The British are Coming Box Set

by Nancy Warren

  “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.

  “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. I’ve designed half a dozen more, and if I ever get the money, I’ll build them to add more revenue streams.” 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 a zoo 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 email from her mom that week 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 give up if she moved here to be with George.

  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 her, 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 few days before she took a flight back to L.A. for post-production. Then how long until they could manage to see each other?

  He was embarrassed at his own state of peevish love-sickness 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 love sick 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 lo
ve life.”

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

  “Sorry. You’re right.” He 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 he 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 live, 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 tight 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 a 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 business plan 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 a
t 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 the bossy producer 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.

  Arthur