“You’d make your butler…?” Even as she got halfway through, she realized he was joking. He leaned over and opened the drawer of his night table. And like every man worth his salt, he had protection ready and waiting.

He took care of sheathing himself and she lay back and watched him. Then he was kissing her, rolling onto her, pushing into her.

And she went completely and absolutely wild. It was as though a starving woman had been invited to an elegant banquet-it didn’t matter. She would stuff her face with greed and no manners. A desperately thirsty woman would glug water, not caring that it splashed all over her face. That’s how she felt. She couldn’t get enough of him, urging him deeper, rolling over, taking him, being taken. There was something wild and magic about the way they were together. She felt it, knew he felt it, too.

They didn’t have to talk or ask, or murmur questions or suggestions, they simply took, greedily, ravenously until she was sobbing out his name and he was shuddering against her.

When her heart had finally slowed so she thought she might one day be able to function again, she turned her head to gaze at him, chest heaving as badly as hers was. As though on cue, he turned to regard her. She wanted to say, That was the greatest thing that ever happened to me. Or, Wow. Or, Thank you. Instead, she gazed at him, deep red from exertion, a drop of sweat rolling from his forehead into his damp hair, and a giggle snorted out of her.

After a stunned moment, he started laughing, too. And somehow, it felt like they’d said it all.

They talked then, she with her head propped in her hand, doing what she did best, interviewing. Not because of the documentary, or because she was incurably nosy, though both were true, but because she really wanted to know.

She wanted to know everything about this guy. How did it feel to be brought up so upper class that you got sent away to boarding school at eight years old? What were his favorite foods, flavors of ice cream, when did he learn to swim? How did he discover sex? All the things that made him who he was were suddenly fascinating to her.

And so they talked. He turned out to be not a bad interviewer himself, or maybe his curiosity was as ravenous about her.

“Will you stay?” he asked after a while. Her fingers were making patterns idly on his chest, and he was twirling a lock of her hair around his finger.

Stay. The night.

How had they gone from a birthday kiss to spending the night?

She glanced over at him, feeling suddenly uncertain about how far and how fast she wanted this thing to go, but who was she kidding? If she cared passionately whether he preferred Chocolate Chip to Rocky Road, she was obviously not averse to spending the night in the man’s bed.

Something of her momentary uncertainty must have shown on her face. He kissed her lightly. “If you stay, I promise to act like less of an animal and make love to you properly.”

“Okay,” she whispered.

But it didn’t work that way. They started out slow and decorous, but in the end the heat and greedy passion caught up with them again. It was like being struck by lightning twice.

But in a very good way.

Maxine paused. She couldn’t help herself. She was busy and had at least three million things to do today, but the grand portrait of the eleventh earl caught her, as it always did. Of course, it was the family resemblance between George and his ancestor that always pulled her to a halt. As she gazed up at him, in all his splendor, she felt an odd thrill.

“Communing with the spirits of my ancestors?” George said softly from behind her.

She started. “I didn’t hear you.”

“No. You were deep in thought.”

He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her, kissing her neck. She closed her eyes and leaned into him for a moment, recalling, as she was certain he was also doing, the way they’d made love last night. Slow and tender. As though they mattered to each other. Which was a dangerous game when your lives were so very different, and separated by an ocean.

“I was thinking,” she said, “how sure of himself he looks. He stares down at me as though all he has to do is give the order and I’ll prostrate myself at his feet.”

“Lucky bugger. In his day, you would have.”

She secretly thought things weren’t so different today, but she didn’t share that thought aloud.

“I love his pride and arrogance.”

“He’s not wrestling with death duties and union wages,” George reminded her, sounding a teensy bit aggrieved.

“I’m sure he had his own problems.”

“Doesn’t look it, though, does he?”

“Well, he must have had some.”

“I suppose.” She felt George’s smile as his cheek wrinkled against her own. “There was all that political intrigue for starters. My ancestors, I’m sorry to tell you, weren’t men of highest morality. They tended to change religions whenever it seemed expedient and they were dreadful boot-lickers and arse-kissers. Anything to keep the king’s or queen’s favor. Then there was the urgent need of a wife to ensure the succession.”

“That couldn’t have been very hard,” she said, looking up at the earl in all his glory. His clothes were sleek with fur and glinted with gold thread and jewels. “Not only is he obviously rich, but he’s hot.”

“Important for him to choose wisely, though. As well as being wellborn, and hopefully rich in her own right, his wife had to be a good breeder, you see, or who would inherit the estate?”

“What a depressing way to choose a partner,” she said, seeing some of the romance of the period dim before her eyes.

“Well, that one didn’t waste a lot of time being depressed. Or in his wife’s bed.”

She turned her head. “You sound like you admire him.”

His grin was sudden and wolfish. “I do. He’s the one who had that secret passageway built.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling her own lips twitch. “I knew there was a reason why this picture was my favorite.”

“Come on. I think I have to be interviewed and I can’t do it without you there.”

They’d been shooting for five straight days. The shoot was so smooth it was spooky. George was as natural and charismatic on camera as she’d known he would be. If she said to him, “Why don’t you take us through the portrait gallery, and give us the highlights,” he could do it without a lot of fumbling or overuse of the word um.

So often there’d be an unforeseen delay. Equipment broke, or illness struck, or the roof would start leaking, and the rain would hold things up. But not this week. They’d shot outside in the rose garden and he’d told the story of his parents charmingly, focusing on the falling in love and happy times. She’d cut in some old family movies and stills showing the Anglo-American love match.

Even the dramatic telling of the ninth earl had been comparatively easy since they were able to hire local actors. Soon they’d be done here, possibly a day ahead of schedule.

How ironic that of all locations, this was one where she’d have happily been stranded for a while.

They turned away from the painting and she checked out the current earl with a critical eye.

He stood still for a few seconds while she studied him and then said, “Well, will I do?”

“You’re gorgeous. But the tie’s too bold. It’s going to draw attention away from your face.”

“Sounds like a good thing to me.”

“Give it up with the false modesty. Something blue and muted would be much better. Want me to go and choose something?”

“No, thank you. I’m capable of selecting a tie on my own.” He pulled out a cell phone and dialed. “Ah, Wiggins. Sorry to bother. Can you bring me a tie?

“Yes, I know. I thought so, too,” he continued. “But they want something blue and muted. Will do. Thanks.”

“I can’t believe you sent a servant for a tie,” Maxine said. “I would have gone.”