At the Billionaire’s Wedding (8 page)

Oh my God, how unprofessional could she be? Plus, she didn’t even know Harry’s last name.

His room was very different from the rest of the house and her room in the family wing. The furnishings were sparse and dominated by the king-size bed she occupied. The nightstand was piled high with books: a volume on hotel management, a biography of Dickens, several novels, none of which she had read, and
Start Where You Are
by the Buddhist nun Pema Chödrön. A huge Chinese wardrobe faced her; it could be a Pier One reproduction but she had a feeling it was the real thing. Like the rest of the house, there were pictures on the walls, mostly watercolors and photographs.

Spotting her dress folded neatly—certainly not by her—on a leather banquette, she dashed over and wriggled into it, not wanting to be caught naked in broad daylight. As she searched for her underwear, which she feared might be decorating the Gold Saloon, a sports team photo caught her eye: guys with oars. The members of Trinity College Boat Club were identified, including H.G.G. Compton.

So he was a college-educated handyman with superior upper body development and a name. Who was a genius in bed, and in the State Rooms. That, sadly, was going to have to stop. Their relationship must be strictly business, at least until after the wedding. In search of her own room, she discovered that Harry’s job merited his own bathroom and a sitting room with TV, stereo, desk, sofa, and Harry himself, squatting in a perfect lotus in front of the kind of simple shrine one or the other of her parents used when they were in a Buddhist frame of mind: a pair of orange candles and a beautiful jade Buddha on a low table.

He looked round as she tiptoed behind him.

“Sorry. Don’t let me disturb you.”

“You won’t. Not in that way.”

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a Buddhist,” she said, trying to ignore her unpantied state. “Are you vegetarian too?”

“Both in a half-arsed way. The meditation is good for me—keeps things in perspective—and I try not to eat meat for every meal.”

“You’re not what I would have expected.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“I believe it is.” Most of the men she knew were so predictable. Maybe Harry’s nationality made him seem original and exotic and all Englishmen were such a fascinating mixture of traits.

He unwound his legs and rose gracefully to his feet, giving her an enticing grin. “I haven’t said good morning to you, my lovely.”

Lovely? She had raccoon eyes! “Morning breath,” she murmured, dodging his attempt at a kiss.

“I don’t care.” He put his big hands on her hips, but she pulled back.

Time to be sensible. At once. Before things got out of hand again. “About last night,” she began.

“It was marvelous. Stupendous. The earth shook.”

“Harry,” she said, resisting the urge to agree. Fervently. “It was great, but it must end. We have to work together and our interests may not always coincide. Let’s agree that it was a one-night stand and a happy memory.”

“I don’t want it to end, darling. In fact, I want to take you back to bed right now.” His eyes were blue and soft and smoldery and she wanted to say yes. To hell with work.

She shook her head at such an odd thought. Work always came first. “It would be unprofessional. Besides, I’ll be spending most of the next month in London and New York. Our relationship will be strictly business and conducted by phone and e-mail.” She gave him a snarky look. “Better get that Internet working, darling.”

To: Arwen Kilpatrick

From: Harry Compton

As requested, I attach a list of tent hire places and wildly expensive caterers. Let me know if I can help since they are all anxious to exploit poor defenseless Americans. I am a great negotiator.

Speaking of which, I would like to negotiate a resumption of relations once Jane and Duke have made it to the altar. I know you’ve always wanted an English boyfriend.

To: Harry Compton

From: Arwen Kilpatrick

Thanks for the offer, but I always do my own negotiating. Mark is taking me to interview a man described as the Next Gordon Ramsey who may be persuaded to close his restaurant for a week and move his staff to Brampton. I will do my poor best to remain unexploited.

Re. post-wedding activities, I find London surprisingly full of Englishmen. Turns out you are not unique.

P.S. I assume your e-mail is proof of the restoration of Internet service to Brampton House.

To: Arwen Kilpatrick

From: Harry Compton

The Next Gordon Ramsey is gay.

To: Harry Compton

From: Arwen Kilpatrick

Judging by his hand on my thigh during the interview, I would judge the Next G.R. to be somewhat interested in women. His cooking is divine, with one problem. He has a philosophical objection to vegetarian food. Please send me contact info for The Pineapple of Perfection so that I can order in vegan dishes.

To: Arwen Kilpatrick

From: Harry Compton

Glad to hear the bloom is off the Next G.R.’s rose. Speaking of roses, three delightful young ladies from Extremely Costly Florals arrived this morning to plan arrangements. The man from Super Luxurious Persian Tents is here now, measuring the terrace and lawn. Also a team of Dazzling Lighting Designers. Throw in a High King, some Riders of Rohan, and an elf or two and I’m sure you could inch Duke Austen’s bill up closer to ten million.

To: Harry Compton

From: Arwen Kilpatrick

Bite your tongue. No elves. Also, the Next Gordon Ramsey is in.

To: Arwen Kilpatrick

From: Harry Compton

Be still my heart. You used the words
tongue
and
bite
in one short sentence. You are giving me ideas.

Organizing a wedding in a foreign country reminded Arwen of the Ginger Rogers line about doing it backward in high heels. It would have been tough in New York; in London it was a bloody miracle (she was picking up the local vocabulary) what she managed to pull together. She had to admit that daily calls and advice from Mark and Harry helped a lot. Especially Harry.

“Hello, Elf darling.” In Harry’s voice, even Tolkien was bearable.

“I have news,” she said. “I’ve discovered the Scottish accent. Englishmen don’t cut it anymore.”

“I trust that simply means you went to see a Gerard Butler film.”

“When do I have time to go to the movies? I met this cute Scottish guy while I was waiting for the Next Gordon Ramsey.”

“I’m worried about your state of mind if you’re falling for random Scotsmen. You need to have some fun. For God’s sake, at least make Mark take you to the theater.”

“I can’t. I spend all day on the Austen wedding, then, when London closes, I get on the phone and deal with my other clients in New York. After a few hours of that I’m good for nothing but sleep.” It did sound pathetic. Three weeks in London and she hadn’t seen much beyond her luxurious room at the Ritz Hotel.

“I’ll catch a train in and take you out,” Harry said.

Arwen scrolled though her calendar, and that of the various vendors who’d be requiring Harry’s attention at Brampton. “Maybe next Thursday, if I don’t have to go to New York.”

She prayed Valerie could deal with the latest Bridezilla crisis on her own. Working in London was tough, but a welcome challenge, while she felt no enthusiasm at all for the half dozen New York weddings on their books. As for a date with Harry, that she looked forward to… But it wouldn’t be a date. Just a business meeting with entertainment. And maybe benefits?

Two weeks before the wedding

Arwen had to go to New York after all—Valerie had sprained her ankle and needed help—and their theater date never materialized. Not only did his poor elf have to make a quick trans-Atlantic trip, she would also return alone, without her business partner to assist her in running the week-long party. He redoubled his efforts to get everything ready, not only for his own sake. Unfortunately some things were out of his hands.

The e-mails had been fun and the telephone conversations even more so. Harry had no idea business could be so sexy. If he’d gone into the luxury lodgings trade with any reluctance, extensive communication with a certain wedding planner went a long way to reconciling him to his future as a hotelier. While he looked forward keenly to her return to Brampton in a few days, he wasn’t much looking forward to this particular call.

“Hi, Harry.” He adored her throaty American voice.

“I have a spot of trouble with the inspectors from the Food Standards Agency.”

“Oh my God, you don’t have rats do you? Or cockroaches?”

“No rodents or insects. And no inspectors either. Unless I can exert undue influence, they won’t be here for two weeks which means the kitchen isn’t licensed.” The throaty American tones turned into infuriated squawks. “Calm down, darling. I have a solution.”

He explained about mobile catering equipment that could be set up in the stable yard: ranges, ovens, and refrigeration, all tying into the main gas line. “We can also use the refrigerators in the hotel kitchen. We just can’t cook there.”

Arwen had questions, of course, but he managed to satisfy them. “Now I have to break the news to the Next Gordon Ramsey,” she said, relatively cheerful under the circumstances. “Luckily I made him sign a cast iron contract.”

“If this problem breaks you two up I shall rejoice. The way you’ve taken this makes me love you even more.”

“I’ve never gotten through an event without one major problem. I’m happy to have this behind us. Hopefully it’ll be smooth sailing now.”

“I need to talk to you about something else.”

“Don’t tell me the Internet is out again.”

“No, no. It’s fast and brilliant.” The gods of British Telecom had smiled on him at last and as of today he no longer had to climb up to the Mausoleum to send e-mails. “This is nothing to do with the wedding.”

“What?” She sounded intrigued, but Harry chickened out. He’d planned to reveal his identity on their canceled date and he still didn’t want to do it on the telephone.

“I’ll tell you when I see you. Only a week now and I can’t wait.”

“Nor can I,” she said, sending Harry’s confidence soaring. Everything was going to be fine, not only with the wedding.

All the major problems with this wedding had happened, Arwen decided, or hoped, by the time she went to the airport to meet the happy couple. There had never been anything at all scary about Jane Sparks in high school and objectively there still wasn’t. She and Arwen had spoken dozens of times over the past weeks. Still, when your old school friend is about to marry into the Forbes Four Hundred, her wedding is the most elaborate event you’ve ever planned, and its success can launch your career into the stratosphere, you can’t help feeling more than a little anxious. Jane might be easy to please; Arwen wasn’t so sure about the bridegroom.

Side by side in the back of the limo during the drive from the airport, the couple exchanged occasional quick kisses and caresses, but otherwise Duke Austen let Arwen and Jane do the talking, not even looking up from his iPhone to answer “whatever you like, babe” when his opinion was sought. But Duke emitted an aura of brilliance and power that was both sexy and intimidating.

“I can’t wait to show you the dress,” Jane said. “I can’t tell you about it now because Duke has a way of listening when you think he’s engrossed in something else.”

He managed to wink without looking away from his screen. Arwen was dying to find out if the tech billionaire would wear jeans and a T-shirt to his wedding; she’d never seen him in anything else.

What if he didn’t like Brampton, she fretted as they drew nearer. Jane was crazy about old English houses and would forgive much in return for authenticity; with Duke, Arwen didn’t know. As they reached the narrow road that wound its way to Brampton—not the road on which, deceived by the evil GPS, she’d made her first approach, but one with two lanes that could handle a decent size vehicle—fear of Duke’s disapproval gave way to anticipation of seeing Harry again.