by Parker Swift
After getting out of the car to the usual fanfare, he kissed my hand but then dropped it before we climbed the stairs. Someone took my coat and gave Dylan a tag for it, which he pocketed. He glanced at my dress and smiled, but we didn’t even have time to exchange another word before we had to pause for photographs inside the palace doors.
A second later, Dylan was whisked away by some kind of butler in a morning suit. I saw him duck into a room at the end of the hall, followed by a waiter carrying a large tray of cocktails, and before I knew it I was standing before a wide set of open doors, looking into a buzzing ballroom in Buckingham Palace, alone.
The only saving grace was that I had somehow gotten a Champagne glass into my hand.
The room was enormous and gilded, and I felt like the whole scene was plucked from a fairy tale. It was packed with other gowns, other tuxedos and suits, and delightful, slightly buzzed chatter. Richard and Jemma’s friends—the young set here to indulge and party—had collected by the bar, the girls’ dresses twirling occasionally, the boys drunkenly slapping each other on the shoulder. The old important people, their parents in all likelihood—the old guard who were important enough to be here but not important enough to be wherever Dylan was—chatted more quietly at the other side of the large room.
I saw Jemma in the corner, tucked into Richard’s side, the two of them beaming. It was hard to remember why I’d been so jealous in that moment weeks earlier. Standing here now, in this ballroom, I felt like there was no way she’d ever been let into Dylan’s life the way I had. But in that moment I also felt this worry creeping over me that being let in might not be all it was cracked up to be.
I wandered the edges, eating the occasional canapé and pretending to admire the artwork but really trying to sort out how I’d gotten myself into this situation. Part of me was furious with Dylan. Don’t fret. He’d said it like he was talking to a child, like my concerns about navigating this enormous event on my own were inconsequential, like he’d forgotten for a moment that I wasn’t one of his boarding school mates, born into this scene, walking into a roomful of friends. But my fury was tinged with something that tasted like regret. I couldn’t quite understand it.
“Lydia!” I heard a familiar voice interrupt my thoughts from behind me and turned to see Emily. She looked like she’d walked straight out of a photo spread in Vogue—sleek long hair with just a little wave at the bottom; a slim pale pink dress, flowing like a column to the floor. She appeared ten inches taller than she already was. “I’m so glad I found you!”
I smiled and went in for a gentle let’s-not-mess-each-other-up hug. “Me too.”
“Where’s that rascal brother of mine?”
I shrugged and glanced back towards the doors at the far end of the room, doors that had formally clad staff standing guard outside.
“Oh, right—Caroline’s in there too. And the other dukes and their stuffy wives. And a few of the other stodgy types. And the queen and her husband and the whole sordid lot of them. They’re probably all just sipping something not alcoholic enough and congratulating each other on how proper they are. Snooze.” She rolled her eyes at the whole affair.
“Yeah, well…” My words drifted. I didn’t really know what to say. Emily must have seen my ambivalence, because she grabbed my elbow with one hand and flagged a waiter with another.
“Let’s get you some more Champagne, shall we? And then you have to turn around so I can get a good look at this dress. And your hair! You look incredible, Lydia, seriously. I mean, you were gorgeous before, but golly, I feel like I’m in the presence of a Hollywood starlet or something. My brother’s a moron if he stays in there one-tenth of a second longer than required.”
I twirled for her halfheartedly, and we chatted for a few more minutes about how Richard was a troublemaker—rabble-rouser were Emily’s words—and Jemma was an unfortunately predictable match for him. Emily’s words there were Wouldn’t it have been more fun if he’d ended up married to a barrister or a dentist or something? followed by a heavy sigh, as though it were such a shame to be so boring. Eventually she looked up and smiled at someone behind me.
“I’m afraid I have to go mingle—one of the horrors of these things,” she said, although I doubted she really minded. She was so good at it. “I’m leaving you in capable hands.”
Turning, I found Will.
“Oh, you!” I said and gave him a brief hug. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“You, dear Lydia, look absolutely ravishing. All of these poor buggers are surely killing themselves that Dylan found you first,” he said conspiratorially, gesturing to the crowd with his glass of Scotch. “I heard on good authority that Lord Dartford nearly choked when you walked into this room moments ago, resulting in half his glass of Champagne ending up on his shirt, and his wife, Lady Elsbeth, is now giving him the cold shoulder.”
“You make this stuff up. I mean, it’s sweet, but you’re a total liar.”
“On my honor,” he said, smiling, and I rolled my eyes.
“Well, you look dashing,” I said eyeing him up and down. “I never thought I’d see you outside of your chef garb.”
He shrugged bashfully. “So the daft wanker’s abandoned you, has he?”
I shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t exactly fly to introduce your mistress to one’s fellow aristocrats.” Will winced.
“Yes, well, he’s not married, so you’re not his mistress, but you’re not his fiancée or wife either, and there’s the rub, I’m afraid. None of that matters out there.” He gestured to a window, indicating life outside the palace walls. “But in here, there are some rather old-fashioned views about these things. And after what happened with the CBC and all, I’m sure you understand. But you’re here, aren’t you? That’s the important thing.”
“Wait, what? What happened with the CBC?” I asked Will, who looked slightly pale all of a sudden, like he’d just gotten himself into trouble.
“Oh dear. I thought Dylan would have told you, and now I’ve made a muck of things, haven’t I?”
“Will?” I said in as threatening a tone as possible.
He sighed heavily. “Knowing can only help. Apparently Her Majesty gave a disapproving glare or something to old Geoff when Dylan brought you to tea—a word, a gesture, a nod—I have no idea really. She wasn’t keen that Dylan had shown up with his girlfriend, and he wouldn’t give a flying fuck about that, not really, although, I mean, she is the queen.” Will shuddered in mock fear. “Well, as you can imagine, Geoffrey ripped your boyfriend a new arsehole for that one. No one cares more about the queen’s good graces than Geoffrey.”
“I’m not totally following,” I said, trying to figure out the intricacies of royal etiquette.
“You see Dylan hadn’t told his father he was bringing you—he’d just rung the queen’s secretary on his own.” He must have noticed my look of horror, because he quickly followed it with, “Not to worry. Word has it you were stunning, and the old bat said something along the lines of you ‘having spirit.’ So all’s well, and truthfully she adores Dylan, always has done, which is shocking given the Caroline debacle. But you see Geoffrey is the duke, not Dylan, and therefore it was a bit cheeky to bring you unannounced. Broke rank and all that, so liking you isn’t really the issue—Her Majesty prefers things be kept in order, so to speak. Anyhow, I’m sure Dylan’s just trying to play nice now.”
“I had no idea,” I said, thankfully feeling less embarrassed about being an uninvited guest but still frustrated with this whole mess. Would I ever understand the bizarre dos and don’ts of the royalty? What a disaster!
Will nodded. “Now let’s go tackle one of these garçons and get drunk, shall we?” Will took my arm in his, and we went looking for more drinks.
Eventually we found our way to a group of men that looked to be roughly Will’s and Dylan’s age. One of them I recognized as Tristan Bailey. I didn’t like him, and I wasn’t exactly in the mood for more snobbery.
“Will, who do we have
here?” said one of the guys, patting Will on the back.
But before Will could introduce me, Tristan spoke up. “Oh, Charlie, haven’t you met Lydia? This is Dylan’s new lass. An American,” he added, looking at the group in a way that suggested they all knew what that meant, presumably that I was a slut or something. “Where are you from again? Brooklyn?” The guy was drunk, and there was no hiding the derogatory tone in his words.
Will leaned in and whispered in my ear, “Ignore him, Lydia. He’s an arse.”
“You know, I think I’ll go get some air,” I said to Will, and he nodded. I just didn’t have this in me. I hadn’t seen Dylan since we’d arrived forty-five minutes ago, and I was pissed. I had started this night feeling so glamorous and beautiful, but now I was dejected and bored. And as much as I hated to admit it, I felt intimidated, like a lamb sent to the slaughter, like that whole room of people was ready to devour me for being “unofficial” or unsanctioned or American or un-Botoxed. The room was full of interesting people, people who probably had great stories, people I normally would have been happy to meet. I should have been enthralled, giddy, but instead I felt like I was skirting the edges, hiding. I just needed to breathe, to be somewhere quiet for a moment, so I could feel like myself. I walked to the edge of the room and stepped through a door back into the main hallway.
Chapter 25
I was only twenty feet from the door I’d come through when I felt a hand on my arm. Hopeful, I spun around, only to find Tristan, whose grip on me was getting stronger.
“Excuse me,” I said firmly. “I just need to find the restroom.”
“Aw, don’t be like that, sweetheart,” he said, and he started pulling me next to him, almost dragging me to the end of the hall into an empty room. I started to struggle, but I’d learned too many times that it was all too easy to end up being an embarrassment to Dylan. The last thing I wanted to do was make a scene with someone who worked for his father. Even if he was a dick.
The room was some kind of anteroom, like a staging area, with a couple of chairs and a desk and then a door to yet another room. But he stopped and moved me towards a wall. Suddenly I was very, very nervous.
“Tristan, what do you want?” I tried to keep my tone normal, but I was cold suddenly, and nervous. Nothing about this felt right.
He just laughed, and a disgusting bit of drunken spit collected at the corner of his mouth. Fuck, this was bad. I turned to leave—I just needed to get out of there. But before I could get very far, Tristan had grabbed my hand and pulled me back.
“Tristan. Stop. I—” But my words turned into a series of incomprehensible nos.
“Come on, baby,” he began, and he leaned into me, pinning me against the wall with his hips. I could feel his hardness against me, and I wanted to vomit. I tried to wriggle free, but he pinned both my wrists in one of his hands and moved them above my head. His hands were clammy and too strong. His breath smelled of gin, and his face was too close, too warm. I felt disgusting. Trapped. I started to cry against all my wishes—the wet tears dropping into the bare deep V of my dress, reminding me of how exposed I was. I couldn’t handle this. He had to get away from me. I couldn’t do this. Even though I was essentially pinned against the wall, I put all the force I could summon into ramming my knee firmly into his crotch.
“Motherfucker!” I shouted.
He grunted in pain and swore loudly, more spit landing on my chest, but somehow he managed to keep my hands pinned to the wall.
“You bitch!” he screamed as he regained composure. “But that’s how you like it, isn’t it? A little rough?” He drove my legs wider, pinning them with his thighs, restricting my movement even more, and I lost my balance in my shoes. I couldn’t get the leverage to try to hit him again.
“Fuck you, asshole!” I screamed, trying to keep the whimper in my voice at bay.
“Aww, sweetheart. You know you want this. You must be fantastic in the sack—why else would Dylan Hale want a gold-digging whore like you? This cunt must be pretty special.” His knee was pushing the fabric of my dress between my legs. And that word, a word that Dylan made sound so sexy, felt scary coming from Tristan’s mouth.
I could feel my own trembles against his chest as he pressed into me, and then his hand moved inside the front of my dress, and he roughly, sloppily grabbed my breast.
“Get off me!” I screamed, although I could hear how rough my voice was and doubted it carried.
“What? So Dylan’s the only one who’s allowed to tie you up and screw you, you kinky bitch? He’s the only one allowed to rough you up and tuck little toys inside your pussy? Why else would a man like him tote around a nothing little whore like you?”
All of a sudden he was fiercely pulled away from me, and I sank against the wall, wrapping my arms around myself, the tears starting to come in earnest.
“Because I love her, you prick! Get the fuck off of her!” It was Dylan, and I looked up just in time to see his fist connect with Tristan’s face. Suddenly Will was in the room, closing the door behind him and crouching next to me, asking if I was okay and gently rubbing my shoulder, holding me against him. I was so overwhelmed, the sensations were assaulting me, and I was trying to adjust to the scene in front of me. Will looked down and pulled my dress back into place.
Tristan was holding his nose, which was bleeding, and Dylan had him jammed up against the wall, one hand pushing into his chest, the other grabbing his chin. Dylan looked ready to spit on him. I’d never in my life seen fury unleashed, not really. This is what that looked like. It was terrifying, but there was also safety in knowing that fury was on my side.
“You?” he demanded. “Fucking you?” All of a sudden I realized what Dylan was responding to. Oh my god. The emails. They had to be from him. How else would Tristan know that Dylan had tied me up during sex?
Tristan started to laugh. “Took you long enough to figure it out, golden boy, didn’t it?”
“You fucker! How?” Dylan wasn’t screaming, but his voice had dropped two octaves, and I’d never heard a sound so threatening.
“A first in computer engineering paid off,” he said, and he was actually laughing in his sense of victory. “And you and your team of imbeciles went down every false path I laid out for you.” He was so pleased with himself. He was maniacal.
“Why, you pathetic piece of shit? Fucking why?” The veins in Dylan’s neck were throbbing, his eyes could kill, and somehow he’d lost his tuxedo jacket in all of this. I’d never once, not ever, seen Dylan out of control. Not even in bed with me. Dylan was putting all his weight into Tristan, his hand now gripping his throat, and Tristan was getting redder and redder.
Tristan laughed hoarsely. “Why do you think, you precious asshole? You’re a goddamn undeserving playboy. I’m the one who saved Hale Shipping from financial oblivion. I’m the one who’s there for your father every day. I’m the one who’s actually helped him run Humboldt for the past decade. Where have you been, my lord? Gallivanting around town with chambermaids? Star fuckers? Whoring yourself out with whatever pussy was available? And now bringing here some slut who has no right to be anywhere near the Abingdon name? Your father was right—you’re shameless. It was time someone took you down a peg or two, don’t you think?”
Dylan was seething. I half expected to see white foam come from his lips he was so angry.
Tristan had a bizarre look of triumph on his face as he continued. “I may have no right to Humboldt, which is a fucking mistake of birth. But I goddamn well have a right to Hale Shipping. I should be the one to run that place. Do you know how long I’ve been kissing your father’s ass? How much I’ve put up with? How far I’ve gone to prove that Hale Shipping would be better off in my hands? And still the old man insists it’s yours. How does it feel, Hale? Standing by while someone fucks with what’s yours?
“And you made it easy, didn’t you? You offered her up on a silver platter, fawning like an idiot, showing the world just how in love you were with that stunt at the Sav
oy. Pathetic. Your security guard made things fun, added some challenge, but I never thought you’d make it so easy to get to you, Hale. So easy, I almost thought you wanted me to watch. You two put on quite a show—”
Dylan shoved his hand into Tristan’s chest in fury, jamming him against the wall. “Why? Why did you do it?”
Tristan laughed again. “Apart from the joy of watching you flail about? Of sending you on that little wild-goose chase? Easy. Now that I’ve had my fun—and compiled enough evidence—the press can have your little video, those pictures. Do you honestly think the board will put the company in the hands of a depraved, ruined dilettante? And who would be the best choice for your replacement? How about the man who’s been at your father’s side for the last decade while his real son was off not giving a shite? The best part? Where Hale Shipping goes, so does Humboldt. It will all be mine. Maybe not the title, but the rest of it, and I’ve fucking earned it, unlike you and your piece of ass over here.”
Dylan reared back his hand punched Tristan in the face once again, and Tristan wilted, his face in his hands, knees buckled from the pain. “Like hell you will. The first one was for Lydia, you asshole. That one was for my family. You’re done.” Dylan’s words were like ice—fury incarnate. “Now,” he said, turning to Will, “get this pathetic fuck out of here.”
Will looked down at me and whispered, “You okay, Lydia?” I nodded, and he got up and dragged Tristan by the arm to the entrance of the small room. I couldn’t imagine what kind of repercussions there would be for having a fistfight in Buckingham Palace.
“Baby,” Dylan uttered under his breath and came rushing over to me, pulling me up and firmly against his chest, wrapping his arms clear around me. He kissed the top of my head and let his lips be planted there. He held my face in his hands and stroked my tear-stained cheeks. “Christ, Lydia, are you okay?”
But before I could answer, Will returned with the beat-up Tristan. When Dylan looked at him as if to ask What the fuck? Will explained that the palace had asked that we wait until the coast was clear and transportation had been arranged before removing Tristan, who was hunched over, nursing his face, and mumbling about Geoffrey and Hale Shipping.
