Page 7 of A Change of Location
Will, separating himself from the redhead, came to her rescue.
“Awesome party,” he told her. “Lots better than my mates and I expected.” He bobbed his head at Lord Milverston. “William Edney.”
“Martin Latimer.”
“I say, Hannah, might Davey and Jos and I steal Bridget and a couple of her friends? There’s just enough time to grab a bite before we’re due in the orchestra pit.”
“Fine with me.” She handed over her phone. “After you take a photo I can send my boss, proof of how well I’m doing my job.”
“Shall I step aside?” the marquess murmured.
“No way! You’re my one celebrity. I’m exploiting you.” She edged closer to him.
Will obediently positioned her phone. “Say ‘Cheese!’”
Hannah and her lordly guest exchanged smiles.
“Look over here.” Will completed his assignment and returned her device. While she scrolled through the images, he said, “When you’re in touch with Aunt Gwen and Uncle Neil, give them my regards. And do ring my parents before you leave town. She and Dad hope to see you before you get any busier. Gran, too, if you can manage it.”
“I will. I’m definitely planning to make a plan to see Mum’s family while I’m here.”
Her cup of satisfaction was brimming, just like the champagne flute the marquess had plucked from Karl’s tray.
He held it towards her. “Drink. If only to salve your disappointment about my lack of celebrity status. Despite the title, I’m a complete nonentity. Which is why I can loiter in Wincott & Sons and force Milver Vale products onto anyone who wanders in.”
“Blessed are the cheesemakers,” she said merrily, touching the rim of her glass against his.
“I sincerely hope so.”
“Marquesses aren’t very high profile,” she commented. “Not like dukes and earls.”
“In the eighteenth century most marquessates got upgraded to dukedoms. For reasons beyond my knowledge, ours wasn’t. In France, I’d be a marquis, not such a rarity.” He sipped his champagne before saying, “I daresay you interact with hordes of truly famous people in Hollywood.”
“I only travel to the West Coast under duress and stay not a moment longer than absolutely necessary.”
“Why is that?”
“A Yankee thing, I guess. Half-Yankee,” she corrected herself. “My dad, despite being a descendant of colonists who fled this land centuries ago and revolutionaries who battled your side, married a Briton. My mother is Wendy Edney. The garden writer and television personality.”
“Poppy will have heard of her. She’s a keen gardener.”
Of course there was a wife—a marchioness. He was an attractive aristocrat with a chin, a sense of humor, and a bad boy grin. And atmospheric gray eyes staring down at her.
Seconds dragged by before he said, “That explains how you managed to recreate the Chelsea Flower Show here. Primroses, daffodils, tulips, springing up on every table.”
“A trick of Mum’s,” she confessed. “Pile the mossy stuff high, stick the pots and vases down deep and cover them. Cheap and easy. Excuse me, I need to mingle.”
Unlike your lordship, she added silently, I’ve got a real job.
***
Martin sizzled with hopeful speculation when watching Hannah Ballard, a bright note of shimmery coral in an ever-shifting sea of charcoal and black. Her short, sleeveless silk dress exposed toned arms and slender legs. She ran her fingers through her manic dark curls, her expression inscrutable as a weedy wanker with a prominent nose and big ears cornered her. She was an alien from a strange and distant world populated by creative geniuses and moguls with limitless power and money.
Wouldn’t it be brilliant, he told himself, if she sprinkled some of her stardust over me?
He understood what she needed far better than she did. And he had precise needs of his own.
Feigning interest in the tray of smoked salmon, he considered possible methods of persuasion. Applying liberal amounts of alcohol in hopes of winning her over would be ungentlemanly, and she wasn’t much of a drinker. It might be better to take the most direct approach, and boldly state his proposition.
