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Absently, she ran her finger over the spot on her shirt that covered the small rose tattoo she’d acquired in an East Village salon a few years ago.
She might have donned the uniform of a British aristocrat, but, she reminded herself, inside she was still the free-spirited designer with a SoHo loft.
Of course, she’d retained possession of said loft only thanks to Sawyer’s timely intervention. He’d cosigned her lease renewal and assumed payment of the monthly rent. He’d also deposited a generous sum in Pink Teddy’s commercial bank account.
“The first installment,” he’d said, acting as if the amount were of little consequence.
The recollection should have made her happy. Instead, she wanted to cringe.
She felt bought.
She shook her head. Why shy away from the truth? She had been bought. She’d had a price and Sawyer had met it.
She surveyed the hills before her, where all matter of wildlife still roamed. All of it was the domain of the earls of Melton, no doubt at least partially acquired through various dynastic marriages over the centuries.
And now she was about to become the latest Langsford bride. In two days, she’d wear an embroidered lace wedding dress and Kincaid jewels to wed Sawyer in the village chapel. Pia would help make sure everything went off without a hitch.
Though the wedding was to be small, all the immediate family would be in attendance, including her mother and stepfather, Mr. and Mrs. Ward George, her sisters and, of course, her father. On Sawyer’s side, his mother, Mrs. Peter Beauregard, and her teenage daughter from her second marriage, Jessica, would be present. And then, of course, there would be Belinda and Pia, and the Marquess of Easterbridge and the Duke of Hawkshire. Adding some buffer to the mix, a number of extended family, a few other friends, some neighbors and Sawyer’s closest business associates would also be in attendance.
Tamara tamped down the well of turbulent anticipation. Since she’d never eloped in a Las Vegas wedding chapel, at least they wouldn’t have to worry about any former husbands making an appearance.
No, the only concern this time would be the possibility of a runaway bride, Tamara thought with a barely suppressed hysterical laugh.
She replayed her mother’s reaction on the phone when she’d announced she was getting married.
Honey, no.
You’ll find life as Sawyer’s wife absolutely stifling. What has possessed you to even think…?
I hope your father hasn’t pressured you.
And then, once it had become apparent Tamara was determined to go through with the marriage, remaining steadily mum about her reasons for doing so other than that she’d fallen for Sawyer Langsford, Susan George had sighed heavily.
I never imagined you’d aspire to status, Tamara. But, darling, I can’t fault you if you do. Certainly having married wealth and position has benefited me.
It was Sawyer’s wealth she was counting on, Tamara thought now. It was his financial support that had made her agree to this farce of a marriage at all. So why did standing on the steps of his ancestral estate, expecting him to come and greet her at any moment, feel so strangely like coming home?
Tamara heard footsteps behind her, and turned.
Sawyer.
Her heart skipped a beat.
He trotted down the front steps of the house, looking virile in riding boots, form-fitting trousers and an open-collared shirt. A thin sheen of sweat glazed his throat and brow, giving him an air of healthy vibrancy.
Her pulse thrummed in her veins, and she swallowed. Don’t be silly, she told herself. Sawyer was a cool-headed businessman. And they had made a heartless bargain. Best remember that.
There would not be a repeat of their romantic interlude at his town house—at least if she could help it.
When Sawyer reached her, he gave her a quick kiss on the lips before she could react.
“Do you ride?” he asked.
“Horses?”
Sawyer’s mouth quirked up. “No, taxis.” He gestured in the direction of the house. “The stables are beyond the gardens.”
“I haven’t ridden in ages.”
He surveyed her, his topaz eyes missing nothing. “Then tomorrow morning we should see about ending the drought. I’ll have riding attire bought for you.”
“No need,” she responded. “I brought along riding boots and appropriate clothing.”
It was a grudging admission. She’d hoped to hold him off with her comment that she didn’t ride any longer. But just in case, before she’d left New York, she’d made sure she bought some riding boots and clothes. She’d felt duty-bound to do so by her bargain to play the role of the happy fiancée.
When Sawyer arched a brow, she added somewhat defensively, “I’ve come prepared to play my part, if nothing else.”
Their eyes held for a moment, unspoken meaning stretching the silence between them while her driver walked past with her bags.
“Your belongings will be put in our private set of rooms,” Sawyer said.
When Tamara opened her mouth to argue, he added, “We have to maintain the pretense that this marriage is real.”
“Yes, after the wedding!”
Sawyer looked amused. “Don’t tell me you want to act the role of the blushing bride.”
With unfortunate timing, she felt herself flush.
Damn him.
And it didn’t help that right now he looked as virile a male specimen as could possibly stride over Gloucestershire’s green grass.
“Why not play the role to the hilt?” she flung back.
Especially since in this case it gave her an excuse to maintain some distance from Sawyer.
“You don’t need to worry,” he said sardonically, though a teasing glint remained in his eyes. “The private rooms are two adjoining suites. The countesses of Melton have all traditionally had their own suites—including a separate bed.”
She raised her chin. “How clever of them.”
The corners of Sawyer’s eyes crinkled. He stepped closer and habitually tucked back a strand of her hair that had caught the breeze.
“I’m glad you’ve arrived,” he murmured.
She searched his expression, but all she saw was appreciation—and the promise of something more.
Sawyer bent and brushed his lips across hers again.
He tasted of leather and sweat and clean country air, and she involuntarily felt herself sway into him.
When he straightened, his expression was enigmatic. “We might as well start practicing now if we’re going to convince our guests this marriage isn’t just a brief arrangement.”
