by Nancy Warren
He’d brought her a cookbook from the shop round the corner from him, the way he’d have brought another woman flowers. She was so pleased with her present she kept opening it and reading bits of recipes to him.
After the pub lunch, they strolled the narrow streets of the medieval village and toured the cathedral. He wondered if it was a mistake to visit a cathedral, such a grand, solemn place and it rather reminded one of the serious ceremonies of life. Birth, death…marriage. But she seemed entranced by the cathedral and when the choir began to practice, she held his hand and stood, rapt.
When he took her home, he was prepared to make do with a quick snog and drive back to London. She gave him her mischievous smile. “Why don’t I practice on you? I’ll cook something from my new book. For dinner tonight.” He helped her in the kitchen, finding pleasure and companionship in being her sous chef. They ate dinner with Max and George, and then she took him to her room, where they made love with quiet sweetness. Her mind might not be ready to face up to her love, but her body told him everything he’d hoped to hear. They ate breakfast on their own, rising much later than anyone else.
After that it became a regular thing for them to spend Friday evenings, which turned into Saturdays, together. Sometimes they had the entire weekend, but she often did the catering for a small wedding, or an afternoon tea for the ladies of the straw hat society or some such thing. He regretted the hours they could have spent together, but not the way he could see her becoming more and more a part of the estate.
He thought it was a very good thing for her to be exposed to so much successful love as she was surrounded by, not only at the great house, but also in the pub where Arthur and Meg’s affair also progressed most satisfactorily. They were back from America and the novelist was hard at work on the next bit of terror she planned to unleash on unsuspecting readers.
Where they’d settle permanently was anyone’s guess.
He thought Arthur would follow Meg anywhere.
Would he? He wondered. If Rachel wanted to go back to California, would he be willing to go with her?
He wasn’t sure if being willing to relocate was a true test of love, but he rather thought he would. If his choice was London without her or L.A. with her, he thought he’d be wearing Oakleys, striping his nose with zinc and ordering half-caps with wings quite happily on Sunset Strip.
One Friday, as he arrived at the estate after a hellish slog down the M5, George said, “Can I have a word?”
The earl had obviously been on the lookout for him, for he’d even beaten Wiggins to the door.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, loosening his tie.
George took him into a book-lined library that his father had used as a study. George kept an office on a different floor, out of the way of the tourists, so the library still had the formal atmosphere of the old earl.
George chatted idly about football, but Jack could see there was something on his mind, and, after two and a half hours of driving that had consisted of jerking forward for a few feet then idling for several minutes, he was more than ordinarily anxious to see Rachel.
Finally, he interrupted a pointless treatise on Manchester United’s last match.
“What is it you want, George?”
“Well, the thing is, I’d like it very much if you’d be one of my groomsmen. For the wedding.”
The irritation that had begun to build, dissipated immediately. He felt the grin spread on his face and shook George’s hand heartily. “I’d be delighted. Thank you for asking me.”
“I hesitated, because I know you’ve been in about a hundred wedding parties.”
“Not so many. Not quite fifty, I should think. But I’d be truly happy to stand up for you.”
“Thanks.” George blew out a breath. “There’s such an awful lot to think about with a wedding. You were starting to look so cross I thought you’d refuse.”
“Actually, I thought you were about to ask me what my intentions were to your future sister.”
“God, no. None of my business, really,” George said, walking unconsciously behind his father’s desk and pouring out two stiff whiskeys. He handed one to Jack and sipped his own. Then he said, “At least, well, I suppose it is my business now. Not that the lady would thank me for interfering.”
He glanced at Jack, obviously enjoying his position of power, however bogus. “Just out of interest, what are your intentions?”
“Oh, I’m going to marry her.”
He had the satisfaction of seeing his old friend snort thirty year old single malt up his nose and cough until his eyes watered.
“Really? But you never marry them. They always marry someone else.”
Jack settled into one of the leather wing chairs and regarded George. “You know the way you feel about Maxine?”
“Yes, of course.” He nodded, as it all came clear. “You, too?”
“I thought it would never happen.”
“Stunning when it does.”
They sipped for a quiet moment. “And what do you reckon for Manchester’s chances in this week’s match against Cheltenham?”
And so the two were comfortable again, having done as much emotional sharing as they were ever likely to.
The year had ticked over and spring was unfurling all over the estate. Rachel hadn’t gone home. He never asked her how long she planned to stay. He’d rushed his fences once, he wouldn’t do it again. Instead, he tried to show her how their life could be. He introduced her to his friends, he flew her to Paris for a very decadent weekend, and they’d all spent Christmas at Hart House, including various brothers and sisters and George’s odd relatives.
He was waiting, he knew. And wooing the hell out of the woman he loved.
Maxine and George’s wedding day dawned as blue and glorious as the wedding of a titled gentleman marrying his true love in an ancient English estate ought to dawn.
Rachel was probably as happy about the fact as the bride was. They’d worked out contingency plans in case of rain, there was a big tent on the grounds, and loads of room in the house, but it wouldn’t have been the same. Max wanted to get married in the village church and celebrate the event in the grounds of Hart House. The society photographers would be there, and blooming roses and sparkling water photographed so much better than sodden branches and dripping umbrellas.
And, of course, her food would present so much better without a drenching.
Her dress – thank God for Maxine’s excellent taste – was a soft, sage green. Designer simple, it fit her perfectly and brought out the green in her eyes.
The bride wore antique satin and carried the softest pink roses.
The ancient church was hushed as they walked in. She followed two flower girls and, while George looked down the aisle behind her to where Max would appear, Jack looked at her, so she felt as every step brought her closer, that she was making a tiny vow. Their gazes held and she saw his lips curve, ever so slightly.
It was a strange moment to have an epiphany about her own heart while celebrating her sister’s union, but perhaps it was appropriate. For she saw Jack standing there at the front of a church, ready to celebrate a marriage, and she knew without a doubt, that he was waiting for her. As she’d been waiting for him.
The next wedding Union Jack took part in was going to be his own. It might not happen for a while, but she knew in her heart it was right.
I love you, she told him with her eyes.
I know, his said back.
They stood together while Maxine took George to be her lawfully wedded earl and George took Max to be his lawfully wedded countess.
The tiny village church contained royalty, TV people from L.A., Meg and Arthur who’d flown home for the event, family and friends. Her eyes widened slightly as she recognized Chloe, who’d flown back for the wedding and, like the latest Prada bag, she sported the latest darkly handsome boyfriend.
There’d been enough media to guarantee a lot of publicity on both sides of the Atlantic. Rachel stro
ngly suspected that Maxine, ever the over-achiever, had accomplished her goal. The Hart House Wedding Package was booked through the summer at rates that had made George’s eyes bug out when he’d first heard them.
Of course, Rachel didn’t believe in a perfect love, but she had to admit watching her sister and her brand new bother-in-law walk down the aisle with quiet joy pretty much radiating off them that they had found something very special.
Then she felt Jack take her arm and walk her down the aisle behind them and she knew she’d found something special too.
Will you take this man? The words of the wedding service echoed in her head as they emerged into sunshine and a shower of rose petals.
Did she have the courage to risk her heart again? To let go of a painful past and take a chance on an unpredictable future?
Will you take this man?
“Yes,” she said aloud.
“What’s that, darling?” Jack asked, turning to look at her with that special look he kept just for her.
“Yes,” she repeated, while bells rang and rose petals floated and laughter danced on the air. “Yes, I believe I will.”
Courting Chloe
The British Are Coming Book 4
Chapter 1
“I’m not going to make it,” Chloe Flynt moaned into the phone, each word dripping with despair and drama. “I’m so bored.”
She was supposed to be in her oil painting class, but she couldn’t summon the enthusiasm. Apart from Nude Study of the Male, she wasn’t having nearly the fun she’d hoped. She glanced out the window of her bedroom in the villa. The golden Umbrian hills reclined under the sun as though they were enjoying a siesta.
That was the trouble with this place. It was too relaxed. Slow meals, slow pace of life. No decent shopping for miles. Oh, the sixteenth-century villa was certainly lovely, but she rather fancied that when she’d bolted from London and her broken engagement, she’d have been better off heading to Milan or Rome. Or better yet, Paris. Somewhere where there was some life.
Apart from the rather dishy Tuscan chef who loved nothing more than to tempt her fickle palate, she wasn’t really enjoying her newly chosen career as a painter.
“Of course you’re bored,” her friend Nicky said in the nasal drawl that made her sound like Kiera Knightly with a head cold. “Perhaps it was a little soon after breaking off your engagement to be deciding on a career.”
“I haven’t any talent for painting, anyway,” she said, staring dismally out of her window to the garden overlooking the vineyard where eight easels were set up and seven painters were dabbing at canvases with varying levels of success. Her own abandoned effort was shockingly bad; even from here she could see that the ochre had been a mistake.
Hearing from Nicky about all the fun that was going on at home in London without her only worsened her boredom.
“I can’t stand it,” she said suddenly, “I’m going to have to quit.”
There was annoying laughter at the other end. “Of course you are, silly. We’ve had bets on how long you’d last. I lost my ten quid last Thursday. If you make it through the end of the week, Gerald Barton-Hinks wins the pool.”
They were placing bets on how soon she’d quit? Really, it ought to inspire her to stay through to the end of the course, four weeks from now, just to show them all she could do it.
She contemplated this option for a minute, then thought, Sod it, I’m not staying here another month for anything. Besides, it was cheering to know that everyone at home missed her so much they were making book on when she’d return. “Who wins the pool if I quit today?” she asked.
“I think it’s Jack.”
Her older and extremely annoying brother who was extremely annoyingly happy with his American chef girlfriend. “Perfect. Maybe if he makes a profit he won’t be so shirty with me for throwing more of Daddy’s money down the drain.”
“Are we talking about the same Jack? Your brother Jack? He adores you.”
“He’s horrible,” she said, pouting. How unkind he’d been when she’d had to cancel her wedding at the last minute.
“He’s not horrible. He thinks you should settle down and stop acting irrationally, that’s all.”
“My engagement was recently broken,” she reminded Nicky. “I think I’m entitled to act irrationally.”
Another laugh answered her. “That might have worked the first time. You even managed it pretty well the second time, but Chlo, three broken engagements in a row—well, it’s getting to be a bad habit.”
She sighed, twisting the bracelet with the intertwining Cs around her wrist. “I know. It’s just that I’ve got such awful taste in men. Anyway, I’ve done with men. I’m going to have a career instead. But what am I going to do? If I don’t become a painter, which I can tell you isn’t bloody likely, what sort of job would I like? Because I’m going to have to work, you know. Daddy says that’s it. This is my last chance.”
“Ouch. Nasty. But then, you can always bring your dad around, you know you can.” It was true enough, but lately, Daddy had been very glum and had taken to turning out all the lights at home to save on the electric. “Still, couldn’t you manage four more weeks?”
Chloe glanced out the window again. The painters were taking a break, stretching their pleasantly tired painting arms, no doubt. They all gathered around her easel and Giorgio, their teacher, was pointing with his brush at her canvas, which elicited a riotous burst of laughter from the group.
She shook her head violently and said, “No. I can’t stay another minute.” To emphasize her decision, she dragged out the matched set of Louis Vuitton luggage that her first almost-husband had bought her and, holding the phone against her ear with her shoulder, managed to wrestle the larger of the cases on to the bed.
“Right then,” said Nicky, who was her best friend for a reason. “If you can’t stay, you can’t.”
“It’s lovely having someone who truly understands me. I tell you what, call in half a dozen of our friends—the ones with posh jobs. We’ll have an emergency summit meeting when I get back.” She was beginning to feel excited. She missed her friends, and someone was bound to know of some glamorous, high-paying job she could do.
“An emergency summit meeting? Like at the U.N.?”
“With better food, better drink, and much better looking delegates.”
Nicky was obviously flicking through her appointment diary—Chloe could hear the pages turning. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Great. We can have the emergency summit right after my surprise welcome home party.” Happiness began to well inside Chloe like tears. She grabbed her own appointment book. “I’ll get a flight out tomorrow. Let’s say Friday for the surprise party. And Saturday morning… no, that won’t work. Not after Friday night… better make it Sunday brunch. We’ll meet for my career planning emergency session then.”
“But—”
“Must go. Feeling better for talking to you. ’Bye.”
Chloe’s surprise party was crowded with young, smart Londoners. But of course, parties she and her friends arranged always were. She’d told Nicky that she wanted only six strategic thinkers at the top-secret Sunday brunch to plan her career. But then as she wandered among her friends, she thought how sensible Rupert Hardwich was, and invited him. Toward the end of the night, she noticed Gerald Barton-Hinks standing with a group. He was something to do with property development. Probably he’d have lots of leads for jobs. She rather fancied zipping around London showing flats, or whatever estate agents did. She strolled over and said, “Hello, Gerry. Look, this is very hush-hush, but you must come for Sunday brunch to a top secret emergency summit meeting about my career.”
“You’ve already asked me, my sweet,” he said, sounding rather amused about something.
“Oh, did I?” Then, since he was standing with two other people she knew, she felt it was only polite to invite them as well. But it turned out she already had.
“Oh, well,” she said, sipping a glas
s of champagne that was far from her first. “Not to worry. Many heads are better than one.”
“Or is it too many cooks who spoil the broth?” Gerald asked.
“I was never much good at cooking,” she told him. “I went to Paris to learn, you know, but I had no idea we’d spend the first week peeling vegetables and deboning things.” She shuddered at the memory.
Gerald gave her that indulgent smile men had been giving her ever since Daddy had experienced her first temper tantrum at the age of two. “How long did you last?”
“I could concoct you a soup that would make you weep, and hors d’oeuvres that would have you sighing in pleasure.” She looked at his mouth. “And I could certainly amuse your bouche.”
He laughed, then gave her a quick kiss. “You are hopeless, you know that, don’t you?”
She pouted. It was a trademark pout, one she’d practiced in the mirror during most of her early teen years. “Main courses are boring. And dessert is fattening.”
“Life isn’t a series of appetizers, Chlo. Someday you’ll learn.”
But Chloe thought she could live very well on champagne and caviar and never stray into the boiled beef of life. She hoped very much that the experts guiding her into her new career would provide her with a champagne and caviar sort of job.
Of course, since she’d been rather freer with the invites than she’d intended, there was quite a crowd at Nicky’s brunch. In fact, it was more of a party than a serious gathering, but Chloe was nothing if not a party girl. She’d never met a problem that wasn’t better put off for another day while laughter, good friends, and good eat and drink took over today.
At last, however, when more bottles of champagne had been consumed than was strictly necessary, Gerald stood on one of Nicky’s gray armchairs. She’d redecorated her Fulham flat in Scandinavian style for some reason. The entire palette was black, gray, and white. Chloe felt cold, melancholy, and brooding simply being in the room. “Right, I suggest we bring this meeting to order.”
