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 is 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 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 crumbing. 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 said, 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 gray sweater and a navy blazer
that didn’t go together and still managing to look amazing,
but time, in her business, really was money. She didn’t
have any 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, a distinguished general
in WWII includes in his hobbies cultivating roses and playing
with his grandchildren.” She raised her brows. “And
how are your grandchildren, Lord Ponsford?”
“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.”
“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 a.m. and 5 p.m. The central figure was
the earl she had a picture of in her file. He stood with a lady
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 four years earlier.
If she’d been the kind of woman who blushed, she’d
have done so. “And Google is usually so reliable.”
“Well, you 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.”
