Maxine Larraby stared around herself at the opulent décor of the morning drawing room, or whatever this overstuffed museum of a room was called. It was red. That was all she knew. Far too red. God, if they filmed in here her documentary would be mistaken for one of those medical ones where they stuck a camera inside the body. Inside Hart House could be confused with This is Your Pancreas.

In fact, she wasn’t at all sure about this project. Yes, Hart House had some interesting history, had been a hospital in World War II, and there was an American connection, but still, if she couldn’t find a focus, and better backdrops than this red-walled frilly china shop of a room, she might as well move on to the next possibility on her list and save herself a lot of trouble.

Especially if she was going to be kept waiting much longer.

Restless, as always, she went to the window and stared out at a landscape that was probably prettier than a Constable painting in good weather, but now merely drooped and dripped in a steady downpour. The rose garden, she’d read, was famous. At the moment every bud and leaf seemed to be bending its soggy head, wishing for an umbrella.

She turned back to the room and spotted a china figure of a shepherdess. Idly, she picked it up and turned it over, wondering if it was genuine English china or some cheap Taiwanese knockoff.

“It’s Meissen,” said a deep male voice from behind her. “A gift to the seventeenth earl from a German cousin, I believe.”

After almost dropping the no doubt priceless heirloom and smashing it to Meissen dust, she managed to put the thing back on the table and turn, an apology on the tip of her tongue for acting like a flea market browser. What on earth was wrong with her?

But the apology died on her lips.

She blinked. Everything she’d seen so far on this estate was old and crumbling. But not this guy. It was a shock to come face to face with a man-a gorgeous one-who was young and sexy and, well, modern. He had brown wavy hair, and blue eyes that tilted down a little at the corners, giving him the look of a rogue-and how they twinkled. As though life was his own private joke. A smile that managed to be both charming and slightly wolfish. Tall, great body. Wow.

“You’re Maxine Larraby? Here about the documentary?” he said, reading from her card. The one she’d given to the butler. Now what? She had to go through some secretary or advisor before she could see the earl? Not that she minded being stuck with the hottie wearing jeans, a gray sweater, and a navy blazer that didn’t go together, and still managing to look amazing, but her schedule was tight. She didn’t have time to waste.

“Yes. Possible documentary,” she told him. She wasn’t going to commit until she was certain she could do something fresh.

“Please, have a seat. Would you like some tea? Or coffee?”

“No, thank you,” she said, sinking into a brocade chair and glancing at her watch pointedly. Maybe the earl was king of his castle, but she had a schedule. Being kept waiting by his male secretary wasn’t helping.

“How was your flight over?” Tall, Dark, and Handsome asked.

“Fine. Thank you.”

“Ah, good. I always have a dreadful time with jet lag.” He’d seated himself across from her, and appeared very comfy. Like he was planning to stay awhile.

“I slept on the plane, so I’m fresh and raring to go.”

“Good. Well, let’s get started, then. What would you like to see first?”

“The earl,” she said as pleasantly as she could.

“The earl?”

“The Earl of Ponsford,” she said with a slight edge. T, D, and H continued to stare at her blankly.

“Look, you’re very good-looking and charming, and I’m enjoying talking to you, but I don’t have years to make this documentary. My schedule’s overbooked as it is. I’d really like to see the earl. Now.”

“You are seeing him.” He glanced down at himself and then back at her with a disturbing twinkle in the depth of his gaze. “And thank you for calling me charming.”

“You are not the earl and this is not funny. Why do Brits insist on thinking Americans are stupid?”

“Not stupid, no. Merely, I would say, a little more free to express your thoughts and opinions. We English tend to be more reserved.”

She didn’t bother to answer, merely yanked a file out of her briefcase. Opened it in her I am not to be messed with manner, and read, “The Earl of Ponsford, a distinguished general, includes in his hobbies cultivating roses and playing with his grandchildren.” She raised her brows. “And how are your grandchildren, Lord Ponsford?”

He didn’t look embarrassed or let on that he was busted. He said in that same pleasant tone, “I haven’t got any. Yet. I think you must be referring to my father. He died last year. I still miss him very much.”

“You know, I’m not a big fan of practical jokes.”

He stood, and she had another moment to relish how great he looked in jeans. Then he trod to the back of the room and picked up a photo in a heavy silver frame. He walked back and handed it to her. Inside the frame was a photograph taken by a noted London photographer, and a caption, no doubt for the edification of the tourists who paraded through the place six days a week during the hours of 10 A.M. and 5 P.M. The central figure was the same man in the picture in her file. He stood with a lady who must have been his wife, and his two kids. There was no doubt that the tall one standing behind his father’s right shoulder was the guy bending over her now. The caption read: The 18th Earl of Ponsford, the Countess, Viscount George, and the Lady Margaret. It had been taken four years earlier.

If she’d been the kind of woman who blushed, she’d have done so. “And Google is usually so reliable.”

“Well, your researcher probably typed in eighteenth earl. I’m the nineteenth,” he said helpfully.

A long moment ticked by, aided by a gilt clock that appeared to be centuries old and showed a young maiden being dragged off somewhere by a team of horses. Wherever it was going, Max wanted to jump on board.

“You’re the nineteenth earl.”

“Yes.”

“The honest-to-God Earl of Ponsford.”

“I’m afraid so.” He was still standing over her, very male, very yummy, and taking the fact that she’d challenged his identity pretty well.

“And I’ve just made the biggest fool of myself.”

“Honestly, I’ve seen bigger fools. Really, among my friends, you’re a rank amateur.”

She blew out a breath that ruffled her carefully styled bangs. Well, maybe life wasn’t exactly like television, but she was always willing to try for a retake. She held out her hand. “Maxine Larraby, your lordship.”

His smile was singularly charming. “Call me George. Everyone does.” And he took her hand. Nice, warm hand. Good grip.

If he noticed the extraordinary heat they were generating he gave no sign of it, merely shook her hand as though he were meeting her at the queen’s garden party, and asked her how she liked England.

“It’s a little damp,” she said.

“I know,” he said, glancing out the window guiltily as though the rain were his personal fault. “My mother was American, you know.” He shook his head. “She never could get used to the weather, or the inconveniences.” He glanced out the window into the wet rose garden, and she suddenly realized that he’d lost both parents within the four years since that picture had been snapped. “However, you’ve got a schedule, and I am at your disposal.”

“Yes. Thank you.” She pulled out a notebook and pen. Since meeting the sexy young earl she’d been tingling with professional excitement-well, mostly professional. With his father walking the TV viewer through the estate, it would have been good television, depending on how riveting she could make the script. With a young Prince Charming on camera, Hart House could be Heartthrob House. But first, she was going to need his full cooperation.