At the Billionaire’s Wedding (2 page)

Okay, not old. And wet rather than dirty. While he folded a long body into the tiny car, started the engine, and traveled a hundred feet backward with effortless competence, she observed that he was in his early thirties and handsome in a hunky, James McAvoy kind of way.

“You were driving too fast in the lane,” he said. “You should slow down and look out.”

“I was doing twenty.” Arwen crossed her fingers. She hadn’t been watching the speedometer, neither was she sure if they used miles or kilometers in England. “It shouldn’t be legal to have roads this narrow.”

“Try talking to the County Council about it,” he said.

“I suppose it’s why your cars are so tiny.”

“They get the job done and don’t waste petrol.”

She owned a hybrid herself, but if he wanted to make stereotypical assumptions about gas-guzzling Americans she wasn’t going to contradict him. Plus he looked comical with denim-clad legs almost hitting the dashboard, and kind of cute.

Reaching a spot where the road was slightly wider, he stopped and got out of the car. After a step or two toward his own vehicle, he came back. “Do you want me to turn it round for you?” he asked, leaning in through the open door. “This road only leads to Brampton and the house isn’t open to the public at the moment.”

“Thanks but no thanks.” Arwen resisted the urge to tell him to mind his own business and stop dripping water in her car. The guy had the nerve to stand in the rain, an eyebrow raised, probably waiting for her to return to her seat. No way was she giving him a flash of her panties.

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“Pity,” he said. For a moment stormy eyes glinted with something more than annoyance.

“What?”

“Never mind. There’s a wider road back to the village. Turn right at the Brampton gate.” He closed the door and stomped away. Seconds later he revved up his disreputable vehicle, which needed a new muffler, sending up a shower of mud as he passed. More than twenty miles an hour she’d bet. Or kilometers. Arwen’s first encounter with the Brampton natives was not encouraging. Still, even scolding sounded better from a deep voice with a British accent. Of course they all had lovely accents and some of them were villains: Benedict Cumberbatch as Khan; Richard Armitage as the Sheriff of Nottingham; Alan Rickman in almost anything. His voice was up to that standard.

Resisting the distraction of British vowels and cheekbones, she slowed to a crawl for the last half mile. A set of impressive stone pillars and a discreet sign marked the entrance to Brampton House, Country House Hotel. It had rained on and off most of the way from the airport, but as she drove through the open gates a beam of sunlight opened a crack in the clouds and illuminated a vision in honey-colored stone and glass. Arwen, who had organized weddings in every available mansion within easy reach of New York City, had never seen a more beautiful house. Seventeenth-century with later additions, she remembered from the history on the hotel’s rudimentary website. Things had looked desperate when Jane’s first choice of wedding location fell through at the eleventh hour. But even in the short time available, Arwen could do something spectacular here, a celebration that would be talked about in every magazine on the country. Her name would be in
Brides
,
Town and Country
,
People
…

First she had to make sure that Brampton House, newly converted to a hotel, was up to the standards required of a wedding venue for America’s newest tech billionaire and his bride. Going to her high-school reunion in Pennsylvania and reconnecting with Jane Sparks was the biggest piece of luck of Arwen’s career in the competitive world of event planning. Luxe Events was not going to blow the opportunity. At the gate she stopped to take a photo and texted it to her partner Valerie, then called her, ready to babble about how gorgeous the place was and rub Val’s nose in it, just a little bit, for having to stay in New York to complete the arrangements for a routine wedding at Tavern on the Green.

Nothing. Her phone showed one dot, which faded before her eyes into No Service. The photo hadn’t gone either. She hoped this was merely a dead spot. If not, the hotel had better have damn good Wi-Fi.

Clouds parted further as she drove down a tree-lined avenue bisecting impossibly green fields to the crunchy gravel approach to the house. An epic flight of stone stairs, wide enough to photograph the wedding party and all the guests, led to a huge front door. Not a single vehicle spoiled the dazzling historic panorama and Arwen had been told to proceed to the east wing. Glancing at the sun, she turned left and drove around the side of the house to discover a more utilitarian elegance. Several cars and vans were parked in another graveled area. On one side was the main house, at right angles to a separate building entered by an archway with a picturesque clock tower. The look was spoiled by a huge pile of dirt sitting forlornly next to an abandoned backhoe. Whatever excavation Lord Melbury had going would have to be finished and cleaned up in time.

Following the instructions in Duke’s assistant’s e-mail, she knocked on an already open door into the house. “Hi there!” she called, peering down a long broad corridor, hung with hunting prints opposite a long row of hooks holding coats, hats, etc. Shoes and boots, several dozen pairs, were lined up on the floor, punctuated by occasional tennis rackets and fishing rods. Not very hotel-like, but this was the family’s residential quarters. Since no one responded to her calls, she stole gingerly up the corridor feeling lame at every “hello” and so rattled she almost tripped on a tall black leather boot that had broken ranks and fallen into her path. She’d entered a freakin’ Lord’s stately home without permission and felt like they might put her in the Tower of London or something.

Come on, Arwen. You’re a tough American professional woman and this is nothing but a glorified mudroom.

She took a deep breath. “Anyone here?”

“This way.” She followed the soft female voice into the biggest kitchen she’d ever seen. At the far end an elderly woman stirred something in a pot resting on a massive black stove, possibly as old as the house.

“Hello, dear,” she said. “What are you looking for?”

Nothing could be less alarming than this sweet little old lady with perfect short gray curls and a pink floral apron covering her white blouse and gray skirt. “Are you Mrs. Thompson?”

“Call me Nanny.”

“I am Arwen Kilpatrick. Call me Arwen,” she said, relieved at this evidence of informality. “I’m here about the wedding,” she added when Nanny looked puzzled. Was it possible that Duke Austen’s secretary had failed to call and announce her arrival?

“We were expecting a Welshman called Owen,” Nanny said. “But I’m sure you’ll do just as well. American, are you? Americans have such funny names. Is Arwen a family name?” Nanny was not apparently an aficionado of J.R.R. Tolkien.

“My mother’s maiden name.” Her usual lie. She had always hated being named after an elf. Since she had parents who didn’t believe in marriage, the concept of a maiden name played to her personal fantasies.

“Would you like a coffee?”

Arwen eyed a big jar of instant on the pine table that dominated the center of the room and shuddered. “Thanks, I picked up Starbucks at the airport. Would it be okay to see my room and freshen up?” Even traveling first class—thank you, Duke Austen!—she felt grimy after the overnight flight.

“Of course, dear. Follow me.”

Her room was gorgeous, all antique furniture and faded chintz in blues and yellows that picked out the colors of the wallpaper, a Chinese pattern of bamboo, lotus flowers, and birds. She tested the mattress on a canopy bed out of a costume drama and found it eminently nap-worthy. If the guest rooms in the new hotel were like this it would be perfect. Those New York and Silicon Valley hipsters were going to get a taste of real class. The bathroom was a couple of doors down the hall, but Nanny assured her there were no other guests and she had it to herself. She plugged in her laptop and phone, using three-pin adapters bought at the airport, and noted a couple of bars of Wi-Fi. Hopefully she’d get better signal elsewhere in the house. She’d better. Internet service was more important than bathrooms to tech guys.

She had no complaints about the spacious bathroom with the biggest stand-alone tub she’d ever seen. The showerhead was handheld but gleaming silver, the hot water plentiful. She washed away all traces of the flight as she wallowed luxuriantly and planned her
I am a kickass wedding planner who takes no prisoners
outfit: jeans, Tory Burch jacket, and the Valentino flats she’d found on deep sale. Heels would be preferable to lend her gravitas and height, but she was in the country and walking on gravel in stilettos was not for sissies.

Time to work, but first the hair.

Plugging her travel hairdryer into another adapter, she turned it on and was rewarded by a whir, an explosion of ominous sparks, and silence. Crap.

Then she noticed the light on her laptop charger had gone out. She’d blown a fuse.

Nice start, Arwen.
Her stomach lurched. The reason she’d come to Brampton was because a kitchen fire had damaged Kingstag Castle, Jane’s first choice.

She tore down to the kitchen in a panic, her head filled with a vision of the headlines.

Historic Mansion Burned to the Ground, American Wedding Planner Blamed.

Nanny, unfazed by wet hair and her flimsy Chinatown robe, assured her that someone called Harry, who was ever so handy, would fix it and offered her a glass of sherry while she waited. What the hell. This was a good moment to break her rule about not drinking at lunch (or technically before lunch). The old lady sat her down with a beautiful cut glass decanter and a matching glass. The sherry was dry but tasty and Arwen felt the tension ease out of her. Despite its size, the room was comfortable and welcoming. She could imagine half a dozen small children with milk mustaches sitting around the old table, munching on cookies.

“Do you know if there’s anywhere in the house I can get cell service? Mobile phone service,” she added when Nanny looked blank.

“Harry will know,” Nanny replied, lifting a gigantic pot from the scary black stove.

“Do you need help with that?” Arwen asked. “It looks awfully heavy.”

“I can manage.” Nanny drained something that looked suspiciously like cauliflower into a huge colander in an enamel sink almost as big as the bathtub. Everything in the place was on a monumental scale.

“Is there anything else I can do?” she said, once assured that Nanny wasn’t going to collapse under a tsunami of boiling water.

“Thank you, dear, but I won’t make you work when you’ve only just arrived. Relax and enjoy your sherry.” Arwen took another sip, which wasn’t a good idea since it inspired a crazy desire for sleep.

“I’d like to look around the facilities.” That was a really hard word to pronounce. “Fa-cil-it-ies,” she repeated. “Is Lord Melbury here?” Although she didn’t suppose the lord of the manor would concern himself directly with a wedding planner.

“He and Lady Melbury are abroad.”

“Who’s in charge of the hotel?”

“Harry can answer all your questions. He’ll be in for lunch soon.”

A wonderful old clock surrounded by an amazing collection of copper molds read twelve thirty. Arwen set down her empty sherry glass and rose to wobbly feet. “I’d better go back upstairs and get dressed,” she said.

Harry glanced in his rearview mirror and wondered if he should have stayed to make sure the pretty girl in the white Vauxhall managed to get her car in gear. He hated being rude, especially to pretty girls, and this one was particularly attractive. For a moment his predicament had faded behind the urge to chat her up, find out what she was doing in the narrow lane, a shortcut used by very few. Once she was out of sight his black mood descended again.

He took several deep breaths and tried to empty his mind of the morning’s cock-up and achieve inner peace. It was his own fault for trying to run the excavator himself. Fed up by the nonappearance of the workmen for a third day and anxious to get the trench dug so they could run the gas line to the new catering kitchen, he’d managed to bugger the fiber optic cable bringing high-speed broadband to serve the entire hotel. It turned out you couldn’t patch that kind of wiring together with electrical tape. Who knew?

Then he’d learned that Duke Austen had sent a man called Owen Kilpatrick to look the place over before he wrote the gigantic, heart-stopping check, the monumental bonus for opening the hotel early for Austen’s wedding to Jane Sparks.

Instead of spending a happy morning pottering around with heavy machinery, he had to go into Melbury and persuade British Telecom to restore Internet service to Brampton House immediately. It was going to take no small degree of charm and groveling to get the capricious gods (i.e. telephone company employees) to hurry up. And the charming and groveling had better be good because this Owen fellow would arrive at any moment and nothing was going to amuse the representative of an Internet billionaire less than a total absence of Internet.