British Bad Boys

Chapter One

“The public loo in the riding stable’s broken again, your lordship. And the head gardener says that if the rabble from the adventure playground stamp on his peonies once more, he won’t be responsible for the consequences.”

George Hartley sighed and sipped the tea his butler served-along with the bad news-from a Derby cup and saucer decorated with the family coat of arms. Despite his suggestions that he’d be happy with a pottery mug from IKEA, the staff were unbending. He might think that being the nineteenth earl of Ponsford was more of a cross to bear than a cause for celebration, but it seemed he was pretty much alone in the household with that opinion. He sipped the tea and found it strong and fortifying. “Another broken toilet. Excellent,” he said with only the slightest hint of sarcasm. “Any good news, Wiggins?”

“An inquiry for a society wedding. If you call that good news,” the butler said in a doom-laden tone.

Actually, a wedding was good news. Very good news. Every corporate event and private celebration, every tourist who paid their eight pounds fifty to tour his ancestral home meant more of a chance to hang on to Hart House, the estate that had been in his family for half a millennium. Earls of Ponsford had brought the property through wars, revolutions, and political intrigue. George wasn’t about to lose the place to death duties and taxes.

But he almost thought he’d rather face war, revolution, and political intrigue than the long face of the man who’d been the family butler for three generations.

“You know, Wiggins, you should have been the earl. You’re much better at it.”

“I know you enjoy your little jokes, sir, but what about the loo?”

“Ah, yes. Right. The loo.” George turned his back on the large-screen monitor where he’d been designing vacation cottages he didn’t have the money to build. “What the bloody hell did Father mean letting me study architecture? I should have been a plumber or an electrician or something useful.”

One hundred and eighty-two staff depended on the estate for their livelihoods. Twenty-two acres of gardens, rolling lawns, woodlands, and streams needed tending. Another thousand acres were farmed. The small village existed mainly because of the estate.

George carried the burden of it all, along with a debt to the bank that kept him wakeful on many a night.

There were days when he wished he could give in, chuck it all, sell the old pile with its history, pedigree, priceless heirlooms, and its problems, and move to a loft in Manhattan. No, not Manhattan. Somewhere much newer, where nobody gave a toss about royalty, nobility, or antiquity. Los Angeles perhaps. Or Sydney. The daydream began to take beguiling shape as he imagined beaches populated by sun-kissed girls in bikinis, warm, blue water to swim in, and nobody expecting a bachelor of thirty-two to act as caretaker to an old girl who was nearing five hundred years old, and showing her age.

“Has anybody tried to rejig the loo? Seems to me we had some luck once with a bent hairclip and some chewing gum.”

“One of the volunteer docents discovered water gushing out the bottom of the fixture, sir. She had the sense to turn off the water.”

“Right. So it’s a job for the plumber, then. Who do we usually use?”

“Phillip Chumley, sir. So long as you catch him before the pub opens.”

“And afterward?”

Wiggins merely shook his head slowly. “More tea, sir?”

“Great. The local plumber’s a drunk.” He heaved a sigh. “In London I know a dozen good plumbers.” The things he missed in London didn’t bear thinking about. Plumbers were the least of it. His father’s death had brought him down here less than a year ago, and grief and duty kept him here. Hart House was only two hours from London by train but it was worlds away to George.

“It would cost a great deal to bring one out here, though, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose. All right. See if you can dig out this Chumley’s number. I’ll give him a ring.”

“And the peonies?”

Peonies and toilets. The life of the titled nobility was an enviable one indeed. “I’ll speak to the gardener. Perhaps we can put up a fence between the adventure playground and the garden.”

“That would rather spoil the view of the peonies, your lordship.”

“Well, maybe he can move his blessed peonies.”

“Yes, sir.”

George had been as unsuccessful at stomping out the your lordships and sirs spilling from his butler’s mouth as he had been at getting his tea in a simple mug. Some days he wondered if he could possibly pull this old estate back into the black when he couldn’t manage to change the habits of his own staff. “Please tell me you’ve got some good news.”

“I don’t know that it’s good news, your lordship, but there is a young woman to see you.”

“Really? Is she pretty? That would be good news.” His fantasy about sun-kissed girls in tiny bikinis hadn’t quite left him.

“I couldn’t say, sir. She is an American.”

“A tourist?” He did get them sometimes, stopping in to say hey after touring his house. Far too many young girls from places like Cincinnati and Chicago had seen Colin Firth in some poofy costume on television and decided they’d like to bag a titled Englishman. Usually, the staff took care of them.

“A documentary filmmaker.”

George leapt to his feet. “Why didn’t you say so sooner? Have you left her waiting all this time?” As he spoke, he found a navy blazer and tugged it on over his sweater. Wiggins tried to help him into it but he shrugged the man off. “It’s really important we impress this woman, Wiggins. She works for a production company that’s going to make a series of programs about-well, I forget what it’s about. But the important thing is, there’s a nice fat location fee involved, which God knows we could use to pay drunken plumbers. In addition, I should think the publicity in America would bring in more tourists and more revenue.”

There was a tiny flicker of emotion across Wiggins’s face, and George knew, as though he’d read the man’s mind, that he was thinking back to the good old days, when this had been more of a prestigious estate than a tourist stop. “I will take you to her at once.”

“No, no. Don’t bother. I’ll find her myself.”

Chapter Two

Maxine Larraby stared around herself at the opulent décor of the morning drawing room, or whatever this overstuffed museum of a room was called. It was red. That was all she knew. Far too red. God, if they filmed in here her documentary would be mistaken for one of those medical ones where they stuck a camera inside the body. Inside Hart House could be confused with This is Your Pancreas.

In fact, she wasn’t at all sure about this project. Yes, Hart House had some interesting history, had been a hospital in World War II, and there was an American connection, but still, if she couldn’t find a focus, and better backdrops than this red-walled frilly china shop of a room, she might as well move on to the next possibility on her list and save herself a lot of trouble.

Especially if she was going to be kept waiting much longer.

Restless, as always, she went to the window and stared out at a landscape that was probably prettier than a Constable painting in good weather, but now merely drooped and dripped in a steady downpour. The rose garden, she’d read, was famous. At the moment every bud and leaf seemed to be bending its soggy head, wishing for an umbrella.

She turned back to the room and spotted a china figure of a shepherdess. Idly, she picked it up and turned it over, wondering if it was genuine English china or some cheap Taiwanese knockoff.

“It’s Meissen,” said a deep male voice from behind her. “A gift to the seventeenth earl from a German cousin, I believe.”

After almost dropping the no doubt priceless heirloom and smashing it to Meissen dust, she managed to put the thing back on the table and turn, an apology on the tip of her tongue for acting like a flea market browser. What on earth was wrong with her?

But the apology died on her lips.

She blinked. Everything she’d seen so far on this estate was old and crumbling. But not this guy. It was a shock to come face to face with a man-a gorgeous one-who was young and sexy and, well, modern. He had brown wavy hair, and blue eyes that tilted down a little at the corners, giving him the look of a rogue-and how they twinkled. As though life was his own private joke. A smile that managed to be both charming and slightly wolfish. Tall, great body. Wow.

“You’re Maxine Larraby? Here about the documentary?” he said, reading from her card. The one she’d given to the butler. Now what? She had to go through some secretary or advisor before she could see the earl? Not that she minded being stuck with the hottie wearing jeans, a gray sweater, and a navy blazer that didn’t go together, and still managing to look amazing, but her schedule was tight. She didn’t have time to waste.

“Yes. Possible documentary,” she told him. She wasn’t going to commit until she was certain she could do something fresh.

“Please, have a seat. Would you like some tea? Or coffee?”

“No, thank you,” she said, sinking into a brocade chair and glancing at her watch pointedly. Maybe the earl was king of his castle, but she had a schedule. Being kept waiting by his male secretary wasn’t helping.

“How was your flight over?” Tall, Dark, and Handsome asked.

“Fine. Thank you.”

“Ah, good. I always have a dreadful time with jet lag.” He’d seated himself across from her, and appeared very comfy. Like he was planning to stay awhile.

“I slept on the plane, so I’m fresh and raring to go.”

“Good. Well, let’s get started, then. What would you like to see first?”

“The earl,” she said as pleasantly as she could.

“The earl?”

“The Earl of Ponsford,” she said with a slight edge. T, D, and H continued to stare at her blankly.

“Look, you’re very good-looking and charming, and I’m enjoying talking to you, but I don’t have years to make this documentary. My schedule’s overbooked as it is. I’d really like to see the earl. Now.”

“You are seeing him.” He glanced down at himself and then back at her with a disturbing twinkle in the depth of his gaze. “And thank you for calling me charming.”

“You are not the earl and this is not funny. Why do Brits insist on thinking Americans are stupid?”

“Not stupid, no. Merely, I would say, a little more free to express your thoughts and opinions. We English tend to be more reserved.”

She didn’t bother to answer, merely yanked a file out of her briefcase. Opened it in her I am not to be messed with manner, and read, “The Earl of Ponsford, a distinguished general, includes in his hobbies cultivating roses and playing with his grandchildren.” She raised her brows. “And how are your grandchildren, Lord Ponsford?”

He didn’t look embarrassed or let on that he was busted. He said in that same pleasant tone, “I haven’t got any. Yet. I think you must be referring to my father. He died last year. I still miss him very much.”

“You know, I’m not a big fan of practical jokes.”

He stood, and she had another moment to relish how great he looked in jeans. Then he trod to the back of the room and picked up a photo in a heavy silver frame. He walked back and handed it to her. Inside the frame was a photograph taken by a noted London photographer, and a caption, no doubt for the edification of the tourists who paraded through the place six days a week during the hours of 10 A.M. and 5 P.M. The central figure was the same man in the picture in her file. He stood with a lady who must have been his wife, and his two kids. There was no doubt that the tall one standing behind his father’s right shoulder was the guy bending over her now. The caption read: The 18th Earl of Ponsford, the Countess, Viscount George, and the Lady Margaret. It had been taken four years earlier.

If she’d been the kind of woman who blushed, she’d have done so. “And Google is usually so reliable.”

“Well, your researcher probably typed in eighteenth earl. I’m the nineteenth,” he said helpfully.

A long moment ticked by, aided by a gilt clock that appeared to be centuries old and showed a young maiden being dragged off somewhere by a team of horses. Wherever it was going, Max wanted to jump on board.

“You’re the nineteenth earl.”

“Yes.”

“The honest-to-God Earl of Ponsford.”

“I’m afraid so.” He was still standing over her, very male, very yummy, and taking the fact that she’d challenged his identity pretty well.

“And I’ve just made the biggest fool of myself.”

“Honestly, I’ve seen bigger fools. Really, among my friends, you’re a rank amateur.”

She blew out a breath that ruffled her carefully styled bangs. Well, maybe life wasn’t exactly like television, but she was always willing to try for a retake. She held out her hand. “Maxine Larraby, your lordship.”

His smile was singularly charming. “Call me George. Everyone does.” And he took her hand. Nice, warm hand. Good grip.

If he noticed the extraordinary heat they were generating he gave no sign of it, merely shook her hand as though he were meeting her at the queen’s garden party, and asked her how she liked England.

“It’s a little damp,” she said.

“I know,” he said, glancing out the window guiltily as though the rain were his personal fault. “My mother was American, you know.” He shook his head. “She never could get used to the weather, or the inconveniences.” He glanced out the window into the wet rose garden, and she suddenly realized that he’d lost both parents within the four years since that picture had been snapped. “However, you’ve got a schedule, and I am at your disposal.”

“Yes. Thank you.” She pulled out a notebook and pen. Since meeting the sexy young earl she’d been tingling with professional excitement-well, mostly professional. With his father walking the TV viewer through the estate, it would have been good television, depending on how riveting she could make the script. With a young Prince Charming on camera, Hart House could be Heartthrob House. But first, she was going to need his full cooperation.

“We really appreciate your interest in this project,” she said, launching into her sales pitch. Producing and reporting were like seduction-you had to go with what worked. Of course, it was difficult to know right away. What would most likely get the earl to cooperate, she wondered, looking at that far too attractive face. Flattery? Should she appeal to his ego, or should she suggest he had an obligation to history and to his illustrious family? She went with a little of all those things. “As you know from our letters, George, this project is tentatively called Great Estates, Grand Titles. There will be six one-hour episodes, each exploring one English estate with an American connection. In your case, of course, your late mother.

“We are so excited at the possibility of doing this show with you. It’s history, English-American relations, a chance to show the world your beautiful home.” She snuck a glance at him and found him listening politely, but not sitting forward in a lather of excitement.

“We’ll try and keep disruption to a minimum, and of course there’s the location fee.”

His gaze sharpened and she felt him straighten almost imperceptibly in his chair. Who’d have thought it, it was the money that motivated him. She named a figure that was in the upper range of her budget. And saw an expression of relief cross his face. Money was tight, then. No huge ancestral fortune to pay for the upkeep of the estate.

“And how long would your crew be here?”

“Probably we’ll shoot on location for about a week. It could be delayed if we don’t get good weather to shoot outdoors, or sometimes there are unexpected delays. But I’m budgeting a week. Shooting to take place late spring.”

“And what do you need from us?”

“All right. Well, I’m not only scouting locations, I’m also getting a feel for the story of this house and your family. I’ll want you to talk about your mother, and how she came to leave Philadelphia to marry your father, but also the interesting stories. Ghosts, murders, that sort of thing.”

“Air out the family closet.”

“I think a good murder story or a house ghost adds a lot of interest to a story.”

“Really.” He rose. “Shall I put you to the test?”

There was something about him that made her think he could get a girl in a lot of trouble if she wasn’t careful. “What would that require?”

“Wellies,” he informed her.

“Wellies?” Was this one of those incomprehensible things the Brits ate, all of which seemed to include some form of sausage?

“Yes. Wellington boots.” He nodded, glanced outside and said, “And you’d better bring your Mac.”

Since she didn’t think he was telling her she’d need her laptop, she merely raised her brows. For her trouble she was rewarded with one of his lordship’s mischievous smiles. God, the things he must have got away with in his lifetime thanks to that grin. “ Wellington boots. Rain boots. And a Macintosh is a raincoat.”

“And you’re the Earl of Ponsford.” Okay, she’d managed to look foolish in front of her documentary subject, which was bad, but the fact that he, a sexy and naturally charismatic man, would be the focus of the documentary was very, very good. She wondered if he was single. For some reason, she felt too foolish to come right out and ask. She didn’t want him thinking she had any personal interest. She’d get a researcher onto it.

“So, you do have a ghost.”

“Well, there may be loads of them, but if so they’re very polite ghosts. No one ever sees or hears them. No. What I want to show you is the scene of the grisly murder.”

A hottie and a murder. This location was looking better and better.

She was too busy for a man, Maxine reminded herself, especially an interview subject. But as he helped her slip into an ancient dark green raincoat, she thought he could literally charm the pants off her.

Chapter Three

George rambled at her side, leading her down a crushed stone path that curved through the damp rose garden. There was a light mist over the river and the white stone of the Palladian bridge stood out like a ghost.

“Is that where the murder took place?” she asked. Could she reproduce the misty atmosphere? Already her mind was working angles, lighting, a little bit of special effects. Maybe an actor or two to play out the bloody scene while the earl described the murder in his wonderful voice.

“That’s where the ninth Earl died. He was our naughty earl.”

“He drowned in the river?” Not bad, but not terrific television unless his ghost kept tipping over rowers, or spitting water at pedestrians on the bridge or something.

“He was very drunk and took a hankering to ride his horse into the village to the local pub for some mayhem. But he never got there. His body was found the next day under the bridge.”

“Was he murdered? Then dumped in the river? Or did he fall in?”

“That, my dear, is as yet, and probably always will be, an unsolved mystery.”

My dear was an old-fashioned endearment, but still, for some odd reason awareness skittered over her skin at the words. With luck, he’d have the same effect on female viewers, she thought, pushing aside her own response. And mystery was almost as good as a murder. Immediately, she began assessing how to dramatize the scene. Maybe a POV shot of the ninth earl, woozy with drink, approaching the bridge. Did he hear a sound? Turn? She scribbled some notes.

“Would you like to see his picture?”

“The ninth earl? You bet.”

“I’ll take you to the portrait gallery.”

They tramped across a lawn and through a grove of fruit trees coming into blossom. He opened a side door and they entered an almost empty room. “We don’t use this wing, much. But it’s a shortcut to the portrait gallery. It’s also a bit chilly, I’m afraid. We save the heat for the main rooms.”

It wasn’t just chilly. It was freezing, in a damp way that made her reluctant to give up her coat, though she did when he took off his.

“Don’t worry about your wellies,” he said when she bent to take them off. “The main rooms are open to the public, so the floors are covered.”

So she found herself treading beside the earl in slightly too big, borrowed rubber boots that must have looked really good with her black and white Miu Miu suit.

They entered some kind of hallway with gorgeous wooden paneling, high coffered ceilings, and paintings and treasures everywhere. Gorgeous and, thankfully, no red in sight.

The portrait gallery was long. Very long. Long enough to hang huge portraits of an awful lot of earls, their wives, their families, dogs, and horses.

If they set up in here, she’d have to warn the sound tech.

“There are a lot of earls in here,” she said, amazed. She knew that her great-grandfather had come from Ireland and her great-grandmother from Sweden, and that they’d met in Boston and moved to California. She doubted family memories or records went back much further. How incredible to live in the same house and have pictures of all your ancestors for such a chunk of time.

“I’ll give you the highlights,” he promised her.

“This one’s the first earl. Titled by Henry VIII and given the land. There was an abbey here originally, but when the Catholics were tossed out and the Protestants were in, my ancestors found themselves on the right side of the king.” The first earl looked very pleased with himself, she thought, as well he might, given that he’d been handed a massive estate. He wore ermine and jewels and was pictured astride a black stallion. Massive sexual symbolism for pre-Freudian times.

Some of the artists were more famous than the men they’d painted. He showed her two Van Dycks, and a Lely, a probable Rembrandt.

“This one’s interesting,” he said, gesturing to a painting of an earl and his countess. “If you look carefully, you can see that the painting’s been sliced in half and a second half painted later and reattached.”

She stepped closer. “Wow. And now that I really look, the background is a little different somehow.”

“Different artist. You see, the earl remarried and the new countess didn’t like her dead predecessor on the walls, so she was cut out and the new one put in her place.”

She scribbled more notes.

“And here we come to the naughty ninth earl.”

“The one who drowned but was possibly murdered? Why did he have enemies? Did he kill someone?”

“God, yes. Killing people was, as far as we can tell, his only hobby. He shot or stabbed three men, badly wounded two. Drink made him crazy. Luckily he didn’t live very long.”

“Too bad he doesn’t walk around at night rattling chains or something,” she said, disappointed in the ninth earl.

“Well, I could show you the spot where he killed his mistress’s husband in a duel. Would that help?”

“Are there bloodstains?”

He chuckled. “Better. The mistress, who was a most unwilling one, by the by, kept a diary.”

Her eyes widened with excitement. “You haven’t got it?”

“In a glass case. Upstairs.”

“Is it good stuff?”

“Oh, there’s everything in it. Love, loss.” He gave her a steady glance. “Sexual longing.”

How could the walls of a castle suddenly feel like they were closing in on a person? Even though the castle was chilly, she felt the heat of his gaze on her and the zing of attraction she’d experienced when she first set eyes on him.

“All the ingredients that keep a documentary interesting, then,” she said lightly.

“And that keep life interesting,” he said softly.

By the time she’d seen the diary, toured everything that was of interest in the house, and met the house staff, she had so many scribbled notes she’d given herself a severe case of writer’s cramp. Outside, the dismal day had turned even grayer as the afternoon aged.

“I need to get going,” she told the earl. She needed to get to her hotel and type up her notes. And then tomorrow she’d be up early to head to the next location.

“Thank you so much for all your help and for giving up so much time to me today.”

“It was my pleasure. I hope we’ll spend more time together in the near future.” He might have been talking about the shoot, but the undercurrent to his words was clear. Of course, she didn’t have sex with the subjects of her documentaries. At least, she never had. It seemed like such a bad idea, not to mention complicating an already complicated business.

But then, she’d never met anyone quite like George before.

“We won’t make our final choices for a few weeks, but I have to tell you, I’m very excited about Hart House. Very excited.”

She shook his hand, and as she was leaving, heard him say under his breath, “I’m feeling quite excited myself.”

She was definitely going to have to do some research on this earl.

“Blimey,” George said, after he’d shut the door. He felt a bit stunned. He’d imagined a gorgeous, sun-kissed L.A. girl in a bikini and got a gorgeous L.A. girl in a power suit with an attitude. Much more appealing than a bikini-though he wouldn’t mind seeing her in skimpy two-piece. Or, in fact, nothing at all. “That was sudden and possibly extremely inconvenient.”

“Just so, sir,” said, Wiggins, who happened to be passing.

Chapter Four

Maxine was in a snit. She admitted it, accepted the fact, knew she should wait to confront his bloody lordship in the morning, except that she didn’t feel like being wise, and restrained, and sensible.

This was her second day at Hart House. The first she’d spent on preproduction stuff, making final decisions on locations, pulling together a list of scenes. Today, she’d been getting ready, writing the script, preparing for the crew, which would arrive tomorrow. She wanted to walk George through his duties tomorrow. He was going to be on film, telling the story of the house, the story of the ninth earl, the murder, the unwilling mistress, the mysterious drowning. Sure, George’s stories would be off the cuff and in his own words, but she needed his full attention while they rehearsed.

Instead, he’d most charmingly put her off again and again. First there was a crisis on the farm, an accident with some equipment. She didn’t completely understand what business it was of the earl’s, but he had a noblesse oblige thing going on that was kind of appealing.

Then they’d started to talk about the history of the house and which parts he should talk about, when his banker called. It seemed the banker was an important person in George’s life. Fair enough.

She’d accepted his invitation to stay at Hart House in one of the guest rooms mainly so she’d have easy access to him, but it seemed this was not to be. She’d eaten alone in a cozy room known as the family dining room since the earl had gone to the hospital to visit the injured farm worker.

Tomorrow was looming and she needed the first day of shooting to run smoothly. They only had a week on location, and she wasn’t paying a crew to hang around while the earl figured out what to say on camera. Oh, no.

So she went searching for the man. A pretty futile effort in a house that boasted so many wings and rooms that she could get lost for years. At last she stumbled on Wiggins the butler wandering by with a load of his lordship’s shirts.

“Where is he?” she asked as pleasantly as she could considering she really wanted to growl and hiss.

“He’s round the pub, madam.” And the way the butler gave the information with bland-faced terseness told her he didn’t appreciate that his lordship had skipped out and gone to the pub either.

Injured workers and bankers she could appreciate, but if his friggin’ lordship wanted a pint, he could do it next week, when she and her very expensive film crew were gone.

“Thank you,” she said. “Which pub?”

“I would imagine he went to the Royal Oak, madam. The village local.”

“Okay. I think I’ll go and find him.” And bring him back whether he likes it or not to face his responsibilities.

The Royal Oak was on the main street of the tiny village outside the castle gates. In Hart House terms, it was one of the closest neighboring buildings. In actual getting-there terms she had to stomp down miles of roadway to reach the end of the earl’s land before she could cross the street to the pub. She slipped on her sneakers, grabbed a sweater and her purse, and headed down the drive at a speed-walk. Halfway to her destination it began to rain.

Naturally. When did it do anything else in this country?

The drizzle wasn’t heavy enough to soak her, merely wet enough to be annoying, dampening her hair so she knew it would frizz, moistening her face so her makeup smudged. The air smelled of freshly mowed fields, of the damp wool of her sweater, and a little bit like horse.

When she got to the pub, she’d at least marched off the worst of her temper, but George Hartley, nineteenth earl of Ponsford, better not push her buttons or he’d discover she had a temper-and was enough of a republican to let him have it, earl or no earl.

When she dragged open the heavy door of the pub, she was hit by the feeling of warmth and cheer, the sound of laughter, and the smell of beer and centuries of smoke.

There were about three generations of people who had to be related, since so many of them sitting round the big table in the middle sported the same beaky nose; a group of young people laughing and flirting at the bar; a couple more interested in their drinks than in each other; and a few assorted tables of guys who must be mates and a raucous group at the dartboard.

No George.

Her eyes swept the pub once more for his lordship, and only then did she see him rise and take three darts. She blinked. He was part of the boisterous bunch of dart players. Imagine. His company wasn’t exactly Buckingham Palace fare. They were working men, and they seemed as comfortable with his lordship as he seemed with them. A new picture of George Hartley sprang up in her mind, and she experienced the zing in the pit of her stomach that helped her in her work.

She could visualize this scene in the documentary: the earl playing darts with the lads down at the pub showed off a wonderful contrast to the man who could stand on camera in his Saville Row suit and explain, in his I-went-to-Oxford-and-you-didn’t accent, the famous paintings in his gallery, including those of his own ancestors painted by the greatest artists of their day.

Okay, so she was still mad at him, but not as angry now she’d had this epiphany. Still, he didn’t have to know that. He’d snuck away without a word. She wasn’t going to let him get away with treating her like that.

So she walked forward, ready to ask him, rather pointedly, what he thought he was doing. She couldn’t be heard approaching through the crowded room, of course, and when she arrived behind him, she didn’t have the heart to speak when he was about to throw his final dart. So she waited. She could see the taut line of his body, the stillness of his head as she imagined him squinting at the spiderweb of circles on the board, then his hand came back decisively, and with a graceful arc, he threw his dart. It didn’t land terribly near the bull’s-eye, but it was a respectable shot.

“Not bad,” she said at his shoulder.

He turned, brows raised in surprise. “Maxine. Hello. I didn’t expect to see you at the pub tonight. Thought you were working.”

Those charming blue eyes were so guileless she’d have believed he’d forgotten all about the fact that he was supposed to be on hand. If she were a naïve woman.

“I came to-”

“But where are my manners?” he interrupted, slipping a hand behind her upper back and urging her forward. “Come and meet my mates.” There it was. Mates. As though he were anybody.

“Barney, Dave, Patrick, and that handsome dark fellow over there is the pub owner, Arthur.”

“Hello,” she said, giving them each a taste of her smile, then turning to George, by which time the smile was suffering a severe case of rigor mortis.

“Tell your mates you have to leave,” she said, managing to squeeze the words out through her closed teeth.

He chuckled, a Hahaha, you’re so amusing for a Colonial type laugh. “Did I tell you it’s my birthday?”

Damn it. No, he hadn’t, nor had anybody else, and that little piece of information certainly wasn’t in her research folder-or if it was, none of her supposedly keen underlings had bothered to bring it to her attention.

“Your birthday?”

“Yes.”

“I wish I’d known. I’d have got you a present.” Okay, one of the keen underlings would have picked something out; something tasteful and expensive enough to ensure the good relations remained cordial until the end of the shoot.

“You know what I’d really like?” he asked, as guileless as a sunny day, if they ever saw one in this country.

She had a horrible feeling it was going to be something she’d regret. New sewer pipes, central heating for the entire ancient castle, Internet access in every room. “No, what?”

For an Englishman, his teeth were awfully white, and amazingly straight in a country where orthodontists must be a rare species. “I would love for you to stay and join us for the evening.”

She glanced around. “But I’d be the only woman.”

“Well, it’s my birthday and I want you.”

She raised her brows. Somebody guffawed and then tried to cover up the sound by drinking so he sounded as though he were drowning. Without so much as acknowledging the amusement from his buddies, the earl said, “I want to you to stay and play darts.”

“Americans aren’t big on darts,” she said.

“Ah. It’s quite simple, really. Shall I show you?”

Oh, what the hell, she decided. It wasn’t like she’d get any useful work done with an earl who was half sloshed anyway. So she relaxed, and said, “Okay.”

“Right. We’ll have a bit of a practice go, just to get you on your feet.”

George walked to the dartboard and retrieved his dart, then presented her with three. “Now,” he explained, standing so close to her she could feel the heat off his body, smell the beer on his breath, and see a darker spot on his chin where he’d missed a patch while shaving. She smiled. He was sexy-the kind of sexy that crossed continents, time zones, language barriers, probably centuries.

She felt the sizzle when his shirt-white, with pale blue stripes-touched her. She glanced up sharply, but if he was aware of the current of heat flowing between them, his blue eyes didn’t show it. If anything, he seemed obsessed by the dartboard.

He took her hand, put a dart in it. Closed her fingers around the shaft and then closed his hand around hers. Whew. The heat flowing from his fingers into hers was amazing. Scary almost.

“Ready?” he asked softly, into her ear.

“I’m not sure,” she answered truthfully.

This didn’t happen to her. Not ever. She met all kinds of hot guys, all over the world. They were intellectuals, professors, adventurers, tycoons. The kinds of men a person made documentaries about were not clerks and bureaucrats. But of all the superachievers she’d met, none had affected her so…personally.

Until now. And let’s face it, she reminded herself, George’s main claim to fame was that five hundred years ago, one of his ancestors had backed the right horse in the Catholic versus Protestant wars. It’s not like he’d crossed the Atlantic on a surfboard while trying out his new cell phone technology, or climbed Everest, written plays, or discovered the genome. No. He was a throwback to a world that no longer existed-hanging onto a derelict estate by his dirt-free fingernails. What was so special about George Hartley that she should feel her skin shiver when he brushed close to her, or her nostrils flare when she drew in the scent of him?

Nothing, she reminded herself again. Nothing.

Still, when he pulled her arm back, murmuring instructions into her ear, she did react. A shiver so subtle she hoped he didn’t notice it wafted over her. Her nipples tightened.

She wanted to close her eyes and lean back, lean into him, into his warmth and solidity. Naturally, she didn’t. Instead, when he asked if she was ready, she said she was. She’d never thrown a dart with someone before. It was surprisingly fun.

Together they tossed a dart that would have taken off the guffawing guy’s ear if he hadn’t ducked at the last second.

“Oops,” she said.

“Never mind,” George said softly. “Next time.”

Chapter Five

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she said quietly. They were sitting, and somehow she’d ended up beside his lordship, close enough that she could speak softly and not be overheard.

“Nonsense. Busy day, that’s all.”

“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?” And if he was, she was totally up shit creek. She was going to have to talk him back into his initial enthusiasm, whatever she had to do.

“About the documentary?” He blew out a breath. “I don’t know. I’m thirty-two years old today and I’m acting like a man twice my age, tied to this falling-down wreck.”

“Why do you stay?”

“It’s my home. My duty.”

“And you love it.”

He looked at her ruefully. “It’s hard to explain, really. It grows on you. Today was bloody frustrating, though. An injured man, the bank breathing down my neck.” He sipped from a pint that was clearly not his first. “There are days I really do want to chuck it all. Maybe I’ve got more of my mother in me than I realized. She hated it, you know. Spent as much time on your side of the pond as she could. Made my father miserable. You’ll hate it, too, being from Los Angeles and all that sunshine.”

“I don’t hate it. It’s a wonderful place. We may have sunshine in L.A. but we don’t have all this history.” Oh, no. His mother had hated England? One of the topics she’d wanted to go over with him was the romantic story of the eighteenth earl and his American bride. She didn’t want their story to be one of bitter misery. Where was the fairy tale? Damn.

“What about you? No wife? Girlfriend?” Of course, she already knew he didn’t have a wife, but she didn’t want him to know she’d been researching his private life. And she was curious about the girlfriend.

He shook his head. “I had a girlfriend. In London, but she didn’t fancy it here. Too far from everything. She ended up wearing wellies more than high heels and a scrubby old jumper instead of designer things.” He shrugged. “She chose London over me. Well, who wouldn’t?”

Maxine privately thought a lot of women wouldn’t.

“And how about you?” He said, suddenly emerging from his gloomy state and giving her a curious glance. “Is there a significant other waiting at home?”

“No.”

“I’m surprised.”

“I work. A lot. I’m out of town, out of the country.” She ran the tip of her finger around her beer mug, frowning. “I’m not home long enough to commit to a houseplant.”

“The rolling stone gathers no African Violet.”

She smiled dutifully, but glancing at him she could see he understood.

“What about a family? Children?”

“Sure, I want them. But not yet.”

Between rounds of darts, when it became clear that she had a natural aptitude as well as a strong competitive instinct, she managed to interview him about his mother. It wasn’t as bad as she’d feared.

“Oh, the match was love at first sight, I understand,” George said. “Father was over visiting America and saw my mother at her debutante ball. They were married within six months.”

“What happened?”

“She loved my father, but hated England. It was all right for the first few years, and then she had my sister and me, so that kept her busy, of course. But as time went on, she began to hate England more than she loved my father. She visited her home in Philadelphia as often as she could and for longer and longer periods. I rarely saw her in the last few years unless I flew to America to visit her. She died over there. Pneumonia. Very sudden.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Father was like a broken man after he lost her. Funny, that. It hadn’t been a very successful marriage, but in his way, he was devoted to her. He died last year, heart attack.”

“A broken heart,” she said softly.

He made a short, bitter sound. “Well, I think it broke much earlier.”

Privately, she thought his mother had been too young and possibly too impressed with the title. And, if George took after his father, there was the whole sex appeal force to contend with. She’d probably married the man before she realized she didn’t really love him at all.

“Same again, George and Maxine? My round,” Barney said.

They exchanged a glance and then Max said, “No, thanks. I’ve got to be up early tomorrow.”

“Right, yeah. Me, too,” said George, rising. She was surprised his buddies didn’t try to talk him into staying on his birthday until she saw the leer on one face, and caught a wink from another.

Men weren’t any different here, that was for sure. So she and George had spent some time having a private conversation. It was business. How could they not see that?

Everyone in the pub knew George, of course. And the final well wishes for his birthday ranged from loud and drunken to quiet and respectful. When they emerged into the quiet, damp night, he said, “Thanks for coming. It was great having you there. I know my friends enjoyed meeting you.”

She snorted. “Why do I think they are right now laying bets to see whether you get me into bed?”

He glanced at her sharply, that unruly and utterly charming twinkle in his eye. “Why would you think that?”

“Because they’re guys. We walked out together.”

“Ah, but how would they know who won?”

“Well, you’d tell-”

He shook his head.

She glanced at his profile and noticed his nose wasn’t entirely straight. Even the tiny jog was sexy. “Come on. You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m not. I don’t talk about my intimate life to my friends.” It sounded unbelievably pompous when he said it, but she saw from his face that it was true.

“Why? Is that some aristocratic imperative?”

“No. I may be old-fashioned but I still believe a gentleman doesn’t tell.”

“My God. You’re as archaic as your castle.”

“I probably sound like a total prat.”

“No. I like that you won’t blab. Not,” she hastened to add, “that there’s going to be anything to blab about.”

“Of course not.” By this time they’d crossed the street, entered the castle grounds, and were strolling up the path. The tree-lined walk, the castle rising from its surroundings like a fairy tale, the moon streaked with clouds like a coal miner’s face.

“Why would anything happen between us?”

“Exactly. This is a purely professional relationship.”

“It’s not as though we’re attracted to one another, is it?” His voice was a caress.

“Absolutely not.” She felt as though they were the only two people in the world. It was so quiet here, so romantic. They walked close enough that they were almost, but not quite, touching. “There will be nothing to talk about.”

“Not so much as a single kiss under the moonlight,” he said, turning her slowly to face him. Oh, he was gorgeous. Sexy and desirable even as he remained as steeped in history and tradition as his property. He was broad of shoulder and slim of hip, exactly as a man should be, and when her arms went around him, she felt the muscles and the firmness, the warmth and gentle teasing that always seemed to be a part of him. “Unless you were to take pity on me.”

“Well. Maybe a birthday kiss,” she said softly, raising her face. He brought his mouth down to cover hers and she felt the heat of him. He tasted like beer and hot sexy Brit, but he felt even better. Strong, dependable. Someone she could trust.

And suddenly a semi-innocent birthday kiss was heading way out of control and very far from innocent. He held her against him, pulling her off the road and under one of the hefty oaks that had stood here so long Henry VIII had probably carved his initials in the trunks.

When they stopped moving, she realized George was leaning against the heavy trunk of a tree, and she was leaning on him, pressed against him so her breasts flattened against his chest, their bellies brushed as they breathed, and then their hips jammed together as though their bodies had decided to get together long before their minds had caught up. Hers, anyway.

It had been a while for her, she decided. That must have been why she was having such an incredible reaction to a kiss. It was as though he’d ignited something wild in her and she wanted to climb all over him, take him, right here, out in the open. Well, it wasn’t as though they wouldn’t have privacy. The tree was like a tent covering them and they were probably equally as far from the house as they were from the road.

Probably he’d planned it that way. Not that she cared. At the moment she was blind and deaf to her usual common sense. He kept kissing her, deep, wonderful kisses that made her pulse everywhere with needs she’d either forgotten she owned or had buried in work.

When she pulled away to drag in a breath, he moved down, kissing her neck, that wonderful sensitive spot beneath her ear. Above her was a dark, green canopy of leaves. Her feet were a little cool from standing on damp grass, but it was the only part of her that was cool. She let her eyes close as she took in all the amazing pleasure points dancing for joy throughout her body.

Letting herself go was so rare, and so wonderful, that she ignored all the very good reasons why she-the documentary filmmaker-and he-the subject of the film-should not be getting quite so up close and personal. For once, she let herself follow her instincts rather than her list of shoulds and shouldn’ts.

“You taste wonderful,” he mumbled against her skin.

“Probably like the inside of a pub.”

“No. Very American. Very…clean.”

“You’re crazy,” she said, running her hands over his shoulders and upper back, letting her fingers sink into the gorgeous mop of hair that would cost a couple of hundred pounds in a top London salon to style this casually rumpled, and that she suspected, in his case, came naturally.

She gasped as she felt his questing fingers brush the tops of her breasts, above her bra. Gasped with the shock of finding him there, so subtle she’d barely noticed him sneaking under her clothing, and because it felt so very good. She could feel the tingle and knew she’d come out in goose bumps, and not because she was cold.

When he cupped her breast, a tiny moan of pleasure escaped her. The night muttered to itself, and the leaves above said shhhh.

George of the nimble fingers had her jacket open, her shirt open, and her bra pushed up and out of the way. Then he leaned her back a little so he could reach her breasts with his mouth.

Oh, God. The night air was cool and damp, his mouth so hot and wet, the licking and sucking motions setting her on fire. She heard panting and knew it was coming from her. Wanted all of him. To see him, touch him, taste him.

Her hands delved under his sweater, but the little touches of skin weren’t enough. She wanted more.

“I want-” she began, and then a breeze blew through their tree, setting the dark leaves above her trembling almost as badly as she was. And suddenly, a shower of water droplets rained down on her naked breasts.

She squeaked with the shock. George laughed and began to lick up the drops, but the literal cold shower also served as a metaphoric one and she pushed him away.

“What are we doing?” she asked in a horrified whisper.

There was a tiny moment of silence. Mortified on her part, and, she thought, slightly amused on his. “I believe you were giving me a good-night kiss,” he reminded her, as though they’d done nothing more than peck each other on the cheek.

“It was a birthday kiss,” she corrected. “And it’s over.”

She started trying to shove her buttons back together but made such a mess of it that he helped her.

They were mostly silent the rest of the walk up to the castle. She stole a quick sideways glance at his profile, but he looked the same as he always did. As though nothing had happened.

Right, she reminded herself. Because nothing had happened.

Still, she was going to have to face him in the morning, and try not to remember that his tongue had been wrapped around her nipples, making her moan with delight. Just before they reached the great oak front door, she put a hand on his sleeve.

He glanced down at her, brows slightly raised.

“That should never have happened,” she said. “It was totally unprofessional.”

He waited, but she didn’t have anything to add, so he opened the huge door and waited for her to pass in front of him.

She knew they both had to climb the great staircase to reach their bedrooms and she couldn’t stand the idea of going upstairs at the same time. She’d either keep babbling or drag him into her room. Two very bad ideas, so she said, “I think I left my laptop in the dining room. I should go get it.”

“Right. I’ll say good night, then.” He turned to the stairs, then back to her. “I won’t say I’m sorry, because I’m not. But consider the matter forgotten.”

And with that he started up the stairs with the easy grace of a man not still trembling from frustrated desire.

Irritation spurted through her. Was she the only one?

Chapter Six

Of course she wasn’t going to forget what had happened. Her overheated, oversensitive skin reminded her as she walked to the dining room. Her laptop wasn’t in there; of course, it was already in her room.

She waited a minute to make sure George was tucked away in his own room, then she made her way up the quiet stairs to hers.

But she was wide awake and edgy. She spent a couple of minutes making some notes about her pub scene idea. She brushed her teeth and hair, washed up, changed into her pajamas, and stuck her feet into the sheepskin slippers she was glad she’d brought along. The castle was often cold. Even the parts they bothered to try and keep warm. The heating bills for this place must have been astronomical.

The book she’d picked up in the estate gift shop with the scintillating title History of Hart House was as un-put-downable as she’d imagined. Great for falling asleep, except that tonight it wasn’t. She read about the number of local rocks quarried and how long the outer walls had taken to build and didn’t even feel sleepy. In fact, it was a waste of time reading since she barely took in a word.

Usually she got more exercise. That was probably why she wasn’t sleepy. Tomorrow she’d go for a run. Of course, it wasn’t lack of exercise but being so tantalizingly close to making love and then backing off that had her body feeling so twitchy and irritable.

Yoga. Mind over body. Mental and spiritual calmness. That’s what she needed.

She didn’t love running, but it was exercise that she could do anywhere, so she’d become a runner by necessity. Yoga was by choice. She had a few DVDs she could play on her laptop, or she could do a simple routine of her own. She chose the latter, kicking off her slippers. All she wanted was a series of calming, sleep-inducing poses. Hauling herself out of bed, she worked through some nice, easy stretching. Her hamstrings were particularly tight, she noticed, so she went into a wall stretch. She debated putting her bare foot on the historic and intricate paneling. Her foot was perfectly clean, but it seemed wrong somehow, so she found a new pair of athletic socks and pulled them on. Of course, that made her foot slippery and she’d no sooner got herself in position and stretched in toward the wall when her heel slipped, catching on a knobby bit of wood. She wobbled on her standing foot and would have fallen if she hadn’t grabbed one of the carved acorns. She tried to steady herself, but the acorn moved.

Shit. If she broke a piece off the centuries old paneling…But before she’d even finished the thought she realized that a whole section of paneling was opening, like a door.

No, she realized in amazement. Not like a door. It was a door. A secret panel. Delight filled her. Nobody had mentioned anything about a secret door in her room. Maybe they didn’t know it existed. Perhaps the secret had died with one of the earls currently on display in marble effigy in the family chapel.

Since the castle was no stranger to losses of power through storms and other mischance, her room was equipped with both a decent flashlight and candles and matches. She picked up the flashlight and turned it on. The beam was strong and steady. She shone it into the still-open doorway and got a second rush. It was definitely a passageway, not a cleverly designed closet.

Cool.

Dark, mysterious, and very gothic. She glanced around at the luxurious guest room, then back into the dark, scary tunnel. Naturally, what any sensible woman would do would be to wait until morning and mention her discovery to one of the earl’s staff. But a person didn’t go around the world making documentaries without being, at heart, an adventurer.

Shoving a single candle and a book of matches advertising the gift shop into the breast pocket of her pj’s, just in case the flashlight battery failed, she plunged into the tunnel.

It wasn’t really all that exciting. Since it was aboveground, there was no stone walkway that might lead to the dungeons. In fact, her sense was that the plain wood floor didn’t dip down, but stayed level. Still, maybe there was some kind of treasure. A forgotten Rembrandt, or diaries from one of the former earls. What that would add to her documentary!

Not to mention possibly helping the current earl out of a financial crunch. She imagined a newly discovered Rembrandt, properly auctioned, could help him out of his monetary troubles a lot faster than increased tourism.

She crept along, smelling dust and stale air, trying to ignore the cobwebs. The passageway was narrow, barely a foot wider than her shoulders, and not more than six inches above her head. Not a good place for a claustrophobic person, she thought, glad she’d left the door open at her end.

The tunnel made a turn and then she was facing a blank wall. Not a Rembrandt or ancient diary in sight. But, when she played her flashlight over the wall, she saw the thin line of a doorway and a latch.

Without giving herself time to think, she pushed open the latch, and with it the door.

Chapter Seven

“Good God,” said George, standing in his shirt, underpants and socks beside his massive bed and looking startled, as well he might. A deep and comfy-looking armchair sat beside a fireplace, and by its side was a table, with a lamp illuminating a book. Obviously, the earl had been trying some prebedtime reading as well. No doubt for the same reason she had.

“George.”

“Ah,” he said, while she stood there with her mouth open and her eyes blinking. “I see you’ve found the passage.”

Embarrassment flooded her cheeks as she stood there. “I am so sorry,” she managed. “I had no idea it went anywhere. I mean, I accidentally found the knob thing and it opened a door and-”

“Naturally, you were curious,” he said with his usual well-bred ease, as though people wandered out of the walls and into his bedroom every day.

“Yeah. I was.”

“Come in. Would you like a drink?”

She felt so foolish standing there, half in the tunnel and half in his room, that she went all the way in. “No, thank you.”

There was a pause. He finished folding his trousers over a wooden stand by his bed. She watched him, fascinated. His boxers were blue and white striped, very genteel looking. He had great legs, muscular but not bulky, furred with brown hair. When he leaned over to put his trousers away the fabric pulled over his butt and her mouth went dry.

“Why is there a secret passage linking these rooms?”

He took a navy dressing gown from a hanger and slipped into it. “The eleventh earl is believed to have built it. For his mistress.”

“For his mistress.”

“Well, more than one, I fancy. In fact, for a hundred years or so, I think that was a fairly high-traffic thoroughfare.”

She stared at him, resisting the urge to smack him. “Three hundred and thirty-three rooms in this place and they put me in the earl’s mistress’s room?”

“Wiggins’ idea of a little joke, I imagine.”

“Well, it’s not funny.”

“No. Quite.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Did you know I was in that room?”

“Yes. I didn’t choose the room, but I heard that’s where they’d put you. Look, I wasn’t planning to come sneaking into your room in the middle of the night, you know. And I never thought you’d find the door. It’s damned difficult to do unless you know it’s there,” he said, sounding a little huffy. “I’ll have you moved in the morning.”

“That’s okay,” she said, deciding he was right and she’d only look like an idiot if she asked to move. Besides, she realized, flashing him the smile that very often got her what she wanted in life, “There are advantages.”

He glanced up, the sexy twinkle in his eye. “There are?”

“Yes. Unlimited access to you.”

“I like the sound of that.” He walked forward until he was close enough to touch her.

She looked up at him demurely from under her lashes. “For documentary purposes.”

He reached out and traced the vee of her pajama top, the smile already tilting his lips so she caught a flash of white teeth. “Is that all?”

Oh, what the hell, she thought. Fate had practically drawn her a map to his bedroom, taken her hand, and led her to his bed. “No,” she said, throwing her arms around his neck. “That is not all.”

She kissed him, surprising him while the smile was still on his lips. She felt it, the curve of lip, the hardness of teeth, and found herself smiling against him. This, she realized, was about as perfect as mixing business and pleasure got. No one would ever know.

Being an earl definitely had its privileges.

After the way she’d walked away so hot for him, and so unsatisfied, her libido roared from zero to the speed of light in the time it took their kiss to deepen.

Tongues tangled and stroked, hands stroked then grabbed, good manners and caution flew out the window, and all that was left were heat and need.

Her oh-so-proper some kind of distant cousin to the queen turned into a savage. He nipped at her, dragged her nightclothes off her with no subtlety at all, popping two buttons in his haste.

She didn’t care. She reveled in it. She wasn’t all that shy about exposing her body, but usually the first time involved a certain awareness that a guy who loved big breasts was going to be disappointed, and that her belly would be a lot flatter if she could stick to her running schedule when on location. She’d normally turn away from the lamp, maybe suck in her stomach a bit, but somehow, here with George, none of that entered her mind.

While he was dragging at her top, cursing his own clumsiness-and what had happened to the smoothie out there under the oak tree who’d buttoned her back up so efficiently?-she was pulling off the sash of the robe he’d only just put on. When she’d dragged it down and off his arms, she went to work on his shirt.

When he got frustrated, he tried to help her and more buttons flew.

Oh, his chest was so nice. Barely hairy at all, but surprisingly buff. Even his muscles were elegant, she thought. They weren’t so big you worried he’d bench-press you halfway through the act, or so small you knew the guy rarely picked up anything heavier than a teacup.

“You play sports,” she breathed,

“Tennis,” he agreed, pulling off one sock. “Polo,” as he pulled off the second and hopped on one foot to keep his balance.

Polo. Of course.

He pulled her against him so they were skin to skin, and her nipples had never felt so exquisitely sensitive as they did rubbing against his chest. The warmth and friction only reminded her that she needed a lot more warmth and a lot more friction, and soon.

Slipping lower, she hooked her thumbs around the waistband of his boxers and slid south, taking the garment with her.

“Oh my,” she breathed, when she found herself face-to-face with the probable reason the earls of Ponsford had always enjoyed such a reputation with women.

If what she was staring at was a dominant gene-and it sure as hell seemed like one-then money and position weren’t all the earls had had going for them.

She glanced up and the usually self-effacing George was grinning down at her, looking anything but. He enjoyed her surprise. This genteel, urbane, well-mannered aristo was hung like a moose.

He stepped out of his boxers and when she rose, she couldn’t resist the urge to cup him in her hands. Oh, he felt as good as he looked. Hard and velvety warm.

He liked to use his mouth, she discovered. Everywhere his hands went, he followed with his lips, his tongue. Until she was dizzy with the desire that kept on building, and he finally pushed back a surprisingly modern-looking bedspread and they tumbled into bed.

She was so hot by this time, so needy, that she couldn’t wait anymore. She wanted him, and now. And just as she was about to grab him and guide him to where she needed him most, an unwelcome realization swept over her. She hadn’t started down that tunnel with sex on her agenda.

“Um, I have to run back to my room for a second.”

“There’s a bathroom through there,” George said, leaning in and nipping at her shoulder.

“No.” She shook her head and whispered. “Condoms.”

“Ah, right. I’m sure I’ve got some.”

“You have?” She flopped back in relief.

“I’ll ring Wiggins. I’m sure we’ve got some somewhere.”

“You’d make your butler…?” Even as she got halfway through, she realized he was joking. He leaned over and opened the drawer of his night table. And like every man worth his salt, he had protection ready and waiting.

He took care of sheathing himself and she lay back and watched him. Then he was kissing her, rolling onto her, pushing into her.

And she went completely and absolutely wild. It was as though a starving woman had been invited to an elegant banquet-it didn’t matter. She would stuff her face with greed and no manners. A desperately thirsty woman would glug water, not caring that it splashed all over her face. That’s how she felt. She couldn’t get enough of him, urging him deeper, rolling over, taking him, being taken. There was something wild and magic about the way they were together. She felt it, knew he felt it, too.

They didn’t have to talk or ask, or murmur questions or suggestions, they simply took, greedily, ravenously until she was sobbing out his name and he was shuddering against her.

When her heart had finally slowed so she thought she might one day be able to function again, she turned her head to gaze at him, chest heaving as badly as hers was. As though on cue, he turned to regard her. She wanted to say, That was the greatest thing that ever happened to me. Or, Wow. Or, Thank you. Instead, she gazed at him, deep red from exertion, a drop of sweat rolling from his forehead into his damp hair, and a giggle snorted out of her.

After a stunned moment, he started laughing, too. And somehow, it felt like they’d said it all.

They talked then, she with her head propped in her hand, doing what she did best, interviewing. Not because of the documentary, or because she was incurably nosy, though both were true, but because she really wanted to know.

She wanted to know everything about this guy. How did it feel to be brought up so upper class that you got sent away to boarding school at eight years old? What were his favorite foods, flavors of ice cream, when did he learn to swim? How did he discover sex? All the things that made him who he was were suddenly fascinating to her.

And so they talked. He turned out to be not a bad interviewer himself, or maybe his curiosity was as ravenous about her.

“Will you stay?” he asked after a while. Her fingers were making patterns idly on his chest, and he was twirling a lock of her hair around his finger.

Stay. The night.

How had they gone from a birthday kiss to spending the night?

She glanced over at him, feeling suddenly uncertain about how far and how fast she wanted this thing to go, but who was she kidding? If she cared passionately whether he preferred Chocolate Chip to Rocky Road, she was obviously not averse to spending the night in the man’s bed.

Something of her momentary uncertainty must have shown on her face. He kissed her lightly. “If you stay, I promise to act like less of an animal and make love to you properly.”

“Okay,” she whispered.

But it didn’t work that way. They started out slow and decorous, but in the end the heat and greedy passion caught up with them again. It was like being struck by lightning twice.

But in a very good way.

Chapter Eight

Maxine paused. She couldn’t help herself. She was busy and had at least three million things to do today, but the grand portrait of the eleventh earl caught her, as it always did. Of course, it was the family resemblance between George and his ancestor that always pulled her to a halt. As she gazed up at him, in all his splendor, she felt an odd thrill.

“Communing with the spirits of my ancestors?” George said softly from behind her.

She started. “I didn’t hear you.”

“No. You were deep in thought.”

He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her, kissing her neck. She closed her eyes and leaned into him for a moment, recalling, as she was certain he was also doing, the way they’d made love last night. Slow and tender. As though they mattered to each other. Which was a dangerous game when your lives were so very different, and separated by an ocean.

“I was thinking,” she said, “how sure of himself he looks. He stares down at me as though all he has to do is give the order and I’ll prostrate myself at his feet.”

“Lucky bugger. In his day, you would have.”

She secretly thought things weren’t so different today, but she didn’t share that thought aloud.

“I love his pride and arrogance.”

“He’s not wrestling with death duties and union wages,” George reminded her, sounding a teensy bit aggrieved.

“I’m sure he had his own problems.”

“Doesn’t look it, though, does he?”

“Well, he must have had some.”

“I suppose.” She felt George’s smile as his cheek wrinkled against her own. “There was all that political intrigue for starters. My ancestors, I’m sorry to tell you, weren’t men of highest morality. They tended to change religions whenever it seemed expedient and they were dreadful boot-lickers and arse-kissers. Anything to keep the king’s or queen’s favor. Then there was the urgent need of a wife to ensure the succession.”

“That couldn’t have been very hard,” she said, looking up at the earl in all his glory. His clothes were sleek with fur and glinted with gold thread and jewels. “Not only is he obviously rich, but he’s hot.”

“Important for him to choose wisely, though. As well as being wellborn, and hopefully rich in her own right, his wife had to be a good breeder, you see, or who would inherit the estate?”

“What a depressing way to choose a partner,” she said, seeing some of the romance of the period dim before her eyes.

“Well, that one didn’t waste a lot of time being depressed. Or in his wife’s bed.”

She turned her head. “You sound like you admire him.”

His grin was sudden and wolfish. “I do. He’s the one who had that secret passageway built.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling her own lips twitch. “I knew there was a reason why this picture was my favorite.”

“Come on. I think I have to be interviewed and I can’t do it without you there.”

They’d been shooting for five straight days. The shoot was so smooth it was spooky. George was as natural and charismatic on camera as she’d known he would be. If she said to him, “Why don’t you take us through the portrait gallery, and give us the highlights,” he could do it without a lot of fumbling or overuse of the word um.

So often there’d be an unforeseen delay. Equipment broke, or illness struck, or the roof would start leaking, and the rain would hold things up. But not this week. They’d shot outside in the rose garden and he’d told the story of his parents charmingly, focusing on the falling in love and happy times. She’d cut in some old family movies and stills showing the Anglo-American love match.

Even the dramatic telling of the ninth earl had been comparatively easy since they were able to hire local actors. Soon they’d be done here, possibly a day ahead of schedule.

How ironic that of all locations, this was one where she’d have happily been stranded for a while.

They turned away from the painting and she checked out the current earl with a critical eye.

He stood still for a few seconds while she studied him and then said, “Well, will I do?”

“You’re gorgeous. But the tie’s too bold. It’s going to draw attention away from your face.”

“Sounds like a good thing to me.”

“Give it up with the false modesty. Something blue and muted would be much better. Want me to go and choose something?”

“No, thank you. I’m capable of selecting a tie on my own.” He pulled out a cell phone and dialed. “Ah, Wiggins. Sorry to bother. Can you bring me a tie?

“Yes, I know. I thought so, too,” he continued. “But they want something blue and muted. Will do. Thanks.”

“I can’t believe you sent a servant for a tie,” Maxine said. “I would have gone.”

“But I need you with me. Besides, there ought to be some advantages to being a relic of a bygone era.”

A few seconds ticked by uncomfortably. “You read the intro?”

“Your assistant producer sent me a copy. In error, I’m sure.”

“Look, you have to understand that this airs in the States, that’s our primary market, so we need to make it…I don’t know, appealing to people who chose a republic but who still love the pomp and glory of royalty.”

“Do you think I’m a relic?”

She stared at him, thinking of how he’d been with her last night, so passionate and-well, there was nothing old-fashioned about the way this man made love.

“No. No. Not at all.”

“Well, then…did you write the script for today?”

“You mean the questions? No. I gave Suz, my assistant, a general idea and she wrote them. You don’t need to worry. We’ll edit the tape to make you sound good. I promise.”

“It’s a question and answer format. Like an interview on the telly.”

“That’s exactly what it will be. An interview on the television. It’s part of the show.”

“And you didn’t tell Suz what to write?”

“No. I gave her some direction. We want to know about you, the man, as well as you the young earl in an old estate. Why? Is there something that bothered you about the questions? She’s got a degree in film and majored in screenwriting. She’s great.”

He looked at her oddly. “No. The questions are fine. Not to worry. You will be there?”

“Good. I’ll be there, of course, so if there’s anything that makes you uncomfortable, give me a signal.”

“All right, then.”

Soft footsteps sounded and she turned to see Wiggins arriving in his slow, genteel way, with four ties over his arm. “All blue, your lordship.” Wiggins was too well trained to glare at Maxine, but she thought his respectful tone, containing the tiniest note of censure, was masterful. “All muted.”

“Excellent. Thank you.” George turned to her. “Well?”

She chose a gray-blue background silk with a restrained paisley pattern. “Here.”

He pulled off his current tie and handed it to Wiggins. She took the muted blue tie and looped it around his neck. There was something about putting on a man’s tie that always seemed so intimate, so wifely. Weird word to come up with, when she wasn’t ready to settle down and he’d all but promised dear old dad not to marry a girl from the States. He lifted his chin and she snugged up the knot.

“All right, then. Are we ready?”

“Yes, be yourself. Your charming, lovable, lordly self. You’ll be wonderful.” She stood on her tiptoes. “And here’s a kiss for good luck.”

She’d meant to give him a quick peck on the lips, but he pulled her in close. She held back for a moment, worrying about creasing the silk tie she’d so neatly knotted, then gave in and kissed him back.

“Come on,” she said. “We don’t want to keep everyone waiting.”

They’d decided to do the interview in the great room, where the furniture was the most ornate, and the paintings the most overpowering. She and Simon, her cameraman, liked the juxtaposition of the ancient grandeur with the young, modern earl.

When they crossed the threshold, he said “Good God” under his breath. From his perspective, the setup must have looked pretty overpowering. Not to mention intrusive. Power leads stretched and coiled like thick black snakes across the priceless rug. Two cameras were set up, one to record the interviewer and one for George. Two cameramen, the lighting technician, the sound tech, the interviewer, a gopher, and Suz. The room seemed to be crawling with people who clashed with the furnishings, the décor, the very elegance of the room. The lights were huge and hung like twin suns.

He must have felt that his ancestral home had been invaded by aliens.

“Don’t worry,” she said, squeezing his arm. “We’ll soon be done and you’ll get your home back. You must be looking forward to that.”

He glanced down at her. “I’ve never anticipated anything with less pleasure.”

His gaze was serious, all the usual light charm and humor gone. She felt her heart skip a couple of beats as they stared at each other. How had it happened? How had they slipped from a light, carefree, secret affair, much aided by the hidden passageway, to this searing intimacy? She hadn’t allowed herself to think about how soon they’d be packing up and moving on. She always packed up and moved on. It was part of her job, part of her personality, in truth, so that the job was often a handy excuse.

Now, for the first time ever, she realized she wasn’t ready to leave. “Oh, George,” she began. She didn’t know what she wanted to say, only that it was important, but before she’d gotten more than those two words out, Simon caught sight of them. “Oh, good. You’re here.”

The spell was broken, and she wasn’t sorry. What would she have said? What did she want to say? George was wonderful. Gorgeous, funny, sweet, even rich if you didn’t count the burden of debt and the fact that he could never sell Hart House. It was sort of like inheriting a museum, she decided. The responsibilities balanced out, and possibly outweighed, the benefits.

But he’d gotten to her, in a way that no other man ever had. She didn’t even know when or how it had happened. She’d been so busy making the documentary, getting to know him as a subject, and then as a man, that she was half in love with him before she’d realized she was beginning.

She watched George take his seat, and let the sound technician fuss with his lapel mike while she stood frozen in the background.

Suz went to him with the Max Factor foundation powder. Honestly, the way he recoiled you’d think they were going to make him up like Boy George.

Love.

That was what made this affair different from every other. She’d gone and fallen in love with George the way an unwary pedestrian falls down a flight of stairs. One minute she was heading straight forward on a chosen path, the next minute she was tumbling head over heels and landing on her ass.

Moving closer, she hovered outside the circle of light. Janine Wilkins, the on-camera interviewer, was going over the questions. Janine had enjoyed a respectable career on Broadway playing the second lead and then the older woman.

Max had seen her in a summer stock production of Brighton Beach Memoirs as the mother and thought that she had the right look, elegant but approachable, and exactly the right voice for the talking head of the Grand Titles, Great Estates series.

Today, they’d dressed her in a blue suit. She and the earl could sit down to high tea and look perfectly matched. Her blond hair was upswept, her makeup subdued.

Walking up to them, Maxine said, “You look gorgeous, Janine. As usual.” They air-kissed. Then Max walked their program host over to George and introduced them.

“Any last-minute advice?” he asked her.

“Yes. Stop being a big baby about that makeup. It stops you shining and makes you look better.” He had on his I-will-throw-you-in-the-dungeon-if-I-don’t-get-my-own-way expression, so she grabbed the powder from Suz. “I’ll do it.” She didn’t give him a chance to argue, simply went at him with quick strokes. “There. That wasn’t so bad.”

“I feel like a bloody great poofter,” he whispered. “This stuff smells like my old aunt Edith.”

“Trust me. It’s good. You’ll wash it off after and no one will know.”

“I can’t believe I agreed to this,” he complained.

“This time, you don’t look at the camera. Look at Janine, or at least in her general direction.”

“Right. Okay. Where will you be?”

“I’ll be standing at the back, watching.” She couldn’t kiss him in front of all these people, so she touched his shoulder. “Break a leg.”

Janine was settling herself in the chair, getting miked up, when Max leaned over and said, “You’re a natural interviewer. Use those questions as a guide, but go ahead and press him a little bit if you sense he’s holding back. I think he might be a bit elusive.”

“Sure. No problem.” Janine flicked her a glance. “Easy on the eyes, too.”

Max chuckled. “You noticed.”

She checked her monitor. Said to her lighting tech, “There’s a shadow on the right side of his face. Can you fill a little bit?”

When she was satisfied, she nodded to Simon, who started rolling. She watched in her monitor. Simon did his wide, establishing shot of Janine and the earl. He then went in tight on Janine for her intro.

“I’m here in the great room of Hart House,” Janine said to the camera, “with the ninteenth Earl of Ponsford.” She talked about George and his ancestry, including his American mother, of course, and then turned to the earl.

George, Max was pleased to note, looked relaxed and urbane. He’d probably learned interview protocol in nursery school.

The second camera was trained on George.

“You trained as an architect, I understand, and until recently worked for a London firm.”

“Yes, that’s right. I’m still employed by the firm, but I’m on a leave at the moment. Since losing my father last year, I’ve had to step in and run the estate.”

“That must be a lot of work.”

George had obviously read the questions carefully, for his answers were smooth. He gave enough detail about the estate, but not too much. So far the whole interview was going so well there’d be little editing needed.

Max left the monitor and moved around until she was standing behind Janine’s chair, but out of camera range. From here she had a clear view of George and the leisure of staring at him without being thought crazy. Or crazy in love.

“You were named by Hello! as one of England ’s twenty-five most eligible bachelors,” Janine said. “How did that make you feel?”

Whoa, Maxine thought. Good one, Suz. Hah, she was sleeping with one of England ’s most eligible bachelors. How did she feel about that?

“Bashful. And a little nervous.” Here he gave a glance around, as though being pursued by a bevy of female Hello! readers, that made Maxine smile. It would go over great in the broadcast.

“What do you look for in a woman? In a future countess?”

“Well, obviously, I’m looking for the woman first. We’ll worry about her being a countess later.” He paused, crossed one leg over the other. “What am I looking for in a woman? Humor, intelligence, someone I can laugh with and be myself with.” He glanced at Janine with his naughty boy, flirty eyes. “I’ve always fancied the idea of someone who worked in television.”

Janine was an old pro, and she handled him perfectly. You could feel the warmth and the slight older woman- younger man thing batted between them like a badminton birdie.

“Of course, any woman who married me would have to give up a lot. I’m running the estate now, and so I can’t go off and live in London, say, or Los Angeles. She’d have to be willing to live here a great deal of the time.”

L.A.? Odd he should mention L.A. He might have been talking about Max.

Janine waved her hand graciously at the antiques and magnificence of the great room, and smiled. “I think a lot of young women would be willing to live in Hart House.”

“It’s not all garden parties and spreads in posh magazines,” he said. “This is a working estate. The livelihood of one hundred and eighty-two people depend on it, the village depends on it. Frankly, it’s a lot of work.”

“You wouldn’t give it up?” Janine sounded alarmed. She’d gone way off the script, Maxine was fairly certain, but it didn’t matter. Janine was a born interviewer. She knew instinctively when to follow a line of questioning and when to revert to her script.

“No, of course not. I was born and raised to be the Earl of Ponsford. It’s my duty as well as an honor, but for a woman who wasn’t born to it, it might be a bit more than she bargained for.”

“Is there a special woman in your life?”

Oh, no, Max thought. If only she’d had time to check the script over, she’d have cut that line. It was personal, impertinent, it was…

George’s eyes drifted over Janine’s shoulder to rest on her. He’d been following her movements, then; he knew exactly where she was. “Yes,” he said. “There is.”

Through the bright lights, the cables, the technicians, the whirring cameras, she felt that gaze and they could have been alone. She shivered as she realized he had been talking about her. She didn’t realize her hand had moved to her chest until she felt her own heart pounding against her palm.

“So the estate may get a new countess fairly soon?”

“That depends on whether she’ll have me,” George said. His eyes had never left Maxine.

She wanted to run forward and throw herself into George’s arms and yell, Yes! Cameras and all. Wouldn’t that make a dramatic scene for Grand Titles, Great Estates? At the same time, she was conscious of an equally strong desire to turn around and run the other way. Out of the great room, out of Hart House, out of England as fast as commercial air service could take her. She was from L.A. She had a job she loved, a life. George was right, he couldn’t be the kind of modern man to follow his woman even if he wanted to. He was stuck here.

That meant that if they were serious about each other, she was the one who would have to move.

She loved George. The feeling was still new and tender in her chest, but it was undeniable. But did she love him enough to give up her job? Her life? Her country?

Chapter Nine

When the last question had been asked, Janine removed her mic and the assistant producer unhooked George. They both rose.

Max joined them, trying to act as if her world hadn’t tilted slightly.

“Well,” Janine said to Maxine, when she joined them, “I thought that went really well, didn’t you?”

“Ah, yes. Absolutely. Yes. Really well, really, really well.” Shut up, she told herself. Quit babbling. The quick smile George sent her was as intimate as his answers to Janine’s questions had been.

And she felt as unsettled as she had listening to him.

“Well,” she said, “I’d better get down to the pub and see how things are looking. We shoot there tomorrow.” And with a wave, she was gone.

The ornate walls, priceless, irreplaceable furniture, paintings, carpets, the thirty-foot painted ceilings seemed to oppress her. Even the marble floor glared up at her as she clacked across it on her way out. Once she’d made her way outside she felt the great weight of the building behind her, grimacing at her back, as though telling her she didn’t belong. She strode down the long, oak-lined avenue, her mind in turmoil, her heart the same.

“Max.”

She heard George shout out her name but didn’t turn. Maybe he’d go away. She wasn’t ready to be alone with him. Didn’t know what she wanted, what she felt, what she ought to say.

The unmistakable crunch, crunch, crunch of a man running on gravel came to her ears. He was getting closer. Unless she tried to run away-and his legs were so much longer than hers, he’d catch her anyway-she might as well face him.

So she turned.

His muted tie flapped as he ran, his polished shoes were getting dusty, but he still looked aristocratic, elegant, and yet sexy. His long-legged stride was athletic, and he ran like a guy who’d run a lot of miles in his time, whether on the tennis court, the soccer field, or-like now-running after women.

“You scarpered off awfully fast.”

“I did.”

They walked on in silence. She was aware of him looking at her face, but she kept her gaze resolutely forward. “You’re a natural on camera, you know.”

“I wasn’t thinking about the camera. When she asked me those questions, I was thinking about you.”

Max looked out at the acres of land and the lines of ancient trees. There was the tree he’d dragged her underneath when he first kissed her, only a week ago, and it seemed like years. If she’d known that she’d wind up falling in love with him, would she ever have let him kiss her? Would she have kissed him back? Made love with him?

She snuck a glance at him and knew the answer. Of course she would have.

“It’s all so complicated.”

“God, yes, and bloody inconvenient,” he complained, so she had to smile. “I worry that you couldn’t bear to live here, that you’d hate it as much as Mother did, but I have to try. I love you, you know.” There it was.

So simply said. Such a simple emotion, really.

“I know,” she whispered.

“I didn’t intend to spout all that rubbish during the interview, but I could see you standing there, and it seemed right, somehow, to announce my intentions to the world. We’ve been so discreet, I don’t think anyone knows about us. But I’m sorry if I upset you.”

She turned to him, wanting to throw herself into his arms and say, Yes, yes, to everything. But she couldn’t.

“I was just thinking about that first night in the pub, your birthday. It was raining and you pulled me under that tree there, do you remember?”

“Of course I do. I remember everything about that night,” he said softly.

She nodded. It was the first time they’d made love. She’d never forget it either.

“I was thinking, if we’d only known that our crazy little fling would turn serious, maybe we would have thought about it more carefully.”

“Would you have acted any differently?”

She made a weird sound between a sigh and a laugh. “I asked myself that same question and the answer’s no. This has been…amazing.”

“Maxine. I don’t want to lose you.”

“I don’t want to lose you either.”

“I want you to marry me.”

“Oh, please don’t say that,” she wailed.

“Why not? I love you. Why shouldn’t I want to marry you?”

“Because I live in L.A. And when I’m not there, which is a lot of the time, I’m all over the world. I don’t stay still. I’m restless. I love the next adventure, the next story, the next interview, the next show, the next series.”

“And I’m stuck here.”

“You’re not stuck. This is your home, and your life, and your heritage.”

“And you hate it. You miss palm trees, and Rodeo Drive, and those frightfully muscular fellows on the beach in Speedos.”

She laughed. “No. I don’t hate it here. I love it. I love that this land is virtually unchanged over centuries, and I love that you know who your great-great-great-grandmother was and that she loved to needlepoint, and, in fact, her needlepoint and her portrait are in your house. I love this village and the slow pace of life.” She drew in a tremulous breath. “And I love you, George. I only realized it today. Bang. It hit me on the way to the interview, so it was a double shock to hear you saying those things only a few minutes later.” She rubbed a hand over her hair, pulling slightly on the ends, as she only did when she was nervous or preoccupied. “I…What does a countess do exactly?”

“Well, you’d give out the prizes at the local fête, be the hostess for several public events, but mainly we’d live like normal people.”

“Except for the title and the huge estate.”

“Apart, of course, from those.” He took her hand. “I can’t leave, you’re right. I can’t even manage a job in London. Even once I’ve hired another manager for the property, I’ll still have to spend a good deal of time here.”

She nodded. “I know.”

“But I’m not stuck here all the time. We could go on holidays and visit America. But”-he looked back at the great house looming over them-“this will have to be my home, I’m afraid. And, if you agreed to have me, I couldn’t put up with what my father did, or have my children miss their mother half the year.”

“I have to keep working, George.”

“Of course. And often you’ll be away. I understand that. But if you can’t face England, or the estate, then don’t have me.”

“When a girl thinks of living in an honest-to-God castle, that’s usually a good thing. But all those fairy tales never mention the costs of heating, and that you have to live in a house with servants-which is weird when you’re not used to it-and you can’t someday decide to give it all up and move to Morocco.”

“No. Those are decided drawbacks, you’re quite right.”

“But then I think about walking away from you, and I’m not sure I can do that, either.”

He took her face in his hands and she could see that he understood. “Well, that’s something. Because I can’t bear to think of it.” And he kissed her, slow and sweet and tender, so that for a minute L.A. and her home, friends, career, itchy feet, none of it mattered.

Except that it did matter, and when the kiss ended, everything she’d made of herself, all the choices and hard work and guts that made her a successful producer at thirty-one were still there. “I feel like you’re giving me the most precious gift, and I’m acting like I don’t want it, but I do.” She leaned her head against his chest, breathing him in, loving the feel of him, so solid against her.

“I do understand, you know. I want so badly for you to say yes, but I do understand.”

“Can I have some time to think about things?”

“As long as you need.”

She hesitated. “We’ll be finished shooting tomorrow.”

He turned to her, alarm clear in his expression. “You’re not leaving? Surely. I understood you’d be staying on for a few months.”

“I’m not leaving the country, but once the shooting’s done here, we move to our other locations. Then I’ll have to go back to L.A. to finish the scripts and edit the series.”

“So after tomorrow you’re done here.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know it would be so soon.”

She chuckled. “Admit it. When we first arrived you couldn’t wait to be rid of us.”

“That was before I came to know you,” he said with dignity.

Oh, she thought, how could she ever leave him?

And how could she ever stay?

Chapter Ten

The final scene to shoot was the pub. Maxine and the cameraman started outside with the establishing shots. “Pan of outside of the pub, close in on the sign, and then the door,” she said.

“Sure. Do you want the street?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe just this section, from the newsagent’s to that gift shop.”

“You got it.”

She left him to it and walked inside, where the rest of the crew were setting up under the curious gazes of the pub patrons. They didn’t seem bothered one way or another. She’d dreaded finding the pub packed to overflowing with the curious and those who wanted their faces on TV, and she had a crowd control plan all ready, but it seemed she wouldn’t need it.

The pub was about as crowded as it had been the first time she’d stormed in, irritated and looking for George. How different her feelings were now. She saw him not as a slacker trying to evade his responsibilities, but the very opposite. A man who took his responsibilities so seriously that he’d threaten his own happiness.

And hers.

In his place, wouldn’t she do the same? You couldn’t turn your back on your destiny.

“Maxine? Are you all right?”

The voice belonged to Arthur Denby, the pub’s owner and one of George’s “mates.” He was looking at her in some concern.

“Sorry, yes. I’m fine. I was thinking of something else.”

“Must have been something pretty bloody astonishing,” he said, the concern softening into teasing.

“Hah, it was.” She glanced over at George. “Do you believe in destiny?”

Arthur followed her gaze, then sent her a curious glance. “Do I believe in destiny?” He appeared to ponder the question, while Suz stuck down an electric cord with gaffer’s tape to keep it out of the way, and her sound tech checked the ambient noise, and the pub patrons drank, and watched, and chatted among themselves.

“Well, I’ve always thought a man, or woman,” he said, inclining his head to her, “makes his own destiny. But sometimes, sure, things happen and there’s no getting around the fact that they throw you off course.”

“But you think the man or woman is still in control?”

“Well, when destiny comes along, you can sit back and take what it dishes out, or you can choose what you’re going to do about it, can’t you?”

She sighed. Still looking at George, as though she could store him up for when she was gone. “And isn’t that the kicker? Figuring out what you’re going to do?”

“George is a good bloke,” Arthur said. She could have protested that her discussion of destiny and George were unrelated, but she respected Arthur’s intelligence. “One of the best.” He shook his head. “If destiny is pushing you in that direction, you could do a lot worse.”

“Have you ever been in love, Arthur?”

“Sure. Lots of times.” He had a softened burr, an Irishman who’d lived in England a long time.

She smiled, shaking her head. “One of these times it’s going to stick. And you may find it’s more complicated than it seems, this love business.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he said with a shrug and the slight insolence of a man who’s never had to choose between love and career. One day, darlin’, she thought to herself, I’d like to see you deeply in love and torn apart by it, then see if the superior smirk isn’t wiped off that dark, handsome face of yours. One day.

The roar in the pub dimmed. The sound guy miked George, but they’d decided to go for a boom mic for the rest of the dart players.

Simon was inside now, his camera on his shoulder. “Arthur,” she said, “would you mind telling everyone to relax and not look at the camera? We want this as natural as possible. The instructions will be better coming from you.”

“All right.”

“Attention, everyone,” he boomed. The room was silenced in an instant. Wow. Cool trick.

“If you want to be on television, you have to act cool. Relax, don’t look at the camera, and have a good time.” She nodded, pleased with him. “And, if you’re very good, these lovely people have offered to buy a round for everybody at the end of it.”

A ragged cheer greeted his final words, and he turned to Max and winked at her. Oh, what the hell. If she couldn’t submit that invoice, she’d eat the cost.

Since George had threatened to spank her in a very painful and not sexually fun way if she dared come near him in the pub with the pressed powder, she refrained. He was dressed as he always dressed for darts. Casual shirt, rolled at the cuffs, and today a navy T-shirt underneath. He made aristocracy look sexier than any movie star she’d ever worked with.

She backed out of the camera’s sight line. To her it was like being a studio audience or watching live television. She saw the scene before her, but it was apart from her. She was the viewer. A hypercritical one, of course, as she looked with an eye to editing, an overall impression of pace, energy, in-screen design, and overall entertainment.

Simon glanced at her and she gave him a thumbs-up. Then she found George also looking her way and she blew him a quick kiss. The glance she got in return was steamy enough to melt wax.

“Okay, your lordship, go for the darts,” the cameraman said.

“We’ve got sound, speed, we’re rolling.”

Max stepped back to watch the monitor.

You had to be so careful with a documentary. People wanted to learn something, experience something foreign to them, but they also wanted to while away an hour or two in a pleasurable manner. So she tried to inform and entertain.

This portion of the program was definitely more in the entertainment category. There was the nineteenth earl of Ponsford with a regular-guy shirt on, sleeves rolled up-she’d insisted on that. She liked the visual metaphor of him rolling up his sleeves and joining in the village darts game down at the local pub.

You could tell a lot about a man from the way his friends treated him, she thought.

And George seemed like a man with a lot of friends. He was perfect for her in every way but one huge one. How could she be so sure? She’d known him officially for a few months, spoken on the phone and by e-mail, but only spent a week as lovers. How could she know she loved him? How could she even contemplate marrying the man?

Well, you could learn a lot about a man when you spent a week with him, 24/7, under somewhat trying circumstances. Maybe they’d fallen in love with the fast-forward button on.

When the shoot was over and she’d bought everybody a round, it seemed perfectly natural to stay at the pub and enjoy fish and chips, or Cornish pasties, and a glass of lager or a pint of stout. Since it was the last day of shooting at Hart House, there was a convivial party atmosphere. Tomorrow they’d be moving on to a new location, and chances were they wouldn’t be coming back this way again.

As the evening progressed, she found herself glancing more and more often in George’s direction, and worrying less and less about who might sniff out that something was going on between them.

When he caught her gaze and held it with his own, she read all the longing she felt reflected in his eyes. Why did this have to be so hard?

The key crew members were staying at the castle-she thought that since she was staying there, George had felt honor-bound to invite Simon and the others. So it was a noisy group who left the pub at eleven and walked back to the castle singing English pub songs that Arthur had insisted on teaching them.

“‘Cor, what a mouth, what a North and South,’” Simon bellowed as he tromped up the path.

It was their last night, and she knew George felt it as keenly as she did. She didn’t even know when she was coming back or how long she could stay when she did.

Well, for tonight she wasn’t going to think about that. George was here, she was here, and for this last night, she didn’t plan to get much sleep.

Tomorrow she could worry and fret and plan, and maybe grieve the love that simply wasn’t meant to be. But for tonight she was going to enjoy the man she loved. Every inch of him.

When they returned to the castle, however, it turned out that Simon had purchased a fine bottle of scotch from the pub, and insisted on toasting George for his “generosity and for being a stand-up guy.” Which was more than could be said for Simon, who was weaving and swaying, the bottle swinging like a conductor’s baton, punctuating his slurred speech.

“Well, all right, then. Just a small one,” George said. “I’ll fetch some glasses.”

Janine had the sense to take the bottle from Simon and do the pouring, thus saving the expensive rug and keeping the drink sizes moderate.

Max could have kissed her.

The six filmmakers settled in, and Max, who usually enjoyed these impromptu parties as much as anyone, had never more wished to be spared.

George sat down and appeared a man at his ease, but she could see the tiny movement of his foot tapping. She picked up the rhythm and found her fingernails tapping her knee in synchronization.

God, would Simon never shut up? And did Janine have to encourage him to launch into his stories about his days shooting soap operas? Okay, they were funny stories, and she loved Simon, but not now.

She glanced at her watch. Ten minutes. Then she’d slip away.

When she lowered her wrist, George was looking at her with slightly raised brows. She stretched out the fingers of both hands and he gave a tiny nod. He could wait that long. Well, he’d have to. He’d wait another five minutes or so for form’s sake, but she anticipated that within twenty minutes they’d be naked, in his bed, and everything else could be put away until morning.

Her body stirred as she tried to decide what she’d like to do to him first.

She made it to nine minutes. Close enough. She rose, putting aside the heavy crystal glass, and yawned. “Well, I think I’ll turn in. We’ve got a travel day tomorrow. I need my sleep.”

Simon, in a most un-Simonlike manner, suddenly rose, too. “Ya know, that’s an excellent idea,” he said. Then he blinked.

“And Max, before morning, I need to talk to you. Got a problem.”

Frustration boiled in her stomach. No, no, no. She did not have time for this. “Can’t it wait until morning?”

Simon shook his head violently. “Think we need to make a personnel change. Ted’s mother’s sick. He wants to go home.”

Even though lust was lapping at her nerve endings, she knew this couldn’t wait until morning. She’d have to make some calls and try and replace Ted. “I’m so sorry about his mother. Of course. We’ll work something out.”

“Ted?” George said. “The lighting man?”

“Yes. Crucial member of our team,” Simon informed him.

“Will Ted stay on until we find a replacement?”

“You know he will. But she had a heart attack. She’s okay, but he wants to get back.” Simon knew the guys, but she was the one who got stuck with problems like this. She felt sorry for Ted, sorry that his mother had suffered a heart attack, but also sorry for herself. The timing was bad in every way.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll get onto it.”

She sat down, and Simon sat with her. They were deeply into a save-their-butts strategy session when George entered the room. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but I’m off to bed now. Wanted to say good-bye.” Simon rose and the men shook hands.

When Max put out her hand to shake, he leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Pleasure,” he said, and gave her the ghost of a wink.

As he was leaving, and she was thinking she’d be better able to solve their problems in the morning, she heard Wiggins say, “Ah, I thought you were in, sir. There’s a small matter I think you should be aware of.”

With one panicked glance at her, George said, “I suppose it can’t wait until morning?”

“I think not, sir. If you’d step into the library.”

“Right. Okay.” And off he went.

Oh, great. Just great. Their last night and it was like a warped game of Clue. The earl was in the library with the butler. The producer in the sitting room with the cameraman and the scotch.

Finally, she got away from Simon and made her way up the stairs. The library door was closed, she noted, and the lights were on.

When she got to her room, she calculated that it was afternoon right now in L.A. Let them get started on the problem. It was weird to talk to Hank, her boss, and picture him at his desk so far away.

Suddenly, she felt very far from home, from her own life. He sounded delighted to hear from her. “How’s it going over there?”

“Well…”

“Listen, I’ve been thinking, what about expanding this series? Why don’t we go to Europe and do some castles? Same concept.”

Max rubbed her forehead. Lust was interfering with her ability to think. “Um, the title part would be a problem. Not many European nations still have titled families living in castles,” she reminded Hank.

“Right. But that’s what makes it work for us. Loads of those deposed royals and all live Stateside, right? We could have a whole subseries on kings without thrones. Talk to those guys who are royalty from Russia and places, but work as doormen in Manhattan and car salesmen in Cleveland. Go with them and tour the old estates. What do you think?”

“Honestly? I can’t think. It’s been a long day and all I can think about is bed.” And how.

“Right, sorry. I’m forgetting. So why are you calling so late?”

She explained the problem with Ted. Hank was a take-charge kind of guy, which she liked about him. And he immediately said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get the ticket changed and get the kid home, and I’ll find somebody else. In two days you’ll have a new sound tech. I promise.”

She laughed softly. “You are the best.”

“Of course. That’s why you work for me. Now get some sleep.”

“I’m going to bed right now,” she promised him, and that wasn’t a lie, she thought as she clicked her phone off. Though there’d be little sleep involved.

She washed up and then slipped into the ridiculously sexy nightgown she’d bought at the lingerie shop in town. It was the color of antique gold and looked fantastic on her. She’d probably bought it because it reminded her of the décor.

Since she’d freeze on the way down that passage, she threw on her cotton robe.

Half an hour had passed since she’d come upstairs. She sure as hell hoped the Wiggins business was taken care of.

She turned the acorn knob with the ease of practice, and entered the dark passageway. She’d pushed the flashlight into her pocket, but she didn’t switch it on. She sort of liked the secrecy and the sense of adventure of going through a dark, secret passageway to meet her lover.

Of course, she’d checked it out pretty carefully the first couple of times she’d come through here, and there were no bugs or signs of rodents or anything disgusting. She even thought, with a sense of sadness, that it was cleaned periodically. There were no cobwebs as thick as carpet, no mysterious casks or strongboxes. The air was musty and a little dusty, the corridor was narrow and not very high, and there was no light. Otherwise, it could have been any corridor.

But even though she suspected Wiggins came through here once a quarter with the DustBuster-she was sure he wouldn’t let any of the staff in on the secret-she still got a thrill every time she came through here.

Naturally, knowing what was at the other end of the tunnel was part of the thrill. The tunnel of lust, the corridor of sexual power, the-Abruptly her clever musings were cut off when she bumped into a body.

Chapter Eleven

Warm, solid, and breathing, but the man struck her so suddenly that she screamed and would have jumped a mile if shock hadn’t frozen her in place.

“Max, it’s me.”

“Oh, God, George. You scared me.”

“I thought you must be able to hear me. I could hear you coming down that tunnel like the three o’clock train from Croydon.”

“I was thinking.”

“Ah. Thinking about me, I hope.”

He reached for her and pulled her against him, so her robe fell open and she pressed against him in nothing but a tiny slip of silk and lace that had cost about ten British pounds per inch. He wasn’t wearing much more. His torso was bare, and he had on nothing but cotton pajama bottoms that were warm from his body.

“I like the feel of this,” he said, running his fingertips over the lace and silk scraps that crisscrossed her breasts.

“It’s new,” she whispered, feeling a little breathless as he teased her.

“What color is it?”

“Antique gold. Here, I’ve got a flashlight. You could see it.”

“No. Put your torch away. I rather like it in here. It’s very private, isn’t it?”

“So are our rooms,” she said, but she didn’t urge him back to hers or onward to his.

“I don’t know. I’m terrified that Simon will come barging into your bedroom banging on about some sodding production problem or Wiggins will burst into my room because desperate criminals are destroying the estate.”

“Desperate criminals? Is that what he wanted?”

“Oh, yes. Three ten-year-olds and a twelve-year-old. They were caught trying to pinch the trampoline from the adventure playground.”

“Oh, no.” She knew it was serious, and criminal tendencies in kids that young weren’t a good sign, but she still had to stifle a snicker. “What happened to them?”

“The gardener caught them, and instead of letting me deal with it, as he should have, the bloody fool called the local constable.”

“But-”

“The trouble is that the parents of two of the boys work on the estate. It’s hideously embarrassing for them, excruciatingly so for me.”

“But what would you have done?”

“Oh, I expect I’d have had the gardener haul each of them home to his parents and have worked out a fitting punishment. Make them pick up all the litter from the public grounds for a few weekends or something. Officially, I’d have known nothing about the incident. Now, there’ll be all the awkwardness. Ah, well,” he sighed, and leaned in, kissing her hair. “Can’t be helped.”

“I think,” she said, rubbing her nose against his sternum, “that you make a very good earl.”

“I’m still so new at it. I wish my father were here so I could ask him. Though, of course, if he was here, there’d be no need. He’d be the earl and doing a far better job of it.”

“You miss him.”

“At times like this, I do. And…” He stopped.

“And?”

“I’d have liked him to meet you. He’d have adored you.”

She was touched. “I’d have liked it, too.”

They stood quietly for a moment. The darkness was blanket-thick, both cover and comfort. When he touched her it came as a surprise.

“Your skin feels so smooth, so soft,” he said, running his hands over her shoulders and down her arms. Then he skimmed her waist until his hands rested on her hips, orienting himself to her. Anchoring her.

Oh, how she would miss this, not just the sex, but the way he brushed her skin with his fingertips, as though it was a fresh experience every time. The way he’d talk to her. Those charming little compliments that slipped from between his lips like sighs.

Waiting to be together tonight had been dragged out so long, and they were both so desperate, and yet, still, he took things slowly.

She felt the slight friction of his fingertips against the silk, felt the warmth of his skin through the sheer fabric, and wanted more.

She reached for him, finding his shoulders, putting her arms around his neck and pulling his head down until she could kiss him. She tasted toothpaste and a hint of scotch. As his mouth moved against hers and their chins brushed, she could tell that he was freshly shaven.

How thoughtful. All the parts of her that wouldn’t be getting chafed through close contact with his stubble tingled in anticipation. She opened her mouth to him, tasting him, nipping his lower lip. And all the time his hands were stroking her, exciting her through the silk. He traced the long muscles of her back. “Your muscles are tight. You seem really tense.”

“It’s been a long day. And that last hour was hell. I thought I’d have to drug Simon’s drink to get away.”

She moaned softly as he began kneading the knots in her shoulder. “Then my boss in L.A. wanted to chat. It’s late afternoon there and he wants to talk about new ideas for programming. While all I can think about is finding you and getting naked.” She kissed him. “All I can think about is this.”

“I know,” he said, his slow, soothing hands in odd contrast to the barely restrained need she recognized in his voice.

Even though her belly was growing heavy with desire and she ached to have him inside her, it felt so good to have him massaging away the day’s tensions that she leaned into his hands, like a cat being stroked. He spent a long time on her shoulders and her back, and then he moved-very sneakily in the dark-and she felt his hands at her stomach, so warm and sudden that she gasped. He stroked her belly as he had her back, long, soothing strokes that left her quivering and wanting. It was like the Kama Sutra of massage therapy.

It was so quiet here, so still and so dark that her senses were abnormally heightened. Without sight, she was aware of subtle sensations. The sound of their breathing, the slight rustle as her gown brushed her skin, the smell of George’s shaving cream on his freshly razored face, the feel of the ancient wooden wall at her back, and the firm warmth of George at her front.

When his questing fingers reached her naked thighs, he said, “You’re trembling.”

“I want you so much.”

“It’s different now, isn’t it? Now that I’ve declared myself.”

She smiled in the darkness. Such an old-fashioned expression, but it suited him.

“It’s partly knowing how we feel, I think, and also knowing we won’t see each other for a while. We have to make enough memories to last us a while.”

“How long?” he asked, running his lips along her jawline.

“A few weeks.” She clutched at him. “Shorter if I can manage it.”

“I don’t think I can bear to be away from you. We’ve barely begun to know each other.” His hands were urgent on her, tracing her thighs, squeezing her buttocks.

“I know.” She was so empty, so hot for him, waiting.

“Maybe I can come up and you can sneak me into your hotel room at the next location.”

She could barely take in his words. If she didn’t have him inside her soon, she’d explode. But the meaning finally sank in. “You’d do that? You’d drive all that way for one night?”

“I’d drive twice as far. You haven’t even gone yet and I miss you already.”

She smiled against his chest. “I know. I feel it, too.”

His hand was moving higher, and she parted her legs to give him ready access to where she wanted him most.

“Your skin is so soft here. I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything so soft.”

“It’s arousal,” she panted. “Blood’s rushing to the capillaries.”

“Really?” His fingers paused, no doubt in surprise.

“I produced a documentary on sexual arousal one time. It’s amazing the facts you pick up.” She laughed softly.

“Let’s see if we can find any more signs of arousal,” he said in a low, teasing tone, letting his hand sweep higher.

She wanted to open up for him but her legs were shaking and she thought she might topple. He seemed to understand her dilemma, for he raised her knee and draped her leg over his elbow. She felt the air wafting across her privates and was so sensitive that even the slight movement of air felt like a caress.

Then he touched her and she let out a moan of pleasure. His fingers explored her with a deft, light touch, making her squirm.

“You’re so wet,” he whispered.

“I’m so desperately horny, you have no idea.”

“Oh, yes I do,” he said, and pushed a finger inside her.

“I want you,” she cried. “Can’t wait.”

He didn’t say anything, but she heard the rustle and tear of the condom package, then he grabbed her hips and hoisted her up. She opened her legs, wrapping them around his waist, and he pushed up and into her, shoving her against the cold wall. The shock of the cold wood paneling against her back was in sharp contrast to the heat coming off George. He took her fast and hard, and she took him right back, spread so wide that she felt the shock of impact right through her with every thrust.

Shudders rocked her. She felt that she was floating, with only the solid walls of the historic mansion and the solid arms of George holding her to earth.

When he came it was like an explosion inside her.

He staggered a little, and she clutched at his shoulders, wondering if they’d topple to the ground, but he recovered enough to let her down slowly.

They stood there, panting, leaning against each other until she whispered, “Your place or mine?”

“Let’s start in your bed and end up in mine.”

“Good plan,” she said, and led him back the way she’d come.

Her room seemed overbright when she flicked on a lamp. Her nearly packed suitcase sat by the door, a reminder, if they needed one, that this was good-bye for a while.

Sure, they’d be able to visit, but it wasn’t going to be the same. The fairy tale quality of living in his house and creeping to his room via secret passageway each night was over tomorrow. The next stage wouldn’t happen because of circumstance and convenience; they’d have to make a deliberate and extraordinary effort to keep seeing each other.

Would they? She wondered. As strong as her feelings were, she wondered if she’d get to the next site, throw herself into the next program, or series, or concept, and discover sooner than she could imagine that George was a sweet and erotic memory.

Then she felt his arms come around her, leaned against the solid warmth of him, and knew it wasn’t ever going to be like that.

“I’m in love with you.” The words, spoken aloud, surprised her even as she said them.

“I know,” he said. When she turned and gazed at him, she found all the understanding she could have wished for in his face. He did know.

He kissed her softly, and the last of her barriers fell. She loved him. She’d owned up to the feeling she’d hoped would disappear, or at least turn out to be false. But it wasn’t. She’d lived long enough, known enough men, to recognize that this was the real, till-death-us-do-part thing.

This time when they made love it was in the light. With gazes fixed and the passion slower, but deeper. With the truth out, their bodies could express the love they’d finally admitted.

She wanted to imprint this moment and carry it around her neck in a locket forever, so she could take it out and look at it every once in a while, when she was lonely or far away or simply irritated with life.

When he entered her, she felt herself open as she never had before. Love was scary, she realized. It made you utterly vulnerable. Except this didn’t feel scary, it felt right.

His skin was warm and smooth against hers. There was a smatter of freckles on his shoulder that she’d never noticed before and which filled her with such tenderness she wanted to weep. She didn’t. She kissed them, those pale, almost unnoticeable sun freckles. And she kissed the place where she felt his heart beating, and then she kissed his lips and was lost.

Chapter Twelve

They lay with their hands clasped, heads close together on one pillow, legs entwined.

“This situation, as you Brits would say, is bloody inconvenient.”

“It is.”

She sighed, and gazed at the gorgeous room, with enough antiques to remind her of where she was and who he was. “If you could change your circumstances, would you?”

“As you Americans would say, in a New York minute.”

“Really?”

He traced her nose with a finger. “I was an architect in London, as you know. And a pretty bloody good one, if I do say so. I could have met you at a club in Soho, or maybe your firm would have done a bit on Britain ’s sexiest architects.”

She made gagging noises, but he merely grinned and carried on.

“And we’d have met. I’d have fallen all over myself trying to impress you.”

“You’d have succeeded,” she offered.

“And we’d have gone to dinner. Walked around Hyde Park, gone to the theatre. And when you went home, I could have followed you.”

“Would you really? What about your job?”

“A job you can get anywhere. A woman like you comes along once in a lifetime.”

She glanced at him sharply. Was he making a point? That she should quit her job and move to England to be with him? But he didn’t seem to be hinting. She thought he really was contemplating his own life. He was right, though. This kind of love didn’t hang around on street corners waiting for you to bump into it.

“And then your father died.”

“Yes. I’d always known he would, of course. And I’ve always known this would one day be my life. My duty.”

“Duty. Such an old-fashioned word. An important one, though.”

“I could hire somebody and then leave the place for a good portion of every year.”

“But you won’t,” she realized. “And maybe I wouldn’t love you if you were the kind of man who could. The estate needs you. I can see how much good it does for you to be here, a part of it, trying to bring it back to prosperity.”

“Yes. I suppose so. It’s ironic really, isn’t it? I’m a sort of Robin Hood in reverse. We charge the tourists money in order to hang onto a symbol of ancient wealth.” He shook his head. “It’s a funny old world.”

“There’s so much potential here, too. You could expand the wedding business and add more holiday options.”

“We rent two of the former laborer’s cottages,” he said. “We’ve got them fixed up for self-catering holidays.” He looked at her apologetically. “But this is still a private home. I don’t want to live in a hotel, or operate a caravan park or something.”

“No, of course not.” But there were ways. She could see there were things that could be done to improve the bottom line. What this place needed was someone with some fresh ideas. Someone who had ties to the United States. Someone, in fact, like her. If she wasn’t already employed.

She’d imagined they’d make love most of the night, but as it was they talked. Silly, intimate stuff. What scared you when you were a kid. (Him, the dark. Her, the fear of getting lost.)

“What scares you now?” she asked.

“I would have said losing Hart House. But now, I very much fear it’s losing you.”

Oh, how her heart leapt at those words. “We’ll work this out,” she promised. “I’m not sure how, but we’ll work it out.”

He nodded. Maybe a little sadly. Well, it wasn’t like he could do much. She was the one who had to make a decision to change her life-or not. They both knew that.

“What about you?” he asked. “What’s your biggest fear?”

She took a deep breath. “Failure.”

“But you’re amazingly successful.”

“Yeah, well, now you know why. I’m terrified of failing. I think that’s why I’m so driven.”

“I suppose, then, that a lot hinges on your definition of success.”

“And failure.”

Sometime in the night they fell asleep.

George woke to the ominous sound of a zipper. He wasn’t certain why it was ominous until he opened his eyes and realized that it was the zipper on Maxine’s travel case. And that it meant she was leaving.

He flopped to his back and watched her. He didn’t know what to say, only no. Please, no. Please don’t go. But of course he didn’t. Instead, he watched her gather her things together and then turn. She started slightly when she saw his eyes were open and on her, and the expression of longing he’d caught was quickly zipped away along with her makeup bag.

But he’d seen it. Recognized it. Inside herself, he knew she was saying no to their parting, too.

He had to say something, but they appeared to have run out of words. Good morning wouldn’t do it. It was a shit morning. She was leaving. Have a nice trip? He hoped she had such a rotten trip she was back here within a fortnight.

I love you? She knew it. Repeating the words would only make him sound like a pathetic wanker.

She came forward, leaned down, and kissed him quickly on the lips. Soon she’d be gone and not a word spoken.

“Wait,” he said.

She turned. Her brows rose slightly.

“I want to give you something.” Oh, bloody hell. What? He was naked but for…

“My ring. I want you to take my ring. It’s not a proper engagement ring, obviously. Well, for that you’d have to be engaged.” He managed a bit of a grin. “And you haven’t said yes, yet.” He tugged at the ring on his pinkie finger until it gave way, scraping over his knuckle. “It’s just something to remember me by.”

He held it out and she looked at the thing shining dully on his palm. “In the States we have something called a promise ring.”

He shook his head. “No promises. Call this an answer ring. If you decide you can bear to marry me, we’ll get you a proper ring. If not, then keep this one. With my love.”

She touched it with a fingertip, as though scared. “It’s not a priceless heirloom that ought to be on display with the crown jewels, is it?”

“No. It’s my school ring. I’m fond of it, that’s all.”

She nodded slowly. She pushed it onto the ring finger of her right hand, and it fit pretty well. “Thanks.”

There was a pause, so thick with meaning that there was nothing left to say.

“I have to go.”

“Yes.”

And she was gone.

Failure. What did that mean exactly? Max mused as Simon’s rented Land Rover lumbered up to the next grand manor on the list. Simon was morose this morning. He wasn’t a morning person and she had a strong inkling that the beer followed by the scotch last night had left him less talkative this morning.

Green hills and fields dotted with sheep made restful, almost hypnotic viewing as they headed north. She’d already visited the location and knew that the industrious owners were selling a lot of Olde English jams, jellies, fruit cakes, condiments, and candies over the Internet.

The estate was family-run, and the baronet she’d be interviewing had three pink-cheeked English children, so perfect they looked like a politician’s Christmas card.

For some reason, going to that perfect family depressed her a little.

Failure.

Would she be more of a failure if she quit her job and became the wife of an estate-bound earl? Or would true failure involve passing on the only man she’d ever loved?

She’d received an e-mail from her mom with the news that her sister Rachel’s divorce was final. Somehow, if the universe had the time to send her signs, that seemed a clear one that true love wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

Although Rachel’s choice of husbands sucked big-time, which had to be a factor. Rachel hadn’t given up her career, though. She was a chef with a growing reputation in one of L.A. ’s hottest restaurants. Even with her marriage breaking up, she’d have her life. Her identity. Her work.

All the things that Max would have to give up.

But she could still marry George and be herself, for God’s sake. And there was always work. She could take over the marketing of the estate, for instance. She could produce a short film for the visitors to see that would add value to their experience.

She could maybe even get some TV work over here.

She ran her thumb over the bumpy ring on her finger. He’d looked so sweet when he’d given her the ring, still warm from where he’d slept with it on his finger. She missed him so much already.

George tried not to be a whiner. He liked to think he was a chap who got on with things. But it wasn’t easy when everywhere he looked, he saw Maxine or remembered something she’d said.

Two weeks passed and they managed one snatched night at an inn near York. Enough time to freshen their longing for each other, and make him more miserable when he returned home.

Two more weeks passed and the phone calls were getting longer, the sadness when they hung up deeper. She’d be finished in another few days and they were going to meet in London for a weekend before she took a flight back to L.A. for postproduction. Then how long until they could manage to see each other?

He was embarrassed at his own state of peevish lovesickness and, determined to rid himself of it, headed down to the pub for his regular Wednesday night darts game.

Arthur greeted him with a nod, and already had George’s pint on the counter before he’d reached it.

“Cheers,” he said, as he lifted the heavy mug and sipped.

“You look like a bag of shite,” Arthur said.

“Thanks very much.”

“You’ve got it bad.”

George contemplated asking what Arthur was referring to, but decided he’d look like more of a git. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t think I’d live to see the day that you got that lovesick look about you.”

“If you don’t mind, I came here to have a few drinks with the lads and throw darts. I did not come to discuss my love life.”

“Then you shouldn’t come into my pub looking like a wet weekend.”

“Sorry. You’re right.” George sipped again. “I thought I’d be able to forget about her for five minutes down at the pub, but I was remembering the scene they filmed here.”

“Aye. I remember. That’s the day she told me she loves you.”

George set down his mug with a thump, feeling foolish and eager. “She did?”

“Clear as a bell. We were watching you. Well, I wasn’t, but that girl couldn’t tear her eyes off you. She had it as bad as you.”

“I wish I knew what to do.”

“Don’t worry. She’ll come back.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Then it wasn’t meant to be. And a year from now you’ll be falling all over yourself for some new bird.”

He wouldn’t, but he appreciated that Arthur was trying to cheer him up.

“You ever been in love?”

“Funny, Maxine asked me the same thing.”

“She did?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Same as I’ll tell you. Lots of times.”

George shook his head. “Wasn’t real love. Believe me. When it hits you, you’ll know.”

“Well, if it makes me look as sick as you, I think I’ll stick to the kind I know, thanks.”

“You’re the smart one. This kind hurts like hell.”

Arthur glanced up as the door opened. It was Wednesday; with the darts they were always busy Wednesdays.

“What would you tell Maxine if she walked through the door right now?”

A tiny shaft of pain pricked him. God, if only.

“I’d tell her I love her. Which she already knows.” He rubbed a hand over his face and realized he’d forgotten to shave. Which wasn’t like him. Arthur was right. He was turning into a wet weekend.

“What else?”

“I’d tell her I’ve already set up three interviews for estate managers. I want to tell her I’ll chuck the place entirely.” Arthur looked startled until George shook his head. “But I can’t chuck it. All I can do is work it out so I don’t have to be here as often, I suppose. I’d tell her I can live without her, because there’s nothing more nauseating than somebody pretending they’ll die if they don’t get the woman they want. But I won’t live as happily, you see.”

“That’s not a bad declaration,” Arthur said, a tiny grin playing around his mouth.

“Yeah. Maybe you should tape it and send it to her. She likes things that go on telly.”

“He doesn’t have to. I already heard it,” a voice said from behind him. A female voice, one he heard in his mind all the time and hadn’t imagined he’d hear again in person, not so soon.

He turned so fast he damned near fell on his arse. “Maxine.”

He couldn’t quite take it in. So he stared at her for another full minute. “You’re here.”

How had she grown more beautiful? She hadn’t, of course, merely more precious. “God, I missed you,” he said, pulling her forward and kissing her, not caring that everybody in the pub was staring. Let them stare.

Max didn’t seem to mind, either. She kissed him back, clinging to him so tightly he could feel her heart hammering.

He pulled back, trying to keep some measure of cool. Remembering that one wretched snatched night, he asked, “How long are you staying?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Right.” Disappointment whacked him, but he tried not to let it show. “You’ve got more filming to do?”

“No. I need to give you this back,” she said, and tugged his ring from her finger, placing it on the bar, where it made a tiny tap.

He stared at it. He felt every man, woman, and minor who’d snuck in with fake ID stare at that ring.

“It doesn’t fit very well,” she explained. “It was kind of big and I was afraid of losing it.”

Didn’t she remember? Didn’t she know what he’d meant when he gave her the bloody thing? “I don’t care if you lose it. It doesn’t matter.”

“I want to trade it in on a different ring,” she said.

As the haze of his own rank stupidity cleared, he jerked his head to look at her and this time he could see what Arthur had obviously recognized the second she’d walked in, given that the man was popping the cork on a bottle of champagne.

“You don’t mean…?”

She nodded, the smile on her face widening. “The answer to your question is yes, unless you’ve changed your mind.”

“No. God, no. I haven’t changed my mind.” He laughed shakily and pushed the hair off his forehead. “You mean it? You’ll marry me?”

“I tend to be pretty decisive. Once I make up my mind, I move. That’s something you should know about me.”

He couldn’t keep his eyes off her, or the grin off his face. “I’ll keep it in mind.” He glanced at Arthur. “You’d better keep opening those bottles. Champagne for everyone. I have an announcement to make.”

“Right you are,” Arthur said. He nodded to Maxine. “Good to see you back, love.”

“Thanks. It’s good to be back.”

While corks were popping and the wait staff were delivering drinks, he said, “But what about your job?”

“I phoned my boss in L.A. to tell him I’d met someone and was staying here. I phoned to quit. Toughest decision I’ve ever made, by the way.” She reached for his hand. “He said he’s going to keep me on a contract basis. I won’t work as much, or travel as often. But I’ll still be able to do what I love.”

“Maxine, that’s fantastic.”

“And while I’ve been away, I’ve been thinking that I could take over the marketing for Hart House. I’ve got connections, enthusiasm, I know how to get Americans interested. We’re going to have corporate retreats, management seminars, wine tastings, and a lot more weddings.”

“We are?”

“I’ll have us in the black if it kills us.”

He found glasses of champagne pushed toward him. He handed one to Maxine, gave her a quick kiss, and looked out at the people who lived and worked here, in this quaint, anachronistic village.

Some of their families, like his, had lived here for five hundred years. He was about to add a line to the family history.

“Friends,” he said, “I have the pleasure of announcing that Maxine has agreed to be my wife. I ask you to raise your glasses to the future countess of Ponsford. Maxine.”

A chorus of voices echoed, “To the countess!” Or simply, “Maxine!”

“I love you,” he whispered so only she could hear, and then sipped.

“When are you getting married?” Arthur asked as the three of them sat together, drinking champagne with pub fish and chips.

“Well,” George said, “what do you think about the spring?”

“George,” she said, fixing him with the determined expression that had so unnerved him when he first met her. “Do you have any idea what a wedding costs?”

“Well, but darling…”

“Once we get things on a better footing financially, then we can think about a wedding.”

He sipped more champagne. “What exactly do you mean, a better footing?” God, she didn’t know the size of the debt. Or did she? He remembered hazily that he’d told her when they were having one of their intimate middle-of-the-night chats.

“I mean,” she said, “that I will marry you when we are in the black. When the debt’s paid off.”

“But-”

“It’s important to me. I’ve got so many ideas for getting the estate into the black they keep me awake at night. I’ve got spreadsheets and a report already written.”

“Spreadsheets?”

She nodded vigorously. “By my calculations, and if you like all my ideas, I figure we can have the debt paid off in six months.”

“Darling, you’re not-”

She stopped him with a kiss. “Trust me. You have no idea how good I am at this stuff.”

“But I want to get married now,” he said, feeling a bit put out.

She only shook her head with a look that said, Why buy the earl when you can get the family jewels for free?

George looked at Arthur and shrugged. “Terrible, these American girls. All they want is the sex.”

“I pity you, George,” said Arthur, with a laugh. “I really do.”

“In fact,” Maxine said, as the chuckling Arthur moved away, “I’m wearing your school ring as an engagement ring. We can’t afford-”

He put his hand over hers, stopping her from taking back the ring.

“I’ve already got you a proper ring.”

“Oh, George.”

“If you don’t mind a family heirloom. The countesses of Ponsford have all worn it.”

Who would have thought that this bossy, annoying dragon of a woman from across the sea would sweep into his life and steal his heart? But she smiled at him with tears in her eyes, and his world felt utterly right.

“I’d be proud to wear it,” she said, and leaned in to kiss him in a way that made him think he’d be missing his weekly darts game.

“And there’s one more thing,” he said, putting his arm around her and leading her to the door, and home.

“What?” she asked, after they’d made it through all the congratulations and to the door.

“You’ll have to sit for an official portrait.”

She turned, her expression startled. “You don’t mean…?”

“I’m afraid so. Your portrait will hang in the long gallery. Five hundred years from now some nosy young journalist will come by spaceship to study you.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Can we have our picture painted together?”

“Anything is possible.”

“But not until we’re out of debt.”

“God, no.” He had a feeling he’d be scrounging pennies like a bloody miser, anything to get closer to the day he’d finally make her his, permanently.

He thought of her here, every day, warming his bed every night, and decided he could put up with the wait.