One Night with Prince Charming (Aristocratic Grooms #2)(5)
Author: Anna DePalo

Pia turned her face to the window, where rain had begun to pelt the glass, blurring the illumination cast by the city lights outside.

It had been a long, too eventful day, and she was bone-tired. But instead of weariness overtaking her, she found herself awake.

In the privacy of her bedroom, in her own bed and covered by the shadows of the night, she was surprised by the sudden moisture of tears on her face—a reflection of the rain outside. She hadn’t cried over Hawk in a long time.

Since she’d switched apartments, Hawk had never invaded this sanctum. But he’d slept in this bed.

Drat Hawk.

With any luck, she’d never have to see him again. She was over him, and this would be the absolute last time that she’d shed tears about him.

Déjà vu. Hawk looked around him at Melton’s picturesque Gloucestershire estate, which wasn’t so different from his own family seat in Oxford. The centuries-old limestone estate was surrounded by acres of pastoral countryside, which was in full greenery in the August warmth. They could and did set period movies in places like this.

Except his friend Sawyer Langsford, Earl of Melton, was going to have a very real wedding to The Honorable Tamara Kincaid, a woman who could barely be persuaded to dance with him at the Wentworth-Dillingham near-miss of a wedding two months ago.

At the thought of weddings, Hawk admitted to himself that he’d reached a point in his life when his professional life had quieted down a bit, and at age thirty-six, the responsibility to beget an heir for the dukedom had begun to weigh on him.

In his younger, more carefree days, he’d dated a lot of women. In fact, he’d reveled in distinguishing himself as the bon vivant younger son—in spite of his steady job in finance—in contrast to his more responsible older brother, the heir.

And now one of his closest friends was getting married. Hawk had come at Sawyer’s request for what was to be a small wedding in the presence of family and close friends. Easterbridge would also be present, and heaven help them, at the bride’s invitation, so would his wife, Belinda Wentworth—without, however, her almost-husband, Tod Dillingham.

And Hawk had it on good authority that none other than Pia Lumley would be the wedding planner today. He’d been forewarned by Sawyer. For, as circumstances would have it, Tamara Kincaid was another good friend of Pia’s.

As if conjured by his thoughts, Pia walked out from the French doors leading to the stone terrace at the back of the house, and then down to the grassy lawn where Hawk stood.

She looked young, fresh and innocent, and Hawk felt a sudden pang. She’d been all those things three years ago when he’d first met her—and left her.

She was wearing a white shirt with cuffs rolled back beyond her elbows and lime-green cotton pants paired with pink ballet flats. The pants hugged her curves, and just a hint of cle**age was visible at the open collar of her shirt. Her smooth blond hair was caught in a ponytail, and her lips looked shiny and full.

Hawk felt a tightening in his gut.

Despite having been plastered with eggplant at their last meeting, he felt drawn to her. She had sex appeal without being contrived—so different from many of the women in his social circle.

She was everything he wanted, and everything he couldn’t have. It would throw him off track from the life that he was supposed to be living now if he got involved with her again. He had put his playboy days behind him.

He was thirty-six, and he’d never been more aware of his responsibilities than since he’d succeeded to the dukedom. Among other things, he had a duty to produce an heir to secure a centuries-old title. And in the normal course of events, he would be expected to marry someone of his class and social station—certainly his mother expected that of him.

In the past year, his mother had taken it upon herself to bring him into contact with eligible women, including, particularly, Michelene Ward-Fombley—a woman whom some had speculated would have made a wonderful duchess for his older brother, before William’s untimely death.

He pushed aside thoughts about his most recent transatlantic phone conversation with his mother, and the unspoken expectations that had been alluded to…

Instead, Hawk couldn’t help noting now that Pia resembled an enticing wood sprite. She was clearly unafraid to wear flats with her petite frame for a working casual look on a tepidly warm August day typical for this part of England. In his own nod to the weather, he had dispensed with anything but a white shirt and tan pants.

Pia looked up and spotted him as she walked across the lawn.

He watched as she hesitated.

After a moment, she continued to move toward him, but with obvious reluctance. He was clearly standing in the direct path of her intended destination—very likely, the pavilion on the property that would serve as one of the backdrops for the wedding.

He tried to break the ice. “I know what you’re thinking.”

She gave him a haughty, disbelieving look.

“We don’t see each other for three years,” he pressed on, “and now we somehow run into each other for the second time in two months.”

“Believe me, it’s no more pleasant for me than it is for you,” she responded, coming to a stop before him.

He scanned her face, angling his head to the side.

He pretended to make his perusal casual, joking even. Still, he caught the way a stray strand of sun-kissed honey-blond hair caressed her cheek gently. He stopped himself from reaching out to touch her soft skin and run his thumb over the outline of her jaw.

Then he made the mistake of picking up the light scent of lavender that he’d associated with her ever since their first night together. He couldn’t help being attracted to her—he just couldn’t act on that attraction.

“Wh-what are you doing?” she demanded.

“I’m checking to see if you’re hiding hors d’oeuvres or canapés somewhere. I wanted to be prepared for another missile attack.”

His attempt at a jest was met with a frosty look.

Pia raised her chin. “I’m here to make sure this wedding proceeds without a hitch.”

“Ah, trying to rehabilitate your image?”

He’d meant to tease and test, and at her momentarily arrested look, he realized he’d guessed correctly.

Pia was still worried about her business. Belinda Wentworth’s almost-wedding had likely blemished Pia’s professional reputation.

In a moment, however, Pia recovered herself, and her eyes sparked. “My only concern is that you and your two compatriots, Easterbridge and Melton, are in attendance. I have no idea why another friend of mine would get mixed up with a friend of yours. Look at what Easterbridge did to Belinda!”