by Parker Swift
During those days we drank each other in. And I felt free, possibly for the first time in my life. Daphne’s words had been running through my mind: This is about letting him take care of you. Something about Greece made me feel safe to do that, even just a little, to let go, let him in. And even though every once in a while it sent a shock of panic up my spine, I felt like maybe it was part of the reason he appeared to be letting his guard down too. I kind of hated it when Daphne was right.
We would leave the next morning, a Tuesday, and so Monday we lay in bed and made our plans for a perfect last day in paradise. We stayed tangled and daydreaming, planning our meals, planning our swims and our walks, and knowing full well that we probably wouldn’t make it past the pool, we were so hungry for each other.
After Dylan threw my newly purchased bikinis over the balcony in disgust, proclaiming that he preferred me swimming in the nude, and I fake protested, which resulted in us ravishing each other shamelessly right there on the balcony chairs, I decided on a shower.
When I emerged, I was disappointed to find him gone. I slipped on a pale blue linen sundress that tied around my neck, grabbed a big straw hat, and went in search of the man I was now so firmly in love with.
He wasn’t in the house or by the pool. He wasn’t in the gardens. But I finally heard his voice as I walked barefoot down the drive towards the gate.
There he stood, looking stern even if he was shirtless and wearing only a pair of trim blue shorts, and he was talking heatedly into the phone, in what sounded like Russian. He sounded angry, disbelieving, challenging. It was only a moment before he hung up and then immediately dialed another number and put the phone to his ear.
I turned before I could eavesdrop any more. I was curious, but I didn’t want to spy or intrude. I wanted Dylan to tell me whatever needed to be told. So I retreated back to the house and began packing our bags for the return trip home the next day.
That night, as we ate our calamari and fresh tomatoes, our salty feta and herbs, I casually tried to open the conversation.
“I heard you on the phone earlier,” I said, looking at him.
“Did you?” he asked, and I nodded.
“I didn’t know you spoke Russian—is that what that was?”
Dylan nodded.
“Were you talking to someone from that family?” I asked, all of a sudden slightly nervous about this conversation.
“The Bresnovs. Yes. They deny they had anything to do with it, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. I called my father about it,” he started, taking a swig of wine, “and you can imagine how that went. He wants to meet when we get back, but he’ll have to wait until I’m done with the project I’m working on. I’m not going to let him tear me away again.”
“I’m sorry, babe,” I said, frowning in sympathy. We’d had such a nice break from all of this.
“Let’s not worry about it,” he said. “Let’s enjoy this privacy, shall we?” he added, kissing my olive-oil-coated lips. “Which is all I want with you.”
He wasn’t going to tell me the details. He was back in his mode of protecting me from information. Protecting this paradise we’d been living in. I could hear him already—he’d say trust me or you needn’t worry, and I’d be left wondering. Wondering how my whole relationship with him was about escaping secrets, then finding new ones. Tearing down walls between us, only to find others right behind them.
Chapter 24
The trip, in spite of that nagging phone call at its end, could never truly lose its luster for me—I had experienced some of the most beautiful, authentic, simple, yet outrageously stunning moments of my life over those days with Dylan. I had blissfully forgotten about Geoffrey’s bribe and the cruel Internet articles about my needing Botox. I was determined that we could hold on to it, that we could continue that bliss in the face of all the pressures and stressors that were still an inevitable part of our London lives.
But I didn’t get the chance to find out—busy life resumed almost immediately. A mere two days later would be Prince Richard and Jemma’s engagement party.
In the time between our return from Greece and Friday’s party, Dylan delved into his work, and I made final tweaks on the upholstery for the furniture in the shop and ordered the garment bags and shopping bags. We tabled the moving-in conversation until the engagement party and Dylan’s current project were over.
On Friday, after a morning of fitting and pinning and hemming, Hannah had me at her studio for a series of post-lunch final decisions about my look for the big royal event. You’d think it was my wedding day based on the hubbub. Fiona was there, running day-to-day business from a makeshift desk by the window so Hannah could oversee her as well as me. I was currently trying on a coat, and Stephen, who would return later to do my hair and makeup, was stopping by to consult with Hannah on jewelry and the overall styling. It all seemed a little excessive.
“Who is responsible for these vile coats?” Hannah said with visible disgust and irritation. “I said ‘elegant Prohibition era’ not ‘a Kardashian twenties-themed bachelorette party.’ Is it that difficult?” Hannah looked between me and Fiona, holding us equally responsible for this coat disaster. I had suggested my new fabulous black coat, but Hannah seemed to have something very specific in mind, and since I’d already vetoed two other dresses, I figured it was time to compromise.
“It’s what Harvey Nichols sent over. They did send eight, I think,” I said.
“Shall I ring them and have them send more options?” asked Fiona.
Hannah replied with a look that said Do you expect me to answer that question? and Fiona immediately picked up the phone.
“Hannah, what if we did something like this?” Stephen was doing something with the hair on the top of my head, twisting it and looking to Hannah for her opinion. Hannah meanwhile was tying the belt on a coat around my waist. I felt like a doll. “And darker?” Stephen prodded, asking Hannah for clarification.
Hannah pursed her lips, looking at my hair and then at me, almost pleading. “Lydia, how attached are you to your hair color?”
“Fine.” I sighed, understanding perfectly well that what she was really asking is how much of a fight I would put up about dying my light brown locks. “As long as you’re not thinking about making it purple or something.”
She smiled, pleased, and began writing an address down on a piece of paper. “Good. Head over to this address and ask for Mike. Stephen will call ahead.” I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. I knew this was a big deal—Hannah was insane over the gown I’d be wearing—but this really did feel over the top. Then again, I guess it was a royal engagement party. I’m sure I wasn’t the only guest out there primping.
An hour and half later, I sat in the salon chair chatting with Mike, who, according to Stephen, was a genius with hair color. This was round two of the hair dye, and the whole thing was taking forever. Mike was telling me about coloring Madonna’s hair before her last tour when my phone beeped. I hoped to god it wasn’t Hannah having changed her mind about something, and my smile stretched across my face when I saw it was from Dylan.
FRIDAY, 3:31 pm
Do I need to call Hannah and tell her about the underwear rule?
FRIDAY, 3:31 pm
I think underwear rule is suspended at any event where actual royalty will be making an appearance.
FRIDAY, 3:32 pm
I’m afraid I’m the only one who can make that call, baby.
NKR in full effect.
FRIDAY, 3:32 pm
NKR?
FRIDAY, 3:32 pm
No knickers rule.
FRIDAY, 3:33 pm
Thank god we have a shorthand for these things.
I can count on you for efficiency, knighty.
As for NKR, we’ll see.
FRIDAY, 3:33 pm
If you know what’s good for you, you’ll do as I say.
FRIDAY, 3:33 pm
So bossy.
FRIDAY, 3:34 pm
Always.
FRIDAY, 3:34 pm
Where are you, anyway?
FRIDAY, 3:34 pm
At Humboldt, about to meet with my father.
Don’t worry, baby. I’ll be in town to pick you up.
Where will you be? Apart from sitting high on my cock, I mean.
FRIDAY, 3:34 pm
At the studio.
As for your cock: doubtful in the dress I’ll be wearing.
FRIDAY, 3:35 pm
Shame.
Where are you now?
I quickly took a picture of the mirror in front of me. What Dylan would see was me, in a black salon robe, with approximately one zillion squares of foil sticking out of my head.
FRIDAY, 3:35 pm
My girlfriend the alien.
FRIDAY, 3:36 pm
Blame Hannah.
FRIDAY, 3:37 pm
Must run, damsel.
See you in a few hours. Can’t wait to get my hands on you.
FRIDAY, 3:37 pm
XO
After Mike came Rebecca, the stylist, and I held my breath as she held the scissors in front of my face.
“Have you ever had real fringe?” I looked at her questioningly as she pointed at my long bangs with her threatening scissors.
“Um, well, my bangs have always been like this, swept to the side.” She was now combing the hair in front of my face, and the hair was tickling the bridge of my nose.
There was a painfully long period of snipping and trimming. I couldn’t see what she was doing or what she’d done before. After an eternity with the hair dryer and brush, she finally moved away, so I could see my reflection. I was frozen for a moment.
My hair was now a rich shade of brown with subtle caramel highlights. The layers looked somehow more natural. And my face was defined by real bangs—not ones I could twist into my long hair on the side or brush out of the way—ones that rested at my eyebrows. The effect was admittedly striking.
I was still staring when Rebecca started pulling my hair back, away from my face into a high ballerina-like bun, only somehow less severe. It was an Audrey Hepburn–ish thing, and I barely recognized this glammed-up version of myself.
Before I had a minute to truly appreciate the geniuses’ handiwork, my phone rang and Hannah was telling me to hightail it back to the studio. Dylan would be picking me up in just over an hour.
* * *
I was ready ten minutes before Dylan was meant to arrive, and our little team stood in front of the three-way mirror, admiring our handiwork.
The dress was midnight blue with a tulle skirt to the floor. The belted waist was adorned with silvery crystals and beading, and the bodice consisted of two gathered bunches of the tulle arising from the belt and meeting with the silk back of the dress at two delicate points at my shoulders. While my whole back was covered in transparent navy silk, and the skirt was long and impenetrable, the V in the front of the dress was deep. It didn’t actually show much skin, but it hinted at what couldn’t be seen. It was classy but undeniably sexy. The shoes, not that you could see them, were silver, strappy, and insanely comfortable. Fiona and I had spent approximately four hours shopping for them earlier that week, and I’d insisted on walking around Selfridges in each pair for a half hour before committing. These shoes, while they cost me what would have been a month’s rent back in New York, were not going to betray me.
Stephen slipped my lipstick into my clutch, and we were laughing at the nonsensical name of the color, Basking Berries in Bali, when my phone buzzed and indicated Dylan was downstairs.
“You look perfect,” said Fiona. “I mean it—you’re going to be the most beautiful woman there!”
“We did well, I think,” said Hannah, who I felt was congratulating herself and Stephen more than complimenting me. I looked at Fiona as I fastened my pearl stud earrings, and we jointly rolled our eyes.
I slipped on the cream-colored coat, which I thought was fabulous but Hannah had merely accepted as the least of all evils, and headed down to the car. When I emerged from the studio door, Dylan was leaning against the Mercedes, and his eyes went wide. The man looked nothing short of exquisite in his tuxedo, and it moved with him in a way that only bespoke suits can. He approached me like he was in a trance. I wasn’t sure I’d seen this look on his face since that day back at the jewelry store weeks earlier, like he was stunned, shaken by what he saw.
“What is it?” I asked, worried that something was wrong.
“You,” he began softly and gently brushed my new short bangs and put my face in his hands, “are far too gorgeous to go anywhere.”
“Oh, really?” I asked, smiling now. “Well, that would be a shame, given all the work that went into pulling this together. And you haven’t even seen the dress yet. And kiss me, for fuck’s sake. I feel like this day’s gone on forever!”
He pulled me against him and kissed me hard on the lips. Not one of his I’m-going-to-eat-you-alive kisses—this one was long, slow, and almost reverent, or even melancholy.
I pulled away to look at his face, see if everything was okay. I knew this look, a look I hadn’t seen in a few weeks, a look he was fighting off—the cold concern of having been with his father. Only it was something else too.
“Are you okay? Everything okay at Humboldt Park?” I asked.
He looked thoughtful for a moment and then determined, like he was shoving something aside. “Fine,” he said, taking my hand. “Come, I want to show you off.” He smiled, but I could tell it was forced. Something was on his mind, and I would have to press him on it later. I was done being patient for him to open up to me about things.
Lloyd came around to open our door, and as I was stepping in he said quietly, “You look lovely, Miss Bell.”
“Thank you, Lloyd,” I replied and gave him an excited kiss on the cheek. I hadn’t seen him in a week, and even though we barely spoke, my affection for the old man had grown. Frank, whom Dylan had yet to dispatch, was off for the night—he’d been less present since it seemed like we’d taken care of the cyberstalker on our hands, but Dylan still hadn’t figured out how the Bresnovs had gotten that video footage, so my sidekick wasn’t gone entirely. Maybe that was what was bugging him?
We settled into the car, and Dylan pulled me against him, but I chastised him to watch out for the skirt. “Hannah will kill me if I tear this thing before we even get there.”
“Shame,” he said while smiling. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box with a bow. “I brought you something. For tonight,” he said, and he handed me the square box. He seemed happy to be back with me, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
I removed the purple satin ribbon and opened the lid to find a delicate display of diamonds sparkling back at me. It was a bracelet, a cuff about two inches wide, decorated with a wavy grid of diamonds.
“I had it designed especially for your miniature wrist,” Dylan said, holding my wrist in his warm hand while I remained dumbstruck, turning it in my hand. “May I?”
“Dylan, I—” I didn’t even know what to say. It wasn’t that I needed jewelry or expensive gifts, but this spoke volumes of how much he had been thinking about me, and it felt like, well, probably like a present should. Really good. Not to mention stunning.
“Baby,” he said softly, sensing the emotions taking me over. He gently picked up my wrist, kissed it, and slid the cuff into place. I looked at my adorned wrist, and the piece was regal, magnificent. I’d never have been able to even imagine something like it.
“I love it,” I said, wiping a stray tear away. “It’s gorgeous.”
He wiped a second tear from my other cheek and kissed me gently on the hand. “As I said, I had to explain to the jeweler how my girlfriend has these tiny wrists, and it mustn’t overwhelm her, but it had to be original. I had a vision, and it came out exactly as I’d hoped.”
The car was slowing, lining up at the entrance to Buckingham Palace. The last time I’d been there, I’d been too nervous to say
more than a few words.
“Damsel, I’m afraid I won’t be great company tonight.” Dylan’s tone had reverted to the resigned, distracted coolness I’d caught a glimpse of earlier. I tried to get a clear look at his eyes as our car crept up in the line to the entrance.
“What? Why?” I’d been hearing for days about how big a deal this party was, how many important people were going to be there. This felt like a big night, and now not only did something seem to be bothering him, but he was also going to leave me alone?
“I don’t like it either, baby,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “But my father can’t be here. He’s not feeling well,” he said, rolling his eyes. “So I’m on official duty.”
“Official marquess duty?” He nodded in reply. “Like what?”
He sighed again, highlighting the return of something darker, something I desperately didn’t want to believe was returning. “I’m representing my family, which comes with baggage, I’m afraid. It won’t take long, then I’ll rejoin you.”
“Can’t I stay with you?”
“I’m afraid not, damsel,” he said, holding my hand in his own. He had a pained look on his face. Torn. He felt torn. And guilty. “Baby, I’m sorry. Will should be here,” he added as Lloyd opened the door. “And Emily will be flitting about. It won’t be for long. Don’t fret, baby.”
I wasn’t ready to get out of this car. I wanted to hit PAUSE. Time out. I wanted to go back to Greece, to a moment when Dylan didn’t seem stressed or distracted, when I felt like I had a handle on things.
