British Bad Boys

by Nancy Warren

  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.

  NIGHTS ROUND ARTHUR’S TABLE

  Chapter One

  Meg Stanton loved the smell of an English pub. That mixture of old blackened wooden beams and the centuries of beer spilled, drunk, and giggled over. If there was a moment that shouted, Yes, you’re in England, it wasn’t the glimpses of the Thames and London Bridge as she’d flown into Heathrow, it wasn’t Big Ben, the Parliament Buildings, or the London Eye, or even the views of the countryside she’d caught through the window of the train. No. It was walking into this quintessential scene of English life: the pub, with its quintessentially English name, The Royal Oak.

  The bar itself was a long stretch of ancient, scarred oak that looked far from royal. Tables were scattered on the dark wooden floor as though tossed there. A handful of older men played darts in a corner and an
Inglenook fireplace gaped from one end of the big room, a cozy size for roasting an ox in.

  A lone bartender was speaking to somebody through a doorway that led, she assumed, to a kitchen, his broad back turned her way. She was no expert on the complexity of the English accent, but he sounded like he was from up north somewhere.

  He turned and she caught sight of his face. And felt a rush of recognition flood her. Oh, my God, she thought. I’ve found him.

  Uncompromising. That was the first word that sprang to mind when she saw him full on. His jaw was strong, the nose pugnacious, his brow smooth as though he didn’t spend a lot of time with it wrinkled in indecision. His eyes were straight on and clear. For a woman constantly racked with indecision, Meg was immediately drawn to his strength. His eyes were pale, but in this light and from this distance it was impossible to tell the color. Blue maybe, or gray. He looked rough and capable. A working man who could build things with his hands, or use them to defend his village from attack.

  “With you in a mo’,” he said, and she nodded.

  She stepped closer. While she waited, she continued to gaze about herself. There weren’t many patrons at three o’clock on a Thursday. Apart from the darts players, she noted a couple in the corner lingering over the remains of lunch. An older man in a cap read a newspaper and nursed a beer, and a lone younger man worked on a printed document of some kind.

  Stenciled quotations adorned the plaster walls. She couldn’t pass words without reading them.

  Work is the curse of the drinking class, Oscar Wilde.

  Appropriately, that was stenciled above the dartboard. On the wall over the fireplace was: I drink no more than a sponge, Rabelais.

  She spotted another, but it was hard to read because the lighting in that corner was dim. She squinted. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die.

  A padded bench was attached to the wall and rectangular tables, perfect for one or two patrons, lined up in front of it. The vision came to her suddenly. A man’s death, there in the corner. She could see it as clearly as though she were witnessing the murder. She stood, entranced, and stared into that corner of dark deeds…