Royal Disaster

by Parker Swift

  “No. This isn’t stubbornness. Me refusing to go running the other morning was stubbornness. This is principle. And maybe, you could argue, pride. But it’s important.” I looked into Dylan’s eyes, and he was clearly skeptical. “Look. You grew up with all this, and I appreciate that to you it seems silly or needless for me to go without these luxuries when they’re so easy for you to give. I get that,” I said as I slid closer to him, higher on his lap. If I was going to get through to him, closer would be better. “But think about it this way.” I added a seductive tone to my approach. “Why do you need architecture?”

  “It’s mine,” he said, half-distracted by his view down my dress.

  “Exactly. You enjoy being independent.”

  His lips twitched, and his thumb was stroking my back rhythmically. “And why do you admire that your grandfather built Hale Shipping on his own merit?” He saw where I was going with this, and I saw his certainty that he would win this argument begin to crack. “I’m not saying I won’t accept gifts or I’ll never let you buy me things,” I said, kissing his cheek lightly, intimately, and leaning in closer to his ear. “If I recall, I wore some lingerie you bought me last weekend quite happily.” I smiled and saw his eyes lose focus as he remembered how I’d looked, wrapped in plum-colored silk. “But things I need? The clothing on my back? I need to procure that on my own. Okay, knighty?”

  “It’s not the same thing, baby. But I don’t want to argue. I want to enjoy you,” he said, looking me over.

  “I’ve done okay on my own so far, haven’t I?”

  He pulled me closer and gripped my thighs against his abdomen. “Bloody perfect,” he said huskily, his lips suddenly hovering just above mine. He kissed me once, firmly pressing his closed lips against mine. He released me for a moment and looked firmly into my eyes. “So bloody independent,” he mused, part frustrated, part turned on.

  I bit my lip and nodded slightly, loving the way his bossy side was never far off and could fan the fire under my skin in a nanosecond. He smoothed his hand up my lap and under the weightless fabric of my dress. He pulled me against him, closer, as he reached to his side and pressed the button to raise the privacy screen between us and Lloyd. “We’ll be there in a moment, but I need to feel you before we face them,” he whispered, like holding me was allowing him to exhale for the first time all week.

  He avoided kissing my mouth again because of my makeup and instead gently kissed my exposed neck as his hands wandered lazily over me, caressing, comforting, holding. He reveled in the slippery silk and how it slid over my small breasts, my stomach, my sensitive sides. I loved the way his touches somehow both woke me up and lulled me into a calmness, like some kind of special drug. We’d been so rushed, so far away from each other all week, and I could feel Dylan just trying to find me, to revel in me, in us. And I was doing the same. I felt the tension leave our bodies, and I suddenly wished we were heading home, not out for a night on the town.

  I kissed his cheeks, noticing that he must have shaved in the afternoon—he was so smooth and clean. Then slowly he pulled away, kissed my shoulder, and straightened the bodice of my dress. I opened my eyes and realized we were pulling into the park. I reluctantly slid off Dylan’s lap and he eyed my chest. “Better,” he said, looking down. I followed his gaze and saw that my nipple issue had gone away. He gave my hand a gentle one-two squeeze that was better than a hug, more intimate, and for a second I could see the foreign world on the other side of the car door—the princesses, paparazzi, and perfectly coiffed socialites—not just as a series of land mines and learning curves but simply as the life of the man I loved.

  Chapter 6

  Dylan quickly ushered me out of the cold and into the Serpentine Gallery, the beautiful modern art museum housed in Kensington Gardens near the Serpentine Lake. So quickly that there was no way the photographers outside would have been able to get a clear shot of the dress. I’d have to get photographed inside, if I could, which I realized as soon as we entered wouldn’t be a problem—I could see the occasional flashbulb even from the coat-check area. The party was already buzzing.

  Just two years prior, Dylan had been honored there with a similar soiree and exhibit, but tonight was in honor of an emerging British artist, from whom Dylan had commissioned a painting for his hideaway in the country. The space was gorgeous, lit softly for the party but with the artwork still on full display. Although I wasn’t sure how long I’d be able to stand and look at the paintings—the heels Hannah had purchased for me were too snug in the toes and, as promised, very, very high. I had no idea how I would make it through the night.

  Dylan looked at me and then at my feet—we both felt how odd it was that my eyes were now level with his chin instead of his chest.

  “Well, hello there, tall girl,” he said. “Have you seen my girlfriend?”

  “Why, yes. She is back at the pharmacy, stocking up on the Band-Aids she’ll need at the end of this night,” I said, looking despairingly towards my feet.

  “Plasters, you mean, from the chemist.”

  “Band-Aids, pharmacy.”

  “Plasters.”

  “Band-Aids.”

  “Baby,” Dylan said, shaking his head, smiling at my obstinance, and leading me into the crowd by my hand, with me trying not to wince with every step.

  We mingled, sipped Champagne cocktails, and I tried not to appear completely classless as I surreptitiously followed around the waiter who was passing out mini crab cakes. They. Were. Amazing.

  “Oh bloody hell,” Dylan said under his breath after taking a sip of his cocktail.

  “What?” I asked, following his gaze across the room. I saw a medium-sized guy with overly coiffed brown hair coming our way and raising his glass to Dylan.

  “Tristan,” Dylan acknowledged the man, without a hair more warmth in his voice than was strictly necessary so as not to appear downright hostile.

  Tristan, whom I’d heard about a few times before, turned to me, and it was immediately clear he was slightly drunk. “So this is the delicious thing that’s kept you too busy to return my phone calls lately, eh?”

  I cringed, partially because calling me a delicious thing was ridiculously offensive and also because I knew it would piss off Dylan to no end. Sure enough, the crease between Dylan’s eyebrows deepened considerably.

  “I’m Lydia Bell,” I said, reaching out my hand and intervening. I didn’t care who this jerk was or what he thought of me—I wanted to have a nice night with Dylan, and I was happy to defuse the situation.

  “Tristan Bailey,” he said while literally eyeing me up and down, as though he were pricing me for an auction. This guy made my skin crawl.

  Dylan immediately tightened his arm around my waist and then spoke to me directly. “Lydia, darling, Tristan works for my father. His right-hand man, if you will.” He said the words with a subtle distinction, and I heard his commentary—his father choosing a guy like this to be his right-hand man was yet another indicator of how despicable his dad was.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, summoning my politeness.

  “Likewise,” Tristan said with a healthy dose of smarminess. “You let me know if this cad doesn’t treat you right, darling.”

  “I don’t think that will be a problem,” I said. “But thanks for the offer.” I turned away from him, towards Dylan. “I think I need to find the ladies’ room, Dylan. Can you show me where it is?”

  Dylan nodded and then looked to Tristan again. The frosty fury on Dylan’s face was frankly terrifying. “If you need my approval on something, Tristan, send word to Thomas. I’m sure he can get you what you need. Have a pleasant evening.”

  We were halfway across the room before he stopped. He grabbed two more drinks from a tray, handed me one, then planted one long kiss on my lips and took a swig of his drink. “I fucking hate that prat,” he said, taking another swig. “But I fucking love you.”

  I smiled up at him. “That guy’s an asshole,” I said taking a sympathetic
swig of my own drink. Dylan chuckled and grabbed my hand, pulling us back into the middle of the party. Tristan had reminded him of all the stress with his father in a two-minute conversation. And with one kiss he was back to me. I relaxed into his side and took another look around the room—the party had really filled up since we’d arrived.

  “Is that Thomas?” I asked, squinting through the lights where I was pretty sure I saw Dylan’s assistant by the bar ordering a drink.

  Dylan nodded. “One of the perks of the job—he gets tickets too, when he wants them.”

  “Who’s that?” I asked, gesturing with my glass to the tall, rail-thin man standing next to Thomas. The two of them were wearing slim charcoal-grey suits and looked incredibly hip, and actually gorgeous. I hadn’t realized how handsome Thomas was before, probably because every time I’d seen him he was on the phone, chasing after Dylan, or bracing himself for a classic Hale explosion about something firm related.

  “His boyfriend, Alex.”

  “Thomas is gay?” I asked, somehow totally taken by surprise.

  “Mmm,” Dylan affirmed just as the two men approached us.

  “Sir,” Thomas said, nodding at Dylan. “Lydia,” he added, kissing my cheeks. “Lydia, this is Alex.”

  Alex and I chatted for a moment while Dylan and Thomas went over something work related. I could hear Dylan’s tone go all cold and efficient, as it did when he demonstrated just how immovable he was on some feature of a design. I heard him say, “If he wants hippie modernism tell him to call in Behrens. I’m not designing a geodesic dome or a sixties flight deck. He knows what he gets if he comes to me, and if he has half a brain and a pair of balls he’ll make the right decision. Tell him no.” I glanced at Thomas, who seemed remarkably cool. A month ago Thomas would have been sweating his ass off in the face of Dylan’s stubborn business arrogance. Now he took it in stride.

  Just as Alex was telling me about the vacation he and Thomas were planning to Provence, there was a familiar stirring in the doorway. A moment later Caroline’s swanlike frame emerged from the crowd the way someone might emerge from the mist in a music video from the eighties. Tall, elegant, as though the very lighting and air quality had been adjusted to make this one woman look profoundly beautiful and perfect. Immediately behind her was her younger brother, Prince Richard, whom I recognized from the tabloids, with his hand snugly around his willowy girlfriend, Jemma. The flashes became rapid-fire as the approved photographers captured the trio’s entrance.

  I leaned into Dylan’s side and spoke towards his ear. “I meant to ask you—am I supposed to curtsy?” He grimaced and twitched.

  “As an American, no. But since you’re a British citizen, then, technically, yes. But these days the formality isn’t required.” Clearly this whole thing was making him uncomfortable too. I was grateful I didn’t have to attempt the formality, but I took note that several people did bow or curtsy as she passed them.

  “Thank god,” I said, tightening my grip around his waist, letting him hold my body tight against his, and just then I saw Caroline’s gaze land on us. Richard caught sight of us and lit up, half dragging Jemma behind him.

  “Dylan,” said Caroline, gliding in to give him a gracious kiss on each cheek. “Won’t you introduce us?” She looked down towards me. Even with the increasingly torturous high heels she was taller. I expected to look at her and feel coldness or indifference, but her eyes were warm, kind.

  Dylan chuckled and put his broad, warm palm against my bare back. “With pleasure. Caroline, this is my girlfriend, Lydia Bell. Lydia, this is Her Royal Highness, Princess Caroline.” Dylan emphasized the title in a teasing way, and Caroline rolled her eyes at him in a way that spoke to their familiarity with each other, their closeness.

  I didn’t say anything—I was pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to say anything until she spoke to me first. This was kind of crazy—I was meeting a princess. Even if I was technically supposed to be rageful with proprietary jealousy, this was crazy cool. She had a lovely warm smile on her lips and was generously holding her hand out. I recovered quickly and gently shook her hand.

  “It’s so lovely to finally meet you, Lydia,” she finally said.

  “Likewise. It’s an honor, Your Royal Highness,” I replied, surprising myself that I was able to speak at all.

  “Please, call me Caroline. Dylan tells me you’re from New York.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Rarely,” I said as images of my Brooklyn apartment, my college life meandering around the Village, and of course my dad flashed before my eyes in a moment. It was amazing how little I’d managed to think of New York lately. I felt Dylan give my hip a squeeze. “I’ve felt very welcomed,” I added, smiling and looking up at Dylan.

  Caroline looked genuinely happy—she looked at Dylan with so much fondness, which somehow conveyed a deep friendship but nothing more. “I’m going there next week actually. I’ve only been twice before on state visits, but I’d like to do some more exploring this time. Any recommendations? Something off the beaten path?”

  This woman was a surprise.

  “Something a princess might not come across on her own?” I asked, unsure if my familiarity or reference to her title was a total faux pas. I could feel Dylan smiling beside me—his hand resting heavily on my hip—and had a feeling this was going just fine. He was being possessive, and his position let me know in no uncertain terms that he and I were a unit. No one could have mistaken him for being with anyone but me. I knew it was purposeful, and as much as I hated to admit it, it was appreciated.

  I proceeded to tell her about some of my favorite haunts, and the longer we chatted the easier it was to forget she was a princess. She was a pro at making people feel comfortable—she’d clearly been raised knowing how to miraculously and effortlessly maintain her princess-ness while putting those around her at ease. She didn’t blink as the photographers captured our conversation, and she didn’t fidget. At all. If it hadn’t been stunning to watch, I might have almost been creeped out by it. Despite all my intentions to grumpily feel competitive with her, I felt brought into her fold.

  Prince Richard joined the conversation just as Caroline gracefully excused herself. He had a bouncy, energetic jocularity about him. Floppy blond hair, twinkling blue eyes. He was a mischief-maker but kind. It was clear that his role as the younger sibling, the third in line to the throne, afforded him a more relaxed life. He spoke to Dylan with informal admiration, like Dylan was a cool older brother figure.

  And he was clearly eager for Dylan to meet Jemma—Richard was beaming as he introduced her, as though seeking Dylan’s approval. When Dylan reached out his hand, I saw Jemma blush, and at first I thought it was what women blushing around Dylan normally was—just taking in how domineering and handsome he was. But when I caught Dylan’s expression—his mouth in a firm line, his brow slightly furrowed as though he was trying to communicate something to her—I knew it was something more.

  Holy shit.

  She was blushing because she was remembering.

  * * *

  “So when did you sleep with her?”

  We’d been in the car for five minutes, and I still wasn’t touching him, my ass firmly planted on the other side of the car. I was sitting on my hands, and my nails were digging into the leather. I was so mad at the situation I didn’t quite know what to do with myself.

  Part of my mood was about those horrible shoes, which were clearly a size too small and which I had removed as soon as we were in the car and out of the photographers’ sights, but ninety-five percent was about the obvious look of lustful nostalgia on Jemma’s face.

  “What? Who?” he asked, looking at me warily, loosening his tie.

  “Oh, please.” Somehow I’d left this incredible party full of positive feelings for the gorgeous member of the royal family he used to date but completely annoyed about the bouncy, doe-eyed Jemma. “You think I didn’t see the way she looked at you? Like she wa
s remembering the best sex of her life?”

  Dylan exhaled, loosening his tie even further and turning to me. “Would it help if I said she didn’t even come close to being the best sex of my life? That no one could hold a candle to you? That I honestly couldn’t remember her name before Richard reintroduced us?”

  “Ugh,” I said with a look of disgust. “Your prior self is kind of repulsive.” He looked sad when I said that, and part of me wanted to apologize, but I was too pissed. I knew he had a colorful past full of countless ex-lovers, but I didn’t normally think about it. Somehow I’d convinced my conscious self—the one who actually went through the world day by day—that he had been celibate during all of those years between Caroline and me. If you’d asked me to discuss the topic out loud, outside the fantasy land of my brain, then obviously I would admit that wasn’t true, but I’d found myself remarkably capable of avoiding that reality. Until now.

  “How many?” I asked.

  “How many what?” He looked at me quizzically, pulling my hand out from under my ass and gripping it, trying to pull me towards him. I glanced out the window, and I knew we were only a few moments from my house, but I wanted to talk about this now. I needed to know. I gave him an incredulous look that said Think about it for two seconds, douchebag.

  “Oh,” he said, realizing. “God, Lydia. You really want to talk about this?”

  “I can’t believe we haven’t talked about it already.” I raised my palms and slapped them back down on the seat for emphasis.

  He sighed in frustration. “Loads.”

  “How. Many?” I asked again. He was dragging his long fingers through his hair, then he reached over and gave me another tug. “If you’re going to make me talk about this, can I at least do it with you on my lap?”

  I didn’t move.

  “Lydia. On my lap. Now.” I rolled my eyes and began to move towards him, but I hadn’t moved more than an inch when he just hauled me over him. “If you’re going to force me to think about other women, I want my hands on my woman.” He pushed the skirt of my dress up to my hips. He tucked his fingertips under the side of my thong and moved his whole palm underneath it. I could feel the short hair there, just growing in, against his palm, and the sensation made me shiver. I needed to focus before he successfully sexed his way out of this conversation.