At the Billionaire’s Wedding (13 page)

She kept patting at her hair absentmindedly as though bothered by it. He remembered the shining bob she’d worn that first day, when he’d shouted at her in the car. Since the hairdryer incident her style had been looser, a little crazy, and he liked it that way. But he guessed that perfect hair was emblematic of the way she liked to keep everything under control and he couldn’t help wondering why that was so. While respecting her organizational talents, his best moments with Arwen had been when she metaphorically took her hair down: the couple of times he’d been able to help her with a problem, or just given her a neck rub. And when they shagged. God, he wanted to do that again. And the other things, too. Now he was certain he wanted more than a temporary romance.

“So we’re going to be married,” he said. She looked up, as startled as he at the words that had popped out. “As the decoy bride and groom, I mean.”

“I’m not happy about that. I’m more of a stage manager than an actor. I will worry about what’s going on in the house without me to keep the guests quiet and inside.”

“Sergeant Elf.”

“Also,” she said scowling, “I’ll have to wear the most horrendously ugly dress ever made. Why did Jane and Roxanna have to pick out such a monster?”

“Perhaps they were drunk.”

“I’m quite sure they were, but that’s no excuse. I’d better call Snooper and set up a date.” She put aside her computer and went to the telephone, a vintage dial phone that sat on a French writing desk along with a supply of Brampton House writing paper and envelopes. The first time she saw it, Arwen had teased him about needing a quill pen.

“Right,” she said. “Eight o’clock, but not in the pub. I have all the information you need but no one, and I mean no one, must know we’re meeting.” She scribbled a note. “I’ll find it. I look forward to seeing you, Mr. MacBracken. And if word gets out that I’ve met with you I’ll cut your fucking balls off, you asshole.” She slammed down the phone.

“I like the way you make dates,” Harry said.

She wriggled her shoulders in disgust. “Just talking to him makes me feel dirty. How could I ever…? Never mind. I’m looking forward to screwing him over royally.”

“And I love it when you’re vengeful.” Harry patted the sofa. “Do you want a drink?”

“Better not. I need all my wits when I lie through my teeth. You know what I’d like to do? Watch something on TV. Pretend everything is normal.”

For fifteen minutes it was. Climate change: right. No peace in the Middle East: right. England losing the test match: right. He could get used to observing the disasters of the world with Arwen beside him, problems so much worse than any that Duke’s wedding had thrown at them. Well, perhaps not the cricket.

“Have you ever been to a cricket match?” he asked.

“I hate sports.”

Oh well, nobody’s perfect.

“Except rowing.” She smiled at him so he felt goofy and didn’t notice the new arrival until Arwen jumped up.

“What a gorgeous dress!” said a female American voice. “Is that what the bride is wearing?”

“Mom?” Arwen said. “What are you doing here? I was going to stop by the pub later tonight and see how you were.”

“I promised Nanny my recipe for brownies.”

Arwen hadn’t said anything about her mother visiting and Harry had hardly seen Nanny in the past couple of days. Mrs. Kilpatrick had long curly blond hair, but he could see a resemblance to her daughter. They shared the same breathtaking prettiness.

“Not the special brownies, please! Nanny won’t understand.”

Harry grinned broadly. If she only knew what Nanny had put up with over the years of working for the Melburys. Mrs. Kilpatrick, if that was her name, looked like the kind of person who would get on well with his parents. “Will you introduce me to your mother, Arwen?”

“Harry, this is my mom, Molly Stanton. Mom, this is…”

“No need,” she said. “You won’t remember me, Hari, because I last saw you when you were three.” To his amazement, she pronounced his name as only his parents did. “You’re the image of your father and I’d recognize you anywhere.”

Arwen collapsed into a chair. “You know Lord and Lady Melbury?”

“Of course I do. You’ve often heard Benjamin and me talk about our friends Lionel and Sonia from the ashram. And their little boy Harikrishna. How are they enjoying Bali?”

“Harikrishna?” she said faintly.

So his secret was out. “That’s right,” Harry said. “My legal name is Harikrishna Godfrey-Granville-Compton. The Honorable Harikrishna if we’re being formal. H-A-R-I for short. I’m sorry.”

“And I thought I was weird being named after an elf. No wonder you go by Harry Compton, and no wonder I couldn’t find you on Google. I take everything back about you hiding your identity. I wouldn’t blame you if you went into the Witness Protection Program.” She laughed a little hysterically. “This is bizarre.”

Molly held the wedding dress against her and admired herself in the Chinese Chippendale mirror over the console table. “Why is this down here, anyway? I seem to remember that it’s bad luck for the bridegroom to see the dress before the ceremony.”

“Mom,” Arwen said, “I know it’s counter to your principles, but on the other hand you’d get to wear that for an hour or two. How would you like to pretend to marry Harry tomorrow?”

When Arwen returned from her tryst with Snooper MacBracken she bypassed the house, where she could hear the rehearsal celebration in full swing in the State Rooms. By now they should be dancing in the Gold Saloon, under the wedding fresco, and spilling out on the terrace to enjoy a gorgeous night. She ought to make sure everything was running smoothly. Instead, in an unprecedented dereliction of duty, she trusted Mark to deal with any unforeseen difficulties.

The world would continue to spin on its axis, and the wedding party would manage without her supervision for a few more hours. She was going up to the gazebo. In theory she was still at work, checking out the location for the fake wedding, but she hardly even fooled herself. She had another tryst tonight, arranged by text while she fed Snooper a pack of lies.

Dazzling Lighting Designers had done a brilliant job illuminating the pathways. The light seemed natural, mysterious, and wonderfully romantic, like wandering through a production of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
. The floodlit gazebo gave the illusion of floating above the park. Mark and one of the women from Extremely Costly Florals had swathed the columns surrounding the circular structure in white cloth and wound garlands of greenery and flowers around them.

As she climbed the hill, she saw Harry framed by the arched inner door to the building. Tomorrow he would be dressed in jeans and a T-shirt—Duke Austen’s usual uniform and his too—for the fake wedding. Tonight he wore black tie and made her mouth water. With a slight adjustment—tall leather boots!—she could imagine him as one of the aristocratic heroes in Jane’s novels. But he also meditated and was a “half-arsed” vegetarian and had parents who went to ashrams. And they were friends with her folks.

“Good evening, darling,” he said as she reached the end of the climb.

“Hi, Harry. You look gorgeous.”

“I was about to say the same thing.” She shrugged. She hadn’t bothered to put on a good dress to meet Snooper. She wished she’d stopped to change out of her slim red skirt and white silk blouse but she’d been anxious to get here. “How did it go with MacBracken?”

“Fine, I think. We won’t know for sure if he swallowed my story until tomorrow. Let’s not talk about him. I’m dying of curiosity to hear about Lionel and Sonia. You’ll forgive the informality, but I’ve heard about them over the years without a single clue that they were English and titled. My parents are weird.”

His smile made her heart flutter. “I’ve been dying to swap parental stories. First some champagne.” Among the amenities provided for Internet seekers were a series of cushioned benches and small tables under the colonnade. On one of the latter was an ice bucket holding a bottle of his favorite Krug and a couple of glasses. “And a selection of Natalie’s cakes. I had to fight the hordes for these, but I thought you’d be hungry after baiting the paparazzo.”

Arwen moaned. He must have noticed during the tasting which were her favorites. “The dark chocolate and cherry cake. And the strawberry one. Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a hero?”

Harry handed her a fork and a glass. “While you eat I’ll tell you about life with the Noble Hippies, which is what the tabloids have called them as long as I can remember.”

She shook her head, realizing that a simple online search of Lord Melbury would have revealed all. Being at Brampton had broken her of the habit of googling everyone and everything and she found she liked it. It made life more … surprising. She washed down a mouthful of strawberry cream frosting with some golden bubbles.

“They were absurd, being hippies at least a decade too late. All very well in the Sixties but so un-Thatcherite. Despite everything, you can’t help liking them, though as parents they were a mixed bag. When we weren’t traveling—India was only the beginning—we lived at Brampton, letting the house fall down around us. I probably wouldn’t have survived their weeklong descents into the world of magic mushrooms had it not been for Nanny. My grandmother insisted they hire her and she’s the only reason I’m relatively sane. That and school and university, where I learned what normal life was like.”

“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.