by Nancy Warren
The British are Coming Box Set
Nancy Warren
Contents
Introduction
George
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Arthur
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Jack
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Courting Chloe
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Introduction
Before Harry and Meghan, there were George and Maxine, Arthur and Meg, Jack and Rachel. Three Bad Boy Brits meet their match in three feisty American girls. International relations have never been more fun.
And then there was Chloe, a spoiled London princess who came to Texas to start a new life, and got more than she bargained for in Matthew, a long, tall Texan with no time for spoiled princesses.
Or so he thought…
The British are Coming Box Set contains four complete stories. Each are standalone but they are more fun when read together.
Happy Reading!
Nancy Warren
www.nancywarren.net
George
The British Are Coming
Chapter 1
“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 china mug from Ikea, the staff were unbending. He might think that being the 19th Earl of Ponsford was more of a cross to bear than cause for celebration, but it seemed he was 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, private celebration and 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 lawn, woodland and stream 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 docent’s 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 was 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 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 Downton Abbey or watched 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 2
Maxine Larraby stared around her at the opulent décor of the morning drawing room or whatever this overstuffed museum of a room was called. It was red. That’s all she knew. Far too red. God, if they filmed in here her documentary could be mistaken for one of those medical ones where they stick 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 knock-off.
“It’s Meissen,” said a deep male voice from behind her. “A gift to the 17th Earl of Ponsford 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, blue eyes that tilted down a little at the corners giving him the look of a rogue, and how they twinkled. As though life were 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 asked, 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 grey sweater and a navy blazer that didn’t go together and still managed 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 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. And the, um, grandchildren are my sister’s children.”
“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 printed, no doubt for the edification of the tourists who paraded through the place six days a week during the hours of 10 am and 5 pm. The central figure was the earl she had a picture of in her file. He stood with a gorgeous woman who must be 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 ten 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 18th earl. I’m the 19th,” 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 on 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 re-take. 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 ha
nd 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 taken. “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 elderly father walking the 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 Heart-throb 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 a 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.