of nearly a dozen armed men with shotguns aimed right at every one of his vital parts.

  “You,” Damien seethed, eyes narrowed. It was none other than Snooper MacBracken, in all his smirking, meddling, ginger glory. That bastard hadn’t learned his lesson about spying on this wedding. Damien lifted his shotgun and held it steady, poised to shoot.

  Snooper screamed like a girl in a horror film, his face turning as red as his hair.

  “Hand over the camera,” Duke ordered.

  The man dropped his camera and ran.

  Damien breathed a sigh of relief. Duke did as well.

  But it was too soon and their relief was short-lived. A few hours later—after a big, hot meal at the hunting lodge—they were all en route in a Mercedes passenger van to a different pub. Every one of them had their heads bent over phones, the glow of the screens lighting up their faces and showing eyes widening in shock over something.

  There were more than a few whispered swear words.

  Duke took a phone call.

  His expression became concerned, then gravely serious, then fucking furious.

  “So the People magazine deal might be off,” he said angrily. “Jane is going to be pissed. And/or heartbroken. Fuck. I promised her this one thing. One thing.”

  “Might be off or is definitely off?” Piers inquired.

  “Might be.”

  “Why?”

  “This is why,” Rupert said, holding out his phone, showing a picture of them all traipsing through the countryside in full hunting attire with shotguns held aloft … and aimed at the paparazzo.

  “What a shot,” Piers said with a low whistle. “No pun intended though.”

  “That damned photographer must have had a friend with him,” Damien said. “They’re like vermin. You get rid of one only to find ten more.”

  “I’ll have to get Archer on it. So he’s going to be pissed,” Duke said.

  “People magazine issued a statement. They don’t condone hunting anything or anyone,” Rupert said, shaking his head forlornly as he read the news article online. “Those poor puppies and kittens. They’ll all starve and die without People’s big donation.”

  “I’ll make a damned donation myself,” both Duke and Damien muttered at the same time.

  “My donation will be bigger,” Duke said to which Damien replied, “Fine.”

  “But first, let’s not forget that we’re at a bachelor party,” Kyle said, snatching Duke’s phone. “We are going to get wasted.”

  “I hope someone planned for strippers,” Dave said.

  “Or girls, at least,” Kyle added.

  Damien was thinking only of one girl. Roxanna. They’d been apart for too long today and he missed her. My God, what she would make of the day’s events. He would have loved her company on a day when everyone was against him. As long as she was on his side, what did the rest of it matter?

  Really, though. There it was again: the woman he lo—had an inordinately strong fondness for. Or some old newspaper that had been in the family for ages. Newspapers were dying, anyway. Everyone knew that. But then he thought of all the previous Lord Northbournes who managed to keep the paper and true love and Damien knew he couldn’t be the one that didn’t have both.

  “Here we are,” the driver said as the car stopped before a small, old pub in the village near Brampton House. All the young bucks spilled out of the car, shouting, “Time to crash the bachelorette party!”

  Chapter Seven

  That moment when you mistake an officer of the law for a stripper. As one does.

  The hen party

  Roxanna went all out when it came to planning Jane’s bachelorette party. Or rather her hen party, if one wanted to be all properly English about it. Jane had requested something elegant and tasteful. As her maid of honor, Roxanna delivered just that … though she did have some tricks up her sleeve and had planned an amazing day that her friend would love.

  And, speaking of love, Roxanna thought she might just be falling in love herself. Or allowing herself to admit that she’d been in love with Damien Knightly since that first moment they met in the elevator. The damned thing had gotten stuck and they both swore at the same time. Then she cracked a joke, he laughed, and it was all over.

  Love. That.

  She caught herself whistling a merry tune. Then stopped. This was Jane’s day and she had to make sure everything went off without a hitch. She could not be distracted by her own romance.

  The day began properly, with a big breakfast buffet just for the ladies. Very well, there was a hint of impropriety in the mimosas (or Buck’s Fizz in England, which she thought sounded so dirty) that were served. Then Jane was gifted with a gorgeous hand-embroidered sash (thank you, Etsy) declaring her “The future Mrs. Jane Austen.”

  “I’ll never take it off!” she exclaimed.

  Then everyone had to laugh and chatter about a modern-day romance novelist being named Jane Austen. What were the odds? How perfect! Will you change your name?! All the other girls were given similar sashes with the words “Lady’s Maid.”

  “I’ve always wanted a lady’s maid!” Jane gushed. “Now I have lots!”

  “Just for one day,” they all muttered.

  After breakfast, Roxanna ushered all the ladies outside. There was the bride, of course, and her bridesmaids. Her cousins Cassidy and Kimberly came along, as well as two of Duke’s best developers, Amy and Jessica.

  “Ooooh,” Jane sighed when she saw a fleet of horse-drawn carriages waiting, along with very handsome footmen and drivers dressed in full livery and Mark holding a tray bearing glasses of lemonade.

  As the girls climbed into the carriages—aided by handsome footmen, of course—Mark handed each girl a glass of lemonade. Roxanna had spiked it herself.

  “It’s too bad we can’t Instagram this!” Jessica exclaimed. “It’s all so perfect!”

  “Think of the puppies and kittens,” Roxanna said as she reminded everyone of the “no phones” policy. “We don’t want to deprive the cute little puppies and kittens, now, do we?”

  “Is the driver a stripper?” Jane asked in a low voice. “A sort of modern-day playboy stripper dressed in the attire of a Regency carriage driver?”

  “Any chance his very fitted breeches are hiding Velcro seams so that they can be ripped off in one fluid movement, much to the delight of this bachelorette party?” Jane’s other cousin, Kimberly, asked.

  “I thought you didn’t want any strippers,” Roxanna said, smiling sweetly.

  “I don’t,” Jane replied, with a longing glance at the footman. “But I don’t trust you for a minute.”

  “I do,” Kimberly said. “I want strippers.”

  “I’m afraid he’s just a pretty face I hired for the day,” Roxanna said. Then, kicking off a drinking game that would last for the rest of the day, she declared: “Never have I ever been driven in a horse-drawn carriage by a stripper in disguise.”

  “That would be a first for all of us! Drink!” Cassidy declared.

  “It’s even a first for me!” Kimberly exclaimed.

  And so the bachelorette party began in earnest.

  A similar conversation was had at Edgeworth Park, a nearby National Trust property, where the bachelorette party arrived for a private tour. The bride, being a historical romance novelist, did love visiting ancestral homes and it was livened up for the rest of the party by the ongoing game of “never have I ever” and ogling the tour guide.

  Their guide bore a striking resemblance to Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy (with a dry shirt, alas), especially since he wore traditional Regency era attire.

  “Roxanna, are you sure he is
not a stripper?” Jane asked in a very low voice as “Darcy” the tour guide lectured the group at length on the origins of the wallpaper in the yellow drawing room.

  “Do you really think a male stripper has this much to say about nineteenth-century wallpaper patterns?”

  “I should be paying attention to this for my books,” Jane groaned. “But I’m tipsy and imagining him in wet clothes murmuring how ardently he loves and admires me.”

  Cali leaned in and asked, “Are you sure you don’t want him to be a stripper, Jane?”

  “No,” Jane said, blushing furiously.

  “If you wanted a stripper, you only had to say so,” Roxanna whispered. Jane blushed even more.

  “Is something the matter, Ms. Sparks?” Cali inquired. “Or shall I say the future Mrs. Jane Austen?”

  “Nothing is the matter. Thank you. Everything is lovely.”

  “Do you ladies have a question?” asked Colin-Firth-Darcy-Tour-Guide-Not-A-Stripper.

  “Never have I ever hooked up with a guy in reenactor attire,” Kimberly murmured.

  They all drank to that, except for Cassidy, which surprised everyone.

  “What?” she said, when everyone gave her very strange looks. “I spent one summer working at Colonial Williamsburg.”

  Over a picnic lunch on the grounds of Edgeworth Park, Jane was certain all the waiters were strippers. Kimberly threatened to test her theory, Cassidy told her to behave herself for once, the two sisters started bickering, and the rest of the bachelorette party started flirting with all the hot men in uniform bringing them food and drink. Just in case.

  All the while, the game of “never have I ever” continued until the girls were quite tipsy, especially the bride.

  Later that afternoon, they toured the gardens and Jane got excited about all the ideas this was giving her for her books. When they returned to the ballroom for a brief waltzing lesson with the oh-so-handsome waiters (strippers?), it was discovered that Kimberly had gone missing. She turned up later with a smile and bits of foliage in her hair.