by Nancy Warren
He thought it was a very good thing for her to be exposed to so much successful love as she was surrounded by, not only at the great house, but also in the pub where Arthur and Meg’s affair also progressed most satisfactorily. They were back from America and the novelist was hard at work on the next bit of terror she planned to unleash on unsuspecting readers.
Where they’d settle permanently was anyone’s guess.
He thought Arthur would follow Meg anywhere.
Would he? He wondered. If Rachel wanted to go back to California, would he be willing to go with her?
He wasn’t sure if being willing to relocate was a true test of love, but he rather thought he would. If his choice was London without her or L.A. with her, he thought he’d be wearing Oakleys, striping his nose with zinc and ordering half-caps with wings quite happily on Sunset Strip.
One Friday, as he arrived at the estate after a hellish slog down the M5, George said, “Can I have a word?”
The earl had obviously been on the lookout for him, for he’d even beaten Wiggins to the door.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, loosening his tie.
George took him into a book-lined library that his father had used as a study. George kept an office on a different floor, out of the way of the tourists, so the library still had the formal atmosphere of the old earl.
George chatted idly about football, but Jack could see there was something on his mind, and, after two and a half hours of driving that had consisted of jerking forward for a few feet then idling for several minutes, he was more than ordinarily anxious to see Rachel.
Finally, he interrupted a pointless treatise on Manchester United’s last match.
“What is it you want, George?”
“Well, the thing is, I’d like it very much if you’d be one of my groomsmen. For the wedding.”
The irritation that had begun to build, dissipated immediately. He felt the grin spread on his face and shook George’s hand heartily. “I’d be delighted. Thank you for asking me.”
“I hesitated, because I know you’ve been in about a hundred wedding parties.”
“Not so many. Not quite fifty, I should think. But I’d be truly happy to stand up for you.”
“Thanks.” George blew out a breath. “There’s such an awful lot to think about with a wedding. You were starting to look so cross I thought you’d refuse.”
“Actually, I thought you were about to ask me what my intentions were to your future sister.”
“God, no. None of my business, really,” George said, walking unconsciously behind his father’s desk and pouring out two stiff whiskeys. He handed one to Jack and sipped his own. Then he said, “At least, well, I suppose it is my business now. Not that the lady would thank me for interfering.”
He glanced at Jack, obviously enjoying his position of power, however bogus. “Just out of interest, what are your intentions?”
“Oh, I’m going to marry her.”
He had the satisfaction of seeing his old friend snort thirty year old single malt up his nose and cough until his eyes watered.
“Really? But you never marry them. They always marry someone else.”
Jack settled into one of the leather wing chairs and regarded George. “You know the way you feel about Maxine?”
“Yes, of course.” He nodded, as it all came clear. “You, too?”
“I thought it would never happen.”
“Stunning when it does.”
They sipped for a quiet moment. “And what do you reckon for Manchester’s chances in this week’s match against Cheltenham?”
And so the two were comfortable again, having done as much emotional sharing as they were ever likely to.
The year had ticked over and spring was unfurling all over the estate. Rachel hadn’t gone home. He never asked her how long she planned to stay. He’d rushed his fences once, he wouldn’t do it again. Instead, he tried to show her how their life could be. He introduced her to his friends, he flew her to Paris for a very decadent weekend, and they’d all spent Christmas at Hart House, including various brothers and sisters and George’s odd relatives.
He was waiting, he knew. And wooing the hell out of the woman he loved.
Maxine and George’s wedding day dawned as blue and glorious as the wedding of a titled gentleman marrying his true love in an ancient English estate ought to dawn.
Rachel was probably as happy about the fact as the bride was. They’d worked out contingency plans in case of rain, there was a big tent on the grounds, and loads of room in the house, but it wouldn’t have been the same. Max wanted to get married in the village church and celebrate the event in the grounds of Hart House. The society photographers would be there, and blooming roses and sparkling water photographed so much better than sodden branches and dripping umbrellas.
And, of course, her food would present so much better without a drenching.
Her dress – thank God for Maxine’s excellent taste – was a soft, sage green. Designer simple, it fit her perfectly and brought out the green in her eyes.
The bride wore antique satin and carried the softest pink roses.
The ancient church was hushed as they walked in. She followed two flower girls and, while George looked down the aisle behind her to where Max would appear, Jack looked at her, so she felt as every step brought her closer, that she was making a tiny vow. Their gazes held and she saw his lips curve, ever so slightly.
It was a strange moment to have an epiphany about her own heart while celebrating her sister’s union, but perhaps it was appropriate. For she saw Jack standing there at the front of a church, ready to celebrate a marriage, and she knew without a doubt, that he was waiting for her. As she’d been waiting for him.
The next wedding Union Jack took part in was going to be his own. It might not happen for a while, but she knew in her heart it was right.
I love you, she told him with her eyes.
I know, his said back.
They stood together while Maxine took George to be her lawfully wedded earl and George took Max to be his lawfully wedded countess.
The tiny village church contained royalty, TV people from L.A., Meg and Arthur who’d flown home for the event, family and friends. Her eyes widened slightly as she recognized Chloe, who’d flown back for the wedding and, like the latest Prada bag, she sported the latest darkly handsome boyfriend.
There’d been enough media to guarantee a lot of publicity on both sides of the Atlantic. Rachel strongly suspected that Maxine, ever the over-achiever, had accomplished her goal. The Hart House Wedding Package was booked through the summer at rates that had made George’s eyes bug out when he’d first heard them.
Of course, Rachel didn’t believe in a perfect love, but she had to admit watching her sister and her brand new bother-in-law walk down the aisle with quiet joy pretty much radiating off them that they had found something very special.
Then she felt Jack take her arm and walk her down the aisle behind them and she knew she’d found something special too.
Will you take this man? The words of the wedding service echoed in her head as they emerged into sunshine and a shower of rose petals.
Did she have the courage to risk her heart again? To let go of a painful past and take a chance on an unpredictable future?
Will you take this man?
“Yes,” she said aloud.
“What’s that, darling?” Jack asked, turning to look at her with that special look he kept just for her.
“Yes,” she repeated, while bells rang and rose petals floated and laughter danced on the air. “Yes, I believe I will.”
Read on for a sneak peek of Courting Chloe, the final story in The British are Coming series.
“I’m not going to make it,” Chloe Flynt moaned into the phone, each word dripping with despair and drama. “I’m so bored.”
She was supposed to be in her oil painting class, but she couldn’t summon the enthusiasm. Apart from Nude Study of the Male, she wasn’t
having nearly the fun she’d hoped. She glanced out the window of her bedroom in the villa. The golden Umbrian hills reclined under the sun as though they were enjoying a siesta.
That was the trouble with this place. It was too relaxed. Slow meals, slow pace of life. No decent shopping for miles. Oh, the sixteenth-century villa was certainly lovely, but she rather fancied that when she’d bolted from London and her broken engagement, she’d have been better off heading to Milan or Rome. Or better yet, Paris. Somewhere where there was some life.
Apart from the rather dishy Tuscan chef who loved nothing more than to tempt her fickle palate, she wasn’t really enjoying her newly chosen career as a painter.
“Of course you’re bored,” her friend Nicky said in the nasal drawl that made her sound like Kiera Knightly with a head cold. “Perhaps it was a little soon after breaking off your engagement to be deciding on a career.”
“I haven’t any talent for painting, anyway,” she said, staring dismally out of her window to the garden overlooking the vineyard where eight easels were set up and seven painters were dabbing at canvases with varying levels of success. Her own abandoned effort was shockingly bad; even from here she could see that the ochre had been a mistake.
Hearing from Nicky about all the fun that was going on at home in London without her only worsened her boredom.
“I can’t stand it,” she said suddenly, “I’m going to have to quit.”
There was annoying laughter at the other end. “Of course you are, silly. We’ve had bets on how long you’d last. I lost my ten quid last Thursday. If you make it through the end of the week, Gerald Barton-Hinks wins the pool.”
They were placing bets on how soon she’d quit? Really, it ought to inspire her to stay through to the end of the course, four weeks from now, just to show them all she could do it.
She contemplated this option for a minute, then thought, Sod it, I’m not staying here another month for anything. Besides, it was cheering to know that everyone at home missed her so much they were making book on when she’d return. “Who wins the pool if I quit today?” she asked.
“I think it’s Jack.”
Her older and extremely annoying brother who was extremely annoyingly happy with his American chef girlfriend. “Perfect. Maybe if he makes a profit he won’t be so shirty with me for throwing more of Daddy’s money down the drain.”
“Are we talking about the same Jack? Your brother Jack? He adores you.”
“He’s horrible,” she said, pouting. How unkind he’d been when she’d had to cancel her wedding at the last minute.
“He’s not horrible. He thinks you should settle down and stop acting irrationally, that’s all.”
“My engagement was recently broken,” she reminded Nicky. “I think I’m entitled to act irrationally.”
Another laugh answered her. “That might have worked the first time. You even managed it pretty well the second time, but Chlo, three broken engagements in a row—well, it’s getting to be a bad habit.”
Read Chloe’s story. Or, for half price, you can get the full box set collection of The British are Coming.
About the Author
Nancy Warren is the USA Today Bestselling author of more than 70 novels. She’s originally from Vancouver, Canada, though she tends to wander and has lived in England, Italy and California at various times. She’s currently in Bath, UK, where she often pretends she’s Jane Austen. Or at least a character in a Jane Austen novel. Favorite moments include being the answer to a crossword puzzle clue in Canada’s National Post newspaper, being featured on the front page of the New York Times when her book Speed Dating launched Harlequin’s NASCAR series, and being nominated three times for Romance Writers of America’s RITA award. She’s an avid hiker, loves chocolate and most of all, loves to hear from readers! The best way to stay in touch is to sign up for Nancy’s newsletter at www.nancywarren.net.
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The British are Coming: Jack Copyright © 2015 by Nancy Warren
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