Nancy Warren - British Bad Boys

“You’re gorgeous. But the tie’s too bold. It’s going to draw attention away from your face.”

“Sounds like a good thing to me.”

“Give it up with the false modesty. Something blue and muted would be much better. Want me to go and choose something?”

“No, thank you. I’m capable of selecting a tie on my own.” He pulled out a cell phone and dialed. “Ah, Wiggins. Sorry to bother. Can you bring me a tie?

“Yes, I know. I thought so, too,” he continued. “But they want something blue and muted. Will do. Thanks.”

“I can’t believe you sent a servant for a tie,” Maxine said. “I would have gone.”

“But I need you with me. Besides, there ought to be some advantages to being a relic of a bygone era.”

A few seconds ticked by uncomfortably. “You read the intro?”

“Your assistant producer sent me a copy. In error, I’m sure.”

“Look, you have to understand that this airs in the States, that’s our primary market, so we need to make it…I don’t know, appealing to people who chose a republic but who still love the pomp and glory of royalty.”

“Do you think I’m a relic?”

She stared at him, thinking of how he’d been with her last night, so passionate and-well, there was nothing old-fashioned about the way this man made love.

“No. No. Not at all.”

“Well, then…did you write the script for today?”

“You mean the questions? No. I gave Suz, my assistant, a general idea and she wrote them. You don’t need to worry. We’ll edit the tape to make you sound good. I promise.”

“It’s a question and answer format. Like an interview on the telly.”

“That’s exactly what it will be. An interview on the television. It’s part of the show.”

“And you didn’t tell Suz what to write?”

“No. I gave her some direction. We want to know about you, the man, as well as you the young earl in an old estate. Why? Is there something that bothered you about the questions? She’s got a degree in film and majored in screenwriting. She’s great.”

He looked at her oddly. “No. The questions are fine. Not to worry. You will be there?”

“Good. I’ll be there, of course, so if there’s anything that makes you uncomfortable, give me a signal.”

“All right, then.”

Soft footsteps sounded and she turned to see Wiggins arriving in his slow, genteel way, with four ties over his arm. “All blue, your lordship.” Wiggins was too well trained to glare at Maxine, but she thought his respectful tone, containing the tiniest note of censure, was masterful. “All muted.”

“Excellent. Thank you.” George turned to her. “Well?”

She chose a gray-blue background silk with a restrained paisley pattern. “Here.”

He pulled off his current tie and handed it to Wiggins. She took the muted blue tie and looped it around his neck. There was something about putting on a man’s tie that always seemed so intimate, so wifely. Weird word to come up with, when she wasn’t ready to settle down and he’d all but promised dear old dad not to marry a girl from the States. He lifted his chin and she snugged up the knot.

“All right, then. Are we ready?”

“Yes, be yourself. Your charming, lovable, lordly self. You’ll be wonderful.” She stood on her tiptoes. “And here’s a kiss for good luck.”

She’d meant to give him a quick peck on the lips, but he pulled her in close. She held back for a moment, worrying about creasing the silk tie she’d so neatly knotted, then gave in and kissed him back.

“Come on,” she said. “We don’t want to keep everyone waiting.”

They’d decided to do the interview in the great room, where the furniture was the most ornate, and the paintings the most overpowering. She and Simon, her cameraman, liked the juxtaposition of the ancient grandeur with the young, modern earl.

When they crossed the threshold, he said “Good God” under his breath. From his perspective, the setup must have looked pretty overpowering. Not to mention intrusive. Power leads stretched and coiled like thick black snakes across the priceless rug. Two cameras were set up, one to record the interviewer and one for George. Two cameramen, the lighting technician, the sound tech, the interviewer, a gopher, and Suz. The room seemed to be crawling with people who clashed with the furnishings, the décor, the very elegance of the room. The lights were huge and hung like twin suns.

He must have felt that his ancestral home had been invaded by aliens.

“Don’t worry,” she said, squeezing his arm. “We’ll soon be done and you’ll get your home back. You must be looking forward to that.”

He glanced down at her. “I’ve never anticipated anything with less pleasure.”

His gaze was serious, all the usual light charm and humor gone. She felt her heart skip a couple of beats as they stared at each other. How had it happened? How had they slipped from a light, carefree, secret affair, much aided by the hidden passageway, to this searing intimacy? She hadn’t allowed herself to think about how soon they’d be packing up and moving on. She always packed up and moved on. It was part of her job, part of her personality, in truth, so that the job was often a handy excuse.

Now, for the first time ever, she realized she wasn’t ready to leave. “Oh, George,” she began. She didn’t know what she wanted to say, only that it was important, but before she’d gotten more than those two words out, Simon caught sight of them. “Oh, good. You’re here.”

The spell was broken, and she wasn’t sorry. What would she have said? What did she want to say? George was wonderful. Gorgeous, funny, sweet, even rich if you didn’t count the burden of debt and the fact that he could never sell Hart House. It was sort of like inheriting a museum, she decided. The responsibilities balanced out, and possibly outweighed, the benefits.

But he’d gotten to her, in a way that no other man ever had. She didn’t even know when or how it had happened. She’d been so busy making the documentary, getting to know him as a subject, and then as a man, that she was half in love with him before she’d realized she was beginning.

She watched George take his seat, and let the sound technician fuss with his lapel mike while she stood frozen in the background.

Suz went to him with the Max Factor foundation powder. Honestly, the way he recoiled you’d think they were going to make him up like Boy George.

Love.

That was what made this affair different from every other. She’d gone and fallen in love with George the way an unwary pedestrian falls down a flight of stairs. One minute she was heading straight forward on a chosen path, the next minute she was tumbling head over heels and landing on her ass.

Moving closer, she hovered outside the circle of light. Janine Wilkins, the on-camera interviewer, was going over the questions. Janine had enjoyed a respectable career on Broadway playing the second lead and then the older woman.

Max had seen her in a summer stock production of Brighton Beach Memoirs as the mother and thought that she had the right look, elegant but approachable, and exactly the right voice for the talking head of the Grand Titles, Great Estates series.

Today, they’d dressed her in a blue suit. She and the earl could sit down to high tea and look perfectly matched. Her blond hair was upswept, her makeup subdued.

Walking up to them, Maxine said, “You look gorgeous, Janine. As usual.” They air-kissed. Then Max walked their program host over to George and introduced them.

“Any last-minute advice?” he asked her.

“Yes. Stop being a big baby about that makeup. It stops you shining and makes you look better.” He had on his I-will-throw-you-in-the-dungeon-if-I-don’t-get-my-own-way expression, so she grabbed the powder from Suz. “I’ll do it.” She didn’t give him a chance to argue, simply went at him with quick strokes. “There. That wasn’t so bad.”