At the Billionaire’s Wedding by Katharine Ashe Miranda Neville Caroline Linden Maya Rodale

perfect! Most of their guests seem to be underage.”
    “What’s a party without putti?”
    She giggled again. “Right, those little angels. I’ll suggest them to Jane. Why the wedding theme?”
    “The saloon was part of the original design for Brampton. It was built after the Restoration of Charles II, when the family was rewarded for its fidelity during the Civil War. Trouble was, the old manor was in ruins and Lord Melbury almost broke. He found himself an heiress, the daughter of a man who’d made a fortune selling cannons to the other side. The couple built this house from scratch and this fresco celebrated their nuptials, as well as the reconciliation of strife through love.”
    “That’s beautiful.”
    “Supposedly it was a love match. The Melburys have a history of happy marriages. My … employers, the current Lord and Lady Melbury, have been devoted to each other for forty years.”
    “I love stories like that,” she said with a sigh. “It’s one reason I went into the wedding business.”
    “So you’re a romantic underneath that hard-boiled exterior.”
    “Do I seem like that?” Her voice quivered.
    He wanted to kick himself. No woman, however tough, wants to be compared to a ten-minute egg. “I have nothing but admiration for your strength and efficiency. Also your legs.”
    She was smiling again. “I have a feeling that may be sexual harassment.”
    “Absolutely. In this room I claim immunity from prosecution on the grounds that Charles II practically invented the crime. More champagne?”
    “I’m good. So does that make you one of those rakes that Jane’s always writing about?”
    The amused lilt in her voice set his heart racing and he answered more seriously than he’d intended. “I’ve always been a monogamous sort and at the moment not even that.” He didn’t want to invite questions about his life by explaining that he hadn’t had a girlfriend since he moved back to Brampton. Too busy.
    They turned to each other for a few breathless seconds, then Arwen looked back at the ceiling. “This room makes me think of the Beistegui Ball.”
    “What?”
    “A fantastic ball given in Venice in the 1950s by a guy named Carlos de Beistegui, one of the great parties of the twentieth century. The guests wore costumes inspired by Venetian paintings. You could do the same thing here.”
    “Uh, Arwen. Most of these characters aren’t wearing much at all.”
    “True. It would have to be a toga party.”
    Harry stopped looking at the ceiling and rolled onto his side, propping his head on one elbow so that he could see her face, mysterious and shadowy in the dimly lit room that had, for much of its existence, been seen at night only by candlelight. Thus might his ancestors have enjoyed the centerpiece of their creation. He imagined Arwen clad in colored silks and pearls and hooped petticoats instead of her austere and devilishly sexy black dress. She was laughing and relaxed until she saw him looking and fell silent.
    “I’ve always thought Venus and Mars looked ready to leave the reception and move onto the honeymoon,” he said softly.
    “They do seem … eager.” Her gaze flicked to the ceiling and back to him. Her lips parted. He heard her heightened breathing along with the wild thud of his own heart. He touched her hair, releasing an expensive scent to blend with the acid tang of their wine. Sweeping back the tousled fringe from her forehead, he stroked her flawless skin, traced with wonder the cool taut chin and neck, and let his hand drift downward to the chest, warm and rising lightly beneath his touch.
    Harry, my lad, this is a bad idea and could screw things up.
    Even as he heard his inner voice he knew he would ignore it. His fingers slipped beneath the loose-fitting V-neck of her dress and a crisp lace bra. Her breast was a bit bigger than he expected—Tragedy!—and smooth as silk until he reached the crinkled point of her nipple. She stirred and arched into his touch.
    Before