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Timing was everything, he thought, and he planned to use this interlude to his advantage.
Tamara looked down at him from her sitting position, her brow puckering. “Everyone thinks this isn’t a love match, but a dynastic marriage for mutual advantage—”
“Yes, except they don’t know exactly what mutual ad vantage.” He waggled his brows as he rested her hand on his chest. “They think you married me for my money and title—”
“Well, for your money,” she conceded.
“—and I’ve married you to secure Kincaid News.”
“Which you all but have.”
“True.”
Legal due diligence was being performed, and the merger documents were being drawn up. Soon Kincaid News and Melton Media would be one company—if all went according to plan.
“So,” Tamara argued, “people are hardly expecting us to act lovey-dovey. Not that Pia and Belinda, or the Marquess of Easterbridge and the Duke of Hawkshire, for that matter, ever had that expectation. And in any case, they’ve departed.”
“Your father and most of the rest of our families remain,” he was obliged to point out solemnly. “One can never have too much assurance when you’re the father of the bride and are on the verge of parting with your business.”
“Then I wonder why my father did it,” Tamara countered.
Sawyer shrugged. “He’s getting older, and consolidation is the name of the game in the media business these days. In any case, he’ll retain a title in the new organization. He’ll have power over what remains under the name Kincaid News.”
Tamara studied him. “And how do you feel about having my father around?”
Sawyer smiled. “I plan to observe and learn all his tricks.”
She shook her head with mock resignation, and Sawyer played with her hand on his chest.
She looked enticing, staring down at him from her position on the blanket. Her dark-red hair caught the summer breeze. An off-the-shoulder crocheted top and short, layered skirt gave her the look of a latter-day peasant girl and accentuated her sensuality.
Sawyer felt his body stir in response.
She didn’t look as if she was immune to him, either, dressed as he was in an open-collared white shirt and dark trousers.
But first he knew he had to break down some of her resistance. Due to some perverse streak of nobility, he’d resisted taking her to bed two nights ago. Her hint of vulnerability had done him in. But now he vowed to rectify the matter.
“You’re enjoying the English countryside,” he remarked.
She nodded. “It’s pretty. I’ve never been to Gloucestershire before. It’s inspiring.”
He hoped it would inspire her right into his bed, but he settled for arching a brow.
“Not for your jewelry, surely?” he inquired.
She nodded her assent. “The natural beauty is arresting.”
“I see.” And he did. There was natural beauty right in front of him.
“There’s some British in you yet,” he joked.
“Scottish,” she amended. “Way up north. A different landscape from this.”
She slipped her hand from his grasp, and he shifted to his side, propping his head on his bent arm.
“We haven’t spoken much about your jewelry business,” he said, realizing he was curious. “I know about the hedge-fund wife, but apart from her, who are your clients?”
“You mean, what is my business plan? What are my marketing and promotion efforts?” she joked. “Are you afraid you’ll never recover your investment?”
“I already have,” he replied glibly, “and in any case, I could afford the loss.”
Tamara looked into the distance, at the hills visible beyond where they sat on an expanse of ground within sight of Gantswood Hall.
“I’m an artist, not a businessperson,” she said, and shrugged. “I produce what I can by myself, and then exhibit at art shows and specialty boutiques.”
She gave a half smile as she gazed back down at him. “You could say my clientele is rich individuals, or at least they’re whom I aim for.”
“Then you’re in luck, since I happen to know a lot of wealthy people.”
At her raised eyebrows, he added jokingly, “Of course, if you changed the name of your company to Countess of Melton Designs, you’d add a certain panache.”
“I couldn’t,” she protested. “We’ll only be married a short time.”
He quirked a brow. “Diane von Furstenberg kept the von long after her divorce from the prince.”
Tamara laughed. “Okay, yes.”
He liked her laugh. She didn’t do it very often around him, so it was like catching sight of a shooting star.
“As soon as we return to New York,” he said, “we’ll hire someone to manage the numbers side of Pink Teddy. And I’ll introduce you to people who’ll be curious about your collection.”
For a moment, she seemed both surprised and pleased, but then she shrugged. “New York seems a world away right now.”
He searched her expression. “Don’t we both know it.”
A noise came from the direction of the house, and she looked up and shaded her eyes. “My father is heading to the tennis court with your mother, Julia and Jessica.”
Sawyer followed her gaze. Everyone, he saw, carried a tennis racket.
“Kincaid is up for a challenge,” he remarked. “My mother still plays a superior game of tennis.”
“My father’s determined to remain in the game, in more ways than one,” Tamara countered.
Sawyer looked back at her. “The tennis court was added to the grounds during my father’s day, at my mother’s insistence.”
“Was it part of her plan to deal with her new surroundings?” Tamara asked, dropping the hand that shaded her eyes.
“That and running down to Wimbledon every year,” he replied half-jokingly.
“How long did your parents’ marriage last?”
“Too long.” He trailed a hand along her arm. “But the divorce became final the day before my fifth birthday. I recall the birthday party at Gantswood Hall being a huge affair with ponies, clowns and fireworks. But, of course, no mother. Looking back, I wonder whether the party was as much a celebration of the divorce decree as anything else.”
Tamara arched a brow.
“Of course, as the heir,” he said, reading her look, “I remained with my father after the separation. My mother was the bolter.”
