“Did you hear what I said?”
“Sure,” Emma replied. “The bed-and-breakfast in Knaresborough.”
“Right,” said Katie. “It’s over two hundred years old now, and David was saying…”
Emma had never kept a secret from Katie before. Not that this was a secret, exactly. But she’d sure never slept with a man and not told her sister about it the next morning.
“…because with the new competition,” Katie continued. “The probable payback on the redecorating costs would be fifty years.”
Emma blinked.
“Does fifty years make sense to you?”
“Uh, not really. Katie, there’s something-”
Katie stood up, a beaming smile on her face. “I totally agree. I’ll tell David.”
David? Wait. No. Emma wanted to talk about Alex.
“He can leave in the morning.”
“Alex?”
Katie stared at her for a second. “David.”
“For where?”
“Knaresborough, of course. What can he do from here?”
Right. The redecorating. “Okay. But, before you-”
Katie started for the door. “I’ll get Legal to draft up an authorization for us to sign.”
“Sure. But-”
“Can we talk later? He’s going to be so excited.”
“Katie-”
“Lunch?”
Emma sighed. “I can’t. I promised Alex I’d stop by his place.”
Katie waited, her hand on the doorknob.
“You know,” said Emma, her stomach buzzing at the very thought of formal wedding plans. “Invitations, flowers, catering.”
Katie’s eyebrows waggled. “You have fun now, you hear?”
“Yeah. Right.”
Have fun facing Alex after he’d seen her naked?
Have fun watching Philippe and Mrs. Nash reenact the Battle of Hastings?
Or have fun trying on a wedding gown while Amelia Garrison turned over in her grave?
None of it sounded particularly promising.
Amelia, it seemed, was a flapper, and maybe a bit of a rebel. Emma decided she liked that.
Her nineteen-twenties dress was made of gorgeous cream satin with a long, overlay bodice of ecru lace. Sleeveless, it had a cluster of ribbons at the shoulder and hip, and a flared skirt that shimmered to her ankles.
“You were right,” she said to Mrs. Nash, turning in the wood-framed, oblong mirror in the Wiltshire bedroom, enjoying the whisper of satin against her skin.
“A perfect fit,” Mrs. Nash agreed, brushing the skirt and arranging the scooped neckline. “And exactly right for a garden party wedding.”
Emma paused. “Thank you for understanding about the church.” Instead of an altar, she and Alex had decided on a rose arbor in the garden, overlooking the ocean.
“No point in lying to God along with everyone else.”
It was a small consolation, but Emma was taking whatever she could get. “I said no to the proposal at first.”
Mrs. Nash fussed with the ribbons at her shoulder. “But you said yes eventually.”
“I did.”
“And Alex got his own way again.”
“Does he get his own way often?”
“He’s a billionaire. He gets his own way pretty much whenever he wants to.”
“But not with you?” Emma guessed.
Mrs. Nash gave her a sharp-eyed look. “Never with me.”
“I bet he appreciates that. Somebody keeping him grounded, I mean.”
“He hates it. So did his father. But his mother wouldn’t let the man fire me.”
Emma attempted to shift the conversation to the positive. “She obviously valued your help.”
Mrs. Nash straightened. “No. She did it to spite him.”
Emma honestly didn’t know what to say to that.
“She was a misguided young woman, and he was a bitter old man.”
“But, why-” Emma quickly cut off her inappropriate question.
“The money,” said Mrs. Nash. “She wanted it. He had it.” Then Mrs. Nash shook her head. “She just didn’t count on…the rest.”
Emma tried to swallow the lump in her throat. She reminded herself that she had her own life, her own money, her own business. Alex wouldn’t have any real power over her.
Mrs. Nash’s voice turned brisk again. “I suspect she thought she’d outlive him.”
Even though part of her dreaded the answer, Emma had to ask. “How did she die?”
“Horseback riding accident. Poor thing. Alex was only ten and a regular protégé for that cynical old bastard.”
Emma shivered, struggling to find her voice. “Am I getting into bed with the devil?”
Mrs. Nash cocked her head, silent for a moment as she assessed Emma. “I’d say you’d already been to bed with the devil.”
Emma was speechless. Did Mrs. Nash mean it literally? How could she possibly know?
Mrs. Nash gave an out-of-character chuckle as she went to work on the back buttons of the dress. “That’s the trouble with the devil, young lady. He’s irresistibly charming. Even to an old woman like me.”
But Alex couldn’t hurt Mrs. Nash. Where he could definitely hurt Emma. If she wasn’t careful. If she didn’t resist his charms on every possible level.
There was a sharp rap on the bedroom door.
“The invitations have arrived, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Sarah,” Mrs. Nash called. Then to Emma, “Philippe and Alex will be waiting downstairs.”
Alex knew he had a problem as soon as he saw the expression on Emma’s face.
“Six hundred and twenty-two?”
“You can add some more names if you’d like,” said Mrs. Nash, her attention on one of the invitation samples. “We are not sending out scrollwork, script and purple fleur-de-lis under the Garrison family name.” She gave Philippe a sharp look over the top of her glasses.
Emma waved the list at Alex. “Who are they? Your ex-lovers?”
The remark was uncalled for, and Alex clenched his jaw. “Hardly any of them.”
Emma sniffed.
“The fleur-de-lis is a beautiful and honorable symbol,” said Philippe. “It’s an iris. For the goddess.”
“I don’t know six hundred people,” said Emma. “I sure don’t know three hundred.”
Mrs. Nash squinted at the sample. “Good Lord, that butterfly hurts my eyes.”
“You were thinking black and white?” asked Philippe.
“Silver,” said Mrs. Nash.
“Blah,” Philippe retorted.
“Maybe a little royal blue. Something dignified. Not this tacky, froufrou Technicolor explosion.”
Alex couldn’t care less what his invitations looked like. “Why are you making this into a thing?” he asked Emma.
She dropped her hand and the list into her lap. “I’m making six hundred and twenty-two things out of this.”
“The garden is huge.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?” He honestly wanted to know. What difference did it make if they got married in front of fifty guests or six hundred?
“Beef Wellington,” Philippe suddenly sang out.
Emma turned to stare, while Mrs. Nash stilled.
“A compromise,” said Philippe. “I will give up the fleur-delis if you agree to the boeuf en croûte, instead of your Yorkshire puddings.”
“The Duke of Wellington’s dish?” asked Mrs. Nash.
“Which he stole from Napoleon.”
“After defeating him in the war.”
Alex jumped in before the two could get going again. “Let’s just say yes.”
“And I have a compromise for you,” said Emma.
Alex raised his brow.
“Your six hundred and twenty-two guests for a drive-through wedding in Vegas.”
“Three hundred of them are yours,” said Mrs. Nash, flipping her way through the invitation samples.
“What?” Emma’s astonishment was clear.
“I spoke with your sister, and with your secretary.”
Alex didn’t even try to disguise his smug expression. “Three hundred of them are yours.”
“Shoot me now,” said Emma.
“Ahhh, mademoiselle,” said Philippe, rising to put an arm around Emma. “It is no matter. You will be beautiful. The dinner will be magnificent. And people will forgive us for the insipid invitations.”