At the Billionaire’s Wedding

by Maya Rodale, Caroline Linden, Miranda Neville, Katharine Ashe

  “Harry’s wild about you, you know,” Mark said. “Or perhaps you don’t since you’re clearly a woman of remarkably little perception.”

  “Really?” She hadn’t been sure.

  The man in question, tall and fit and rumpled in his casual clothing, returned to the table. “What have you been talking about?” he asked, shooting Arwen a look that warmed her to her toes. “Did I miss something interesting?”

  Her chest fluttered wildly, more so than she’d felt in eons. Dormant hormones were on the march. Ambition and common sense seemed to have been replaced by a driving need to get laid.

  Chapter Four

  It was a curse to be born with compunction. Honor might be an old-fashioned virtue in the days of hedge funds and the Russian mafia, but Harry wished it wasn’t. He hadn’t like shading the truth about the readiness of Brampton for a weeklong luxury affair, but consoled himself with the excuse that there was nothing that couldn’t be fixed or skirted. He had about a month to make sure the marriage of Duke and Jane went off smoothly.

  Making him feel especially guilty was his attraction to Arwen. As he pulled the Land Rover up next to the house, he took a sideways glance at her singing along to Gotye, black skirt hugging her spectacular thighs, short dark hair all messed up and making her look like an elf, whatever she might claim. A very sexy elf. Her decline from no-nonsense, razor-sharp businesswoman to tipsy, completely adorable forest creature wrought havoc with his sense of fair play about professional relationships and secret identities. To tell the truth it was rather flattering to be desired as Harry the odd job man instead of the Honorable Harry, future Lord Melbury.

  He opened the car door for her and caught her when she stumbled on the gravel. She was warm and soft and firm. Mark’s Porsche had arrived before them but there was no sign of him and Harry guessed that Mark had gone straight to the study to watch television.

  “More champagne?”

  “Yes, please.” Once in the house she walked quite normally, dissipating his fear that she’d fall asleep and ruin the rest of the evening.

  “With Mark in the study watching Mad Men?”

  “Seen every episode.”

  “In the garden?”

  “Are we allowed to drink champagne in the State Rooms?”

  “Wait there a second.” He left her standing in the back passage among the boots and riding crops and slipped into the butler’s pantry to grab a bottle of vintage Krug from the fridge. “Hold these,” he said, putting a pair of champagne glasses in one hand and leading her by the other through the great house that he knew so well, the dark passages illuminated only by the rising moon. “Any preferences as to room?”

  “The Gold Saloon is my favorite.”

  “Mine too.” He’d always loved Brampton’s biggest and most splendid apartment. His pulse sped when he considered ideas he’d first conceived about the room when he was a spotty thirteen-year-old. He found the switch that turned on the ceiling lights, leaving the rest of the room in shadows.

  “Gorgeous!” Arwen said, staring at the enormous frescoed ceiling. “I hardly noticed it before.”

  “It’s better seen without distraction. We’ll get the best view sitting on the carpet in the middle.”

  He popped the champagne cork. “To Antonio Verrio,” he said, admiring her stretched out on her side like a short-skirted odalisque.

  Arwen raised her glass, took a sip, and sneezed. “Now I know why coupe-style champagne glasses are less popular, even if they were modeled from Marie-Antoinette’s breasts. Who is this Antonio guy?”

  “The painter of the ceiling.”

  She flopped onto her back and his heart went into double-time. “I’m lying in state,” she giggled. “Come down here and tell me what I see.”

  He lay beside her and gazed at the great painting, so familiar to him yet always fresh. A complex tangle of near naked bodies and swirling fabrics floated against a celestial blue sky, lit by the blazing sun that was echoed in the furnishings of the golden saloon and gave it its name.

  “The marriage of Venus and Mars. They are the couple in the center.”

  “A wedding. How perfect! Most of their guests seem to be underage.”

  “What’s a party without putti?”

  She giggled again. “Right, those little angels. I’ll suggest them to Jane. Why the wedding theme?”

  “The saloon was part of the original design for Brampton. It was built after the Restoration of Charles II, when the family was rewarded for its fidelity during the Civil War. Trouble was, the old manor was in ruins and Lord Melbury almost broke. He found himself an heiress, the daughter of a man who’d made a fortune selling cannons to the other side. The couple built this house from scratch and this fresco celebrated their nuptials, as well as the reconciliation of strife through love.”

  “That’s beautiful.”

  “Supposedly it was a love match. The Melburys have a history of happy marriages. My … employers, the current Lord and Lady Melbury, have been devoted to each other for forty years.”

  “I love stories like that,” she said with a sigh. “It’s one reason I went into the wedding business.”

  “So you’re a romantic underneath that hard-boiled exterior.”

  “Do I seem like that?” Her voice quivered.

  He wanted to kick himself. No woman, however tough, wants to be compared to a ten-minute egg. “I have nothing but admiration for your strength and efficiency. Also your legs.”

  She was smiling again. “I have a feeling that may be sexual harassment.”

  “Absolutely. In this room I claim immunity from prosecution on the grounds that Charles II practically invented the crime. More champagne?”

  “I’m good. So does that make you one of those rakes that Jane’s always writing about?”

  The amused lilt in her voice set his heart racing and he answered more seriously than he’d intended. “I’ve always been a monogamous sort and at the moment not even that.” He didn’t want to invite questions about his life by explaining that he hadn’t had a girlfriend since he moved back to Brampton. Too busy.

  They turned to each other for a few breathless seconds, then Arwen looked back at the ceiling. “This room makes me think of the Beistegui Ball.”

  “What?”

  “A fantastic ball given in Venice in the 1950s by a guy named Carlos de Beistegui, one of the great parties of the twentieth century. The guests wore costumes inspired by Venetian paintings. You could do the same thing here.”

  “Uh, Arwen. Most of these characters aren’t wearing much at all.”

  “True. It would have to be a toga party.”

  Harry stopped looking at the ceiling and rolled onto his side, propping his head on one elbow so that he could see her face, mysterious and shadowy in the dimly lit room that had, for much of its existence, been seen at night only by candlelight. Thus might his ancestors have enjoyed the centerpiece of their creation. He imagined Arwen clad in colored silks and pearls and hooped petticoats instead of her austere and devilishly sexy black dress. She was laughing and relaxed until she saw him looking and fell silent.

  “I’ve always thought Venus and Mars looked ready to leave the reception and move onto the honeymoon,” he said softly.

  “They do seem … eager.” Her gaze flicked to the ceiling and back to him. Her lips parted. He heard her heightened breathing along with the wild thud of his own heart. He touched her hair, releasing an expensive scent to blend with the acid tang of their wine. Sweeping back the tousled fringe from her forehead, he stroked her flawless skin, traced with wonder the cool taut chin and neck, and let his hand drift downward to the chest, warm and rising lightly beneath his touch.

  Harry, my lad, this is a bad idea and could screw things up.

  Even as he heard his inner voice he knew he would ignore it. His fingers slipped beneath the loose-fitting V-neck of her dress and a crisp lace bra. Her breast was a bit bigger than he expected—Tragedy!—and smooth as silk until he reached
the crinkled point of her nipple. She stirred and arched into his touch.

  Before it could say another word, he put a gag on his inner voice, kicked it in the arse, and locked it in a cupboard.

  Harry the Handyman had very handy hands. They were big and slightly rough and her skin liked them a lot. Especially her breasts. Her pelvis too was beginning to twist in anticipation. She was hotter than hell and they’d hardly started. The fact that she was about ready to do it on the floor—although a floor covered with a priceless antique carpet—with a man she’d met yesterday and hadn’t even kissed said something.

  What exactly did it say? Who gave a damn? Right now her brain was occupied by one problem and one that required neither sobriety nor logic. All she had to do was raise her arms, grab his head, and pull it down to hers, easy as pie. And they were kissing.

  When it came to judging a kiss, Arwen considered herself a Justice of the Supreme Court and not one of the boring conservative ones. Harry was going to win his case unanimously, but only after extensive oral arguments.

  Yes, the man knew how to kiss, strong and hot, taking no prisoners. Somehow he was on top of her, trapping her with his weight. He made her feel small and sweet and powerless and ready to be taken, dominated even. She parted her legs and thrust her hips upward, feeling denim-cased steel between her thighs.

  “Such a deliciously bossy girl,” he said against her ear. “You can have whatever you want.”

  She didn’t know what she wanted. Or rather she didn’t want to say. She relaxed into the priceless carpet and wondered if she looked like Venus who floated overhead with her mouth open, leering at her brawny Mars, naked but for a helmet and a bit of red drapery.

  “I want…” The words stuck in her throat. It must be the historical surroundings that sent decades of progress in women’s sexuality out of the window, leaving her weak and wanting like a maiden in a mobcap. “Take me,” she whispered.

  Harry grinned with wolfish humor and unbridled lust. “Does my lady want her humble servant to attend to her pleasure?” She nodded, mesmerized. He kissed her again, which was just what she wanted, then knelt back and surveyed her with a lazy grin that turned her into a puddle. “Stand up,” he said, with a laugh behind the stern words. She teetered on her heels and wondered if they’d damage the carpet. “Leave them on and remove your dress.”

  When she hesitated he frowned, so she pulled the silk jersey over her head and tossed it away where it caught and hung drunkenly off the back of a chair. His eyes followed it lazily then returned to where she stood in her black lace bra, matching thong, and silver Christian Louboutin sandals. His inquisitive gaze burned into her as he inspected her from head to gold-painted toenails, sending molten lava through her veins. This was the hottest thing that had ever happened to her.

  Then he nodded as though arrogantly accepting what he saw and calmly unbuttoned his shirt. Whether from manual labor or hours in the gym, Harry the Handyman was one buff dude. She licked her lips, closed her eyes and moaned.

  “Look at me,” he commanded.

  Not a hardship to obey. She kind of wished he was wearing a tool belt, but the jeans—Levis, not designer—hugged his narrow hips, held by a brown leather belt polished like harness to a high gloss. Dropping her eyes an inch or two lower made her squirm again. She started to ask him if he was going to remove the rest, or if he wanted her to, but he cut her off. “Quiet,” he said, “and do exactly as I say.”

  Yes please.

  “Do you see that table over there?” He pointed to a desk-sized piece with plentiful gold embellishments. “Walk over and put the lamp on the floor.”

  Oh my God, he was having her move furniture in a totally historic room. Couldn’t he be fired for this? The danger excited her even more.

  “Now lean over the table, hands on either side and spread your legs wide.”

  She obeyed and waited, night air cooling her exposed core. Staring down, her eyes focused on the surface, elaborately patterned in different colors of wood, while her skin tingled in unbearable anticipation. He came up behind and leaned his body against hers, the denim rough and the belt buckle cold against her ass. He unfastened her bra and his hands cupped her breasts, pinching the nipples lightly between his fingers. Her throat was so tight with longing she swore she could pass out. Ordering her to remain still, he played with her for a while, stroking the sensitive area of her ribs and waist, kneading the globes of her ass. The man was magic. How could he tell that his lips and breath on her nape, in the curve of her neck, and across her shoulders would drive her wild? She felt herself wet and swollen and wanting and still all the satisfaction he offered was an occasional finger instantly withdrawn. When she couldn’t stand it another second she moaned and he pulled back.

  “Yes? Is there something you want?”

  “You know there is, damn you.”

  “All good things come to those who wait.”

  Not her usual philosophy, but she’d go with it, for now, because the man made her feel great and she trusted him to make her feel even better. Soon.

  After some more enjoyable teasing, which reduced her to an inelegant panting, writhing mess, he reached between her legs and held her hard. She almost came on the spot.

  “Not yet.”

  She heard unzipping and condom applying sounds—the genius must have had one in his wallet—and was pushed flat against the surface of the table. He pushed aside her thong, spread her wider and entered, hard. The interval till she exploded could be counted in seconds, but he kept up steady rhythmic thrusts, all the way so his sac swung against her labia, and she came again before he did the same and she felt him collapse against her and soften inside her.

  Soon afterward she was curled up on his lap on the big Chippendale chair, her head on his chest, listening to the slowing beat of his heart. She couldn’t utter a word and he remained silent for some minutes. “Oh my word,” she managed finally. “Oh my word, Harry.”

  “Is my lady pleased?”

  “Are you?”

  The way he stroked her head seemed tender. “You needn’t have any doubt.”

  She gave a gusty sigh. “That was fabulous. The best.” She tilted her head for a kiss, just a relaxed, intimate exchange of breath. “You won’t get into trouble, will you? Having wild sex in the Gold Saloon?”

  He grinned like a naughty boy. “Don’t worry, no one will ever know. I’ve fantasized about doing it here for years.”

  “I’m glad to help you fulfill an ambition.” She tugged at her dress, which was crumpled up behind his back. “I’d better get dressed and go to bed.”

  “Come to my room,” he said.

  Harry woke up early, a little past dawn, with the sense of wellbeing that comes from a truly superior sexual experience. Correction: possibly the best night of shagging he’d ever had. Arwen was sacked out beside him, her fists tucked under her head like a child, sleeping the sleep of the just, the jet-lagged, the girl who’d had five orgasms the night before. Tempting as it was to wake her up for another, she might not appreciate being aroused at this hour. Besides, there was something he needed to do.

  Pulling on shorts, a T-shirt, and trainers, he grabbed his phone and loped downstairs and set off for a run around the park, the short three-mile route he took when he had too much to drink the night before. He finished with the steep climb up to the Mausoleum and panted while he logged into online banking. It was a bloody nuisance not having Internet at the house, but he’d just as soon not have Arwen see this particular transaction.

  Duke Austen had been good as his word. As soon as Arwen approved the wedding, the massive bonus had been transferred to his account.

  The view from the top never failed to thrill him, especially at this hour in summer with morning mist hovering over the surface of the lake, the birds singing like a demented choir, the scent of a thousand flowers sweetening the cool air. And the great house itself, silent, golden, asleep. He could have sold it to a fat-cat banker or to a dreary consortium to
make into a conference center, but he couldn’t bear to leave Brampton. His father had transferred the estate to him and now he had to make a go of it.

  He ought to tell Arwen who he was; she was bound to find out eventually. But it was a lot easier to play the ignorant employee when it came to the awkward questions, and there were going to be more. It was thoroughly irresponsible of him to sleep with Duke Austen’s representative and it put her in a difficult position too. No, better go on as they were during the planning phase of this wedding bash. He might even get through the whole event incognito; he’d only visited New York once, for a week, and as far as he knew there wasn’t a single tech man, American or otherwise, among his acquaintances.

  He was uneasy in his mind, but the other part of his morning routine would help.

  Good sex trumps alcohol, Arwen decided, examining her head and finding it clear and her body slack and content. Also alone, which was a good thing. The first waking up together could be awkward, especially when you didn’t know the guy well.

  Scratch that. Know him at all. She’d gotten drunk and slept with the handyman. Okay, a glorified handyman. But they’d spent about a day and a half almost constantly in one another’s company which, she could argue, added up to about six normal dates. Maybe it wouldn’t be awkward. Unfortunately if it was, she couldn’t just leave and never see him again, or refuse to take his calls—if he called—because she had to work with him in putting together the most important wedding of her career.

  The enormity of the situation hit her. She’d committed Duke and Jane to holding the wedding at Brampton, largely persuaded by Harry. She’d drunk too much champagne and slept with Harry.

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