Nancy Warren - British Bad Boys

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.

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.