“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.

The bar itself was a long stretch of ancient, scarred oak that looked far from royal. Tables were scattered on the dark wooden floor as though tossed there. A handful of older men played darts in a corner and an Inglenook fireplace gaped from one end of the big room, a cozy size for roasting an ox in.

A lone bartender was speaking to somebody through a doorway that led, she assumed, to a kitchen, his broad back turned her way. She was no expert on the complexity of the English accent, but he sounded like he was from up north somewhere.

He turned and she caught sight of his face. And felt a rush of recognition flood her. Oh, my God, she thought. I’ve found him.

Uncompromising. That was the first word that sprang to mind when she saw him full on. His jaw was strong, the nose pugnacious, his brow smooth as though he didn’t spend a lot of time with it wrinkled in indecision. His eyes were straight on and clear. For a woman constantly racked with indecision, Meg was immediately drawn to his strength. His eyes were pale, but in this light and from this distance it was impossible to tell the color. Blue maybe, or gray. He looked rough and capable. A working man who could build things with his hands, or use them to defend his village from attack.

“With you in a mo’,” he said, and she nodded.

She stepped closer. While she waited, she continued to gaze about herself. There weren’t many patrons at three o’clock on a Thursday. Apart from the darts players, she noted a couple in the corner lingering over the remains of lunch. An older man in a cap read a newspaper and nursed a beer, and a lone younger man worked on a printed document of some kind.

Stenciled quotations adorned the plaster walls. She couldn’t pass words without reading them.

Work is the curse of the drinking class, Oscar Wilde.

Appropriately, that was stenciled above the dartboard. On the wall over the fireplace was: I drink no more than a sponge, Rabelais.

She spotted another, but it was hard to read because the lighting in that corner was dim. She squinted. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die.

A padded bench was attached to the wall and rectangular tables, perfect for one or two patrons, lined up in front of it. The vision came to her suddenly. A man’s death, there in the corner. She could see it as clearly as though she were witnessing the murder. She stood, entranced, and stared into that corner of dark deeds…

Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die…

“Are you all right?” A deep voice pulled her back to the present. Meg realized that the gorgeous bartender was speaking to her, and the way he spoke made her realize he’d addressed her several times before wresting her attention.