“Just admiring the architecture,” I replied, jogging a few steps to catch up.
“The building is in the opposite direction.”
“I was referring to your dress. Italian design?”
She shot me a look that could have frozen lava. “Our agreement included no inappropriate comments, Mr. Burkhardt.”
“Callan,” I corrected. “And that was a professional observation. You have excellent taste.”
“In everything except clients, apparently,” she muttered, just loud enough for me to hear.
I laughed, amused by her quick wit. Most women either simpered in my presence or treated me with excessive deference. Anica Marcel did neither, and it was refreshingly... stimulating. I adjusted my trousers as I followed her.
We approached the oak doors of the main house. The Rhodes Estate represented everything I both aspired to and rejected; old money, tradition, expectations. The weight of family legacy embodied in stone and wood.
“The main house was built in 1904,” I whispered as we walked inside. “The original owner was a railroad baron who wanted to impress his much younger second wife. The east wing was added in the 1920s, and the gardens were redesigned in the 1950s by some Japanese master who apparently made the Rockefellers beg for his services.”
Anica glanced at me with mild surprise. “You know quite a bit about the place.”
I shrugged. “My grandmother made sure I knew.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said, her professional mask slipping as she took in the soaring ceiling of the main hall, with its intricate plasterwork and crystal chandelier. “The proportion of the windows to the wall height is perfect for photography.”
“My grandmother got married here in the late 1960s,” I said, though I hadn’t planned to share this detail. “Said it was the happiest day of her life. Before my grandfather turned out to be a serial philanderer with a gambling problem, of course.”
“Is that why you want to get married here? Family tradition?”
“God, no,” I said quickly, rebuilding my walls. “It’s just convenient. And it’ll impress my friends, which is the whole point of winning the bet.”
The softness vanished from her face. “Right. The bet. How could I forget the romantic foundation of this entire arrangement?”
Before I could respond, a sharp voice cut through the hall.
“Mr. Burkhardt. You’re late.”
The voice preceded the woman, who appeared from a side door. I was tall at six foot three. Judith Windsor was almost taller. Between her rigid posture and her silver hair pulled back in a bun so tight it performed double duty as a non-surgical facelift, she was terrifying. Not to me of course. Nope. I definitely didn’t take a step back. She wore a tweed suit in a shade I could only describe as “disciplinarian beige,” accessorized with a pearl necklace that looked like it was cutting off the blood flow to her ability to experience joy.
“Ms. Windsor,” I greeted her with my most charming smile, the one that worked on everyone except my grandmother and, apparently, dragon ladies who guarded exclusive wedding venues. Well, and my wedding planner. Maybe I was losing my edge… “Lovely to see you. You haven’t aged a day since my grandmother’s last charity gala.”
“Flattery is the refuge of the unpunctual,” she replied crisply, her British accent so pronounced it sounded like she was auditioning forDownton Abbey. Her gaze shifted to Anica, assessing her from head to toe. “And you must be the wedding planner my assistant mentioned. I’m afraid there’s been some misunderstanding. Rhodes Estate doesn’t arrange viewings without both parties present. Groom and bride.”
“I’m sure, and I completely understand. I’m representing the couple,” Anica began, slipping into professional mode.
“We don’t do proxy arrangements,” Ms. Windsor cut her off, holding up a hand. “Rhodes Estate isn’t for just anyone. We have standards to maintain.”
She pronounced “standards” the way most people might say “last line of defense against barbarian hordes.”
Irritation rose in my chest. This was exactly why I avoided these old-money circles despite my wealth. The constantjudgment, the unspoken rules, the assumption that new money wasn’t quite good enough.
“My grandmother is Vivian Burkhardt,” I reminded her. “I believe that meets your standards.”
“Of course, Mr. Burkhardt. We so appreciate your grandmother’s events,” she conceded with a thin smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “But tradition is tradition. We need to meet the bride before proceeding. Rhodes Estate is very selective about who celebrates their union here. We’re not some banquet hall off the interstate that hosts six weddings a day with a karaoke machine and a chocolate fountain.” She shuddered at the mere thought.
“Of course not,” I grinned. “There are much better uses for chocolate in liquid form.”
Anica elbowed me in the ribs, and opened her mouth, but I spoke before her.
“I can see there’s been some confusion though, and I certainly apologize for that.” It was obvious Ms. Windsor was about to dismiss us, and I moved before my brain could catch up, wrapping my arm around Anica and pulling her into my side. “Butsheis the bride,” I said, reaching for Anica’s hand and lacing our fingers together before she could react. “This is my fiancée, Anica Marcel.”
