by Anna DePalo
When she reached her phone, she realized the message was from Sawyer.
Tour the Cotswolds with me at eleven. The guests will expect it.
Before she could reply to the text, however, she heard a discreet knock on her sitting room door and went to answer it.
When she opened her door, she discovered Sage, one of the maids she’d been introduced to, standing in the hall.
“My lady,” Sage said, “his lordship sent me to attend to you.”
“Thank you,” she replied, wondering what Sage thought of the lord and lady of the house communicating at arm’s length on the morning after their wedding. “However, I do not require anything at the moment.”
She looked down at herself. She was wearing an oversized T-shirt and well-worn pajama bottoms. She hadn’t even bothered with a robe. No doubt about it. She was hardly countess material.
For Sage’s benefit, though, she added, “But please tell his lordship I will meet him for our tour as planned.”
Sage hesitated for a moment, as if perplexed, but then nodded and retreated.
As Tamara closed the door, she thought about how Sawyer was a blend of the modern and archaic. He’d sent a text message and a lady’s maid within moments of each other. He had a Manhattan town house suited to a media baron and an English country estate worthy of an earl.
But, she reminded herself, they were still hardly compatible. Sure, he’d surprised her on several fronts, but just because Sawyer had shown signs of being less buttoned-down than she’d dismissed him as being, it didn’t mean they weren’t oil and water.
She was thoroughly modern. More than slightly bohemian. Independent and American.
She and Sawyer were proving compatible in the bedroom, but as she well knew, much more was involved in a successful marriage.
As Tamara walked alongside Sawyer through the nearest village, she couldn’t help but be impressed again with the natural beauty of this part of Britain.
Traditional thatched-roof cottages clung together in little groups under the late-morning sun, and everywhere the local golden limestone was in evidence, from low-lying walls to the exterior of homes and businesses.
The setting was picturesque, and it fired her imagination. She wanted to go home—no, sit in the fields—with her sketchbook and design something inspired by the local landscape.
The locals all hailed Sawyer by name, and he introduced her as his new countess.
This meet-and-greet, she thought, had been Sawyer’s purpose in proposing a walking tour of the local village.
Fortunately, she’d dressed for the role of the new mistress of Gantswood Hall. Before she’d left New York, she’d made sure to buy clothes that would be more appropriate to wear during her trip than her usual attire. Her flowered blouse, A-line blue skirt and ballerina flats complemented Sawyer’s blue shirt and beige pants.
Yet she’d refused to disguise herself completely. Her favorite self-designed earrings completed her outfit.
She’d expected Sawyer to frown at the sight of such loud accent pieces. Instead, strangely enough, he’d smiled.
She and Sawyer left the baker’s shop and sauntered down the street, and Sawyer picked up her hand, lacing his fingers with hers.
At the moment, there was no one approaching them, so she had a brief window during which to speak her mind.
“I’m hardly going to be the Countess of Melton long enough for all these introductions,” she protested in a low voice.
Sawyer shot her a sidelong look. “Nevertheless, the locals expect it. There would be raised eyebrows, and likely some degree of affront, if I didn’t introduce you.”
“I see.”
Of course, she did. Sawyer was simply performing his duties as earl. And as his countess, she now had her obligations, as well.
“The villagers have all been friendly and welcoming,” she added. “And everyone appears to like you.”
Sawyer looked amused. “You’re surprised?”
She’d heard tales from the locals of his do-good nature, from his initiatives in local eco-friendly improvements to his charitable endeavors.
Aloud, she said, “Perhaps they’re seeing only one side of you. The beneficent one.”
Sawyer stopped and laughed, swinging her to face him. “And you, I suppose,” he said in a low voice, “have seen others?”
She searched his face and remembered last night—seeing him nearly naked and clearly aroused.
“Did you like my other side?” he asked, his voice a caress.
“Why did you leave so abruptly?” she countered.
“Why do you think?” he responded. “If we’d continued, I would have fulfilled your expectation that I wanted to bed you as a novelty.”
She was surprised by his forthright answer. “And that isn’t what you were looking for when you appeared during my shower?”
His lips quirked. “I’m thinking you’re a lot more complex than a novel shag—”
Her eyes widened.
“—and the earl is only one part of who I am.”
He held her gaze for a moment longer, and then looked up the street.
She turned, too, and noticed a passerby was approaching.
Their private conversation was at an end.
“This is ridiculous.”
“Humor me,” Sawyer responded, capturing her hand from where he lay on the picnic blanket set near a small duck pond.
It was a glorious summer day, with the occasional puffy cloud drifting overhead, and they had a basket of wine and cheese and French bread with them.
Timing was everything, he thought, and he planned to use this interlude to his advantage.
Tamara looked down at him from her sitting position, her brow puckering. “Everyone thinks this isn’t a love match, but a dynastic marriage for mutual advantage—”
“Yes, except they don’t know exactly what mutual ad vantage.” He waggled his brows as he rested her hand on his chest. “They think you married me for my money and title—”
“Well, for your money,” she conceded.
“—and I’ve married you to secure Kincaid News.”
“Which you all but have.”
“True.”
Legal due diligence was being performed, and the merger documents were being drawn up. Soon Kincaid News and Melton Media would be one company—if all went according to plan.
“So,” Tamara argued, “people are hardly expecting us to act lovey-dovey. Not that Pia and Belinda, or the Marquess of Easterbridge and the Duke of Hawkshire, for that matter, ever had that expectation. And in any case, they’ve departed.”
“Your father and most of the rest of our families remain,” he was obliged to point out solemnly. “One can never have too much assurance when you’re the father of the bride and are on the verge of parting with your business.”
“Then I wonder why my father did it,” Tamara countered.
Sawyer shrugged. “He’s getting older, and consolidation is the name of the game in the media business these days. In any case, he’ll retain a title in the new organization. He’ll have power over what remains under the name Kincaid News.”
Tamara studied him. “And how do you feel about having my father around?”
Sawyer smiled. “I plan to observe and learn all his tricks.”
She shook her head with mock resignation, and Sawyer played with her hand on his chest.
She looked enticing, staring down at him from her position on the blanket. Her dark-red hair caught the summer breeze. An off-the-shoulder crocheted top and short, layered skirt gave her the look of a latter-day peasant girl and accentuated her sensuality.
Sawyer felt his body stir in response.
She didn’t look as if she was immune to him, either, dressed as he was in an open-collared white shirt and dark trousers.
But first he knew he had to break down some of her resistance. Due to some perverse streak of nobility, he’d resisted taking her to bed two nights ago. Her hint of vulnerability had done him in.
But now he vowed to rectify the matter.
“You’re enjoying the English countryside,” he remarked.
She nodded. “It’s pretty. I’ve never been to Gloucestershire before. It’s inspiring.”
He hoped it would inspire her right into his bed, but he settled for arching a brow.
“Not for your jewelry, surely?” he inquired.
She nodded her assent. “The natural beauty is arresting.”
“I see.” And he did. There was natural beauty right in front of him.
“There’s some British in you yet,” he joked.
“Scottish,” she amended. “Way up north. A different landscape from this.”
She slipped her hand from his grasp, and he shifted to his side, propping his head on his bent arm.
“We haven’t spoken much about your jewelry business,” he said, realizing he was curious. “I know about the hedge-fund wife, but apart from her, who are your clients?”
“You mean, what is my business plan? What are my marketing and promotion efforts?” she joked. “Are you afraid you’ll never recover your investment?”
“I already have,” he replied glibly, “and in any case, I could afford the loss.”
Tamara looked into the distance, at the hills visible beyond where they sat on an expanse of ground within sight of Gantswood Hall.
“I’m an artist, not a businessperson,” she said, and shrugged. “I produce what I can by myself, and then exhibit at art shows and specialty boutiques.”
She gave a half smile as she gazed back down at him. “You could say my clientele is rich individuals, or at least they’re whom I aim for.”
“Then you’re in luck, since I happen to know a lot of wealthy people.”
At her raised eyebrows, he added jokingly, “Of course, if you changed the name of your company to Countess of Melton Designs, you’d add a certain panache.”
“I couldn’t,” she protested. “We’ll only be married a short time.”
He quirked a brow. “Diane von Furstenberg kept the von long after her divorce from the prince.”
Tamara laughed. “Okay, yes.”
He liked her laugh. She didn’t do it very often around him, so it was like catching sight of a shooting star.
“As soon as we return to New York,” he said, “we’ll hire someone to manage the numbers side of Pink Teddy. And I’ll introduce you to people who’ll be curious about your collection.”
For a moment, she seemed both surprised and pleased, but then she shrugged. “New York seems a world away right now.”
He searched her expression. “Don’t we both know it.”
A noise came from the direction of the house, and she looked up and shaded her eyes. “My father is heading to the tennis court with your mother, Julia and Jessica.”
Sawyer followed her gaze. Everyone, he saw, carried a tennis racket.
“Kincaid is up for a challenge,” he remarked. “My mother still plays a superior game of tennis.”
“My father’s determined to remain in the game, in more ways than one,” Tamara countered.
Sawyer looked back at her. “The tennis court was added to the grounds during my father’s day, at my mother’s insistence.”
“Was it part of her plan to deal with her new surroundings?” Tamara asked, dropping the hand that shaded her eyes.
“That and running down to Wimbledon every year,” he replied half-jokingly.
“How long did your parents’ marriage last?”
“Too long.” He trailed a hand along her arm. “But the divorce became final the day before my fifth birthday. I recall the birthday party at Gantswood Hall being a huge affair with ponies, clowns and fireworks. But, of course, no mother. Looking back, I wonder whether the party was as much a celebration of the divorce decree as anything else.”
Tamara arched a brow.
“Of course, as the heir,” he said, reading her look, “I remained with my father after the separation. My mother was the bolter.”
Tamara grimaced. “And your father never remarried.”
“There was no need to. He had his heir.”
Tamara tilted her head. “You seem to bear no ill will toward your mother.”
He gave a brief nod. “I eventually understood my parents’ complete incompatibility. My mother was twelve years younger than my father and a rich American debutante impressed by a title. After I was born, she began to long for a jet-set life, while my father was busy with his properties and his newspapers, and remained attached to the traditions set by generations before him.”
“But she wed again, obviously,” Tamara remarked.
“Once she’d tired of being a divorcée, she married Peter, a widowed Wall Street investment banker.” Sawyer’s lips twisted ironically. “She then unexpectedly found herself pregnant again at forty-one.”
“It’s quite a story,” Tamara commented.
“There were unexpected benefits from the divorce for me,” he said. “If it wasn’t for my mother, I would never have received my business degree in the States after finishing up at Cambridge. Her contacts, and those of my stepfather before he died, proved invaluable for expanding my business in New York and beyond.”
“You’re practically American.”
“A dual British and American citizen by birth,” he confirmed, though he understood Tamara to be joking about his temperament and disposition rather than his nationality. “You have a lot of curiosity.” Tamara flushed.
“Care to compare notes?” he prompted, smoothing his fingers down her arm in a light caress.
She focused on the movement, and he said innocently, “We’re in view of the tennis court.”
She hesitated, but then said finally, “My parents divorced when I was seven. I left for New York with my mother. But surely you know that part.”
He nodded. He remembered hearing of Viscount Kincaid’s divorce when it had occurred.
Tamara’s lips lifted with dry humor. “Unlike you, I wasn’t the male heir, so I could be spared. My father made two more attempts at marriage and obtaining an heir, but I think he finally gave up.”
“I’m surprised he stopped at two more,” Sawyer commented with gentle humor.
Tamara lifted her shoulder. “You’d have to ask him why, though I believe three ex-wives and the attendant children began to constitute enough of a burden.”
Sawyer chuckled, but then queried softly, “Is that what you were? A burden?”
She looked at him with that amazing crystal-green gaze. “I was never called it, but my father and I don’t see eye-to-eye on many issues.”
“As the Countess of Melton, you have a title that takes precedence over that of your father’s, you know,” he pointed out sportingly.
She gave a brief laugh. “I hardly care.”
“And yet, here you are enjoying country living, and married to me, fulfilling paternal expectations.”
“Only for the short term,” she protested.
His eyes crinkled. “Then we should make the most of the time we have.”
He tugged her down to him, and caught by surprise, she fell against him.
“What are you doing?” she said breathlessly.
“Tut-tut,” he admonished. “We’re in full view of the tennis court.”
“You do make your antecedents proud,” she retorted on a half laugh. “Such capacity for trickery…such an unerring sense of duplicity…”
“Mmm,” he agreed. “You forgot ‘such a skill for seizing the moment.’”
Then his mouth came down on hers.
Tamara studied the partially finished necklace.
Diamonds and emeralds. She’d pressed her suppliers in the Diamond District until she’d found what she was looking for for Sawyer’s commission.
Sawyer was helping her business by giving her a large and lucrative order for jewels…for another woman.
At the thought, Tamara felt a twist in her stomach.
From her seat at her workbench, Tamara look
ed out the loft window of her former and current place of business and thought about picnicking with Sawyer by the pond.
She and Sawyer had left his Gloucestershire estate for his town house in New York two days ago, the day after their picnic on the grounds of Gantswood Hall.
Remarkably, she’d managed to stay out of his bed. She’d moved into the bedroom adjoining his at the town house, and there she’d stayed.
There hadn’t been an attempt at seduction since their idyll by the duck pond.
Of course, the picnic had been all for show—for the benefit of her father and other guests—but the kiss hadn’t been.
Tamara touched her fingers to her lips. Sawyer had kissed her thoroughly, as usual making her body hum, and she’d sunk deeper and deeper into their embrace. When she’d finally looked up, it had been to notice they had attracted the attention of their family at the tennis court and of three ducks from the nearby pond.
She’d half expected Sawyer to make an appearance in her bedroom on their last night at Gantswood Hall, but though she’d tossed restlessly until the early hours, he hadn’t appeared.
He’d surprised her. Again.
Was he bent on being unpredictable?
Not another novelty shag.
She almost laughed at the thought that Sawyer could have been her novelty shag. Certainly, aristocratic media moguls weren’t her type. She’d steered clear of Sawyer for years.
But then she’d enjoyed her stay at Gantswood Hall more than she expected. She’d enjoyed Sawyer more than she’d expected, especially now that she’d allowed herself to really talk to him.
They were alike in ways she’d just discovered and previously hadn’t permitted herself to admit. They were both the offspring of trans-Atlantic marriages that had ended badly. And they were both connected to two different worlds. She’d been charmed by Gantswood Hall, while Sawyer, she allowed herself to acknowledge, was a New Yorker in his own way. He had a business to run—a very twenty-first century one that wasn’t just newspapers and television and radio, but online social networking sites, as well.
And then, on top of it all, she’d been stunned to discover the daredevil that lurked inside the serious and proper aristocratic. His adventures dodging bullets had surprised—no, shocked her. Her own claim to being unconventional—a bit bohemian and with slightly flamboyant fashion sense—just seemed…insignificant in comparison.
