by Parker Swift
That evening’s gala was Prince Arthur’s annual charity thing, and I cursed its existence as I stood in the closet dressing. Lydia sat cross-legged on the bench, a glass of wine in her hand, wearing nothing but one of my shirts and a pair of leggings. Those leggings should be fucking illegal. No, fuck that. It should be illegal for her to wear anything but those leggings. Christ, I was definitely going to end up going to this party with a hard-on.
“So what’s the party for again?” she asked, taking a sip of her wine and twirling a strand of her hair between her fingers. The dark hair dye from the previous winter had faded, and it was returning to its caramel color. She’d kept that fringe though, which I adored.
“It’s Prince Arthur’s annual charity thing. My father used to go.”
“But now it’s your job,” she said, standing. She came over to me and took the tie in my hand and brought it back to the shelf. I watched her sway back and forth, side to side on the balls of her feet, as she looked at my ties, and I wanted to devour her. “This one.” She draped the thin ocean-blue tie around my neck. “It’s different,” she added, using the ends of the tie to pull me closer.
I took the ends of the tie from her hands, kissed her, and began the work of a Windsor knot. “I’m tempted to remind you that once the world knows you’re the Duchess of Abingdon, you won’t be able to escape these things either.” I looked in the mirror behind her to straighten the tie.
She just smiled and landed a kiss on my lips, one I couldn’t escape even if I wanted to, before she sauntered away. She sang out, “Be good, knighty!” as she sashayed down the hallway, back to the library, where she’d inevitably curl up with her laptop for the evening.
Christ, I was an idiot for leaving that woman at home alone.
* * *
It’s not that I truly despised the Prince Arthur’s annual spring party in honor of the Racehorse Sanctuary, a place where Thoroughbreds went to retire. I was more than happy to support the animals; although there was something a tad hypocritical about the whole business, which you’d know if you went to Ascot and saw just how thoroughly His Royal Highness enjoyed the horses’ working years. It wasn’t that I’d ever hated these kinds of things—to the contrary, I hadn’t thought of them at all. Attending these parties, ones bursting at the seams with every titled lady and gentleman in Great Britain, and some foreign dignitaries to boot, had always just been part of the fabric of my life, lines in my journal, part of the hum.
That year had some kind of casino theme, a James Bond–ish affair, and the great hall at the palace had been set up like a gambling parlor, with all of the proceeds going to the charity, of course. Normally, it would’ve suited me fine, but tonight felt different. Leaving Lydia, even if only for the evening, felt odd. Being there, in my tux, tumbler in one hand, rubbing two chips together in my other, I felt as though I was playing a part. I’d prefer to have been at home, with my fiancée. No, I wanted her there, with me.
Had she been there, she would have been charming the bloody pants off Prince Arthur—the man always had a thing for young women, particularly those who didn’t play by the rules and had a little life in them. Not that I wanted him ogling my fiancée, but I wouldn’t have minded watching her fend him off in that way she always seemed to be able to—with grace and just enough fire in her belly. Like some kind of social ninja, she would extricate herself with a smile, leaving poor blokes standing there somehow thinking they’d won a prize when in fact she’d effectively just told them to sod off. She was bloody brilliant. And she would have worn something perfect, perhaps the dress she’d worn to the Serpentine the previous year, to a party for Jemma and Richard. The back dipped low towards her arse, and made her neck look long in this way that—
“My lord?”
My thoughts were interrupted by the blackjack dealer. I nodded at him, and asked for a card. I already had two eights, but I still couldn’t help myself. A four. Didn’t get much better than that, but I still felt like something was missing.
“What’s the matter, my lord?” I turned to see Beatrice Pollard, standing at my side, her arm placed strategically close to mine at the table. “Feeling lonely?” she said in a false, overly coquettish whisper.
Beatrice, or “Beadie” as everyone had called her, was a force. She was, admittedly, stunning. At nearly five foot ten and with her mother’s Middle Eastern coloring, she was striking, and had managed to spend most of her twenties modeling. I was also rather certain she had dandelions for brains, and her voice had this treacly quality that made me want to off myself. Of course it hadn’t stopped me from sleeping with her a few years back, a mistake of epic proportions since she’d been relentless in her appeals for a solid six months following.
“Not in the slightest, Beadie. Are you well this evening? Enjoying yourself?” The woman had always been an opportunist. Not to mention unoriginal. She was wearing a version of what every woman between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five was wearing—some kind of strapless, solid-colored thing that was purposefully revealing but conservative enough that the old guard would approve. It was like they all got together and decided exactly how far they could push the line.
“Are you still with that girl? I haven’t seen you together lately.” She frowned with false sympathy, and tried to edge closer to me. The way she said that girl gnawed at me, as though Lydia were some fleck of gossip that could be cast aside. But I also found it oddly calming. The more this lot dismissed her, the more they’d leave her alone. Beadie was like a bellwether for the paparazzi. If her dismissal was any indicator, we were doing the job of keeping our relationship low profile rather well, perhaps rather too well if people weren’t even sure whether we were together anymore.
I ignored her comment with purpose, refusing to stir any gossip where Lydia was concerned, slid the chips I’d just won into my pocket, and rose to head to the bar. She followed me, abandoning her cards at the table. “How’s Nick?” I asked, falling into the politeness routine. Ask about the boyfriend? Check.
“Oh, didn’t you hear? We…” I was pretty sure she was telling me a story about how they’d broken up, but I’d stopped listening. My mind was drifting into a calculation about how long I should stay. My mother still hadn’t arrived, and I probably needed to be here when she did. And if I was going to make the evening worthwhile, there were a few people I should talk to. I wondered what Lydia was doing at that moment—she’d mentioned she might invite Fiona over so they could work on her online jewelry store. The two of them had put in at least a hundred hours, and the launch of the store had been a success by any standard. Lydia seemed to have a knack for it, not to mention I fell a bit more in love with her every time she did that mad little jumping dance when she had a success with work.
Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by a screech at my side. I looked down to see Beadie bent over, hopping about and holding her ankle. I’d zoned her out completely, but apparently she’d continued to follow me, and now Amelia Reynolds, of all people, was at her side, doing an admirably horrible job of helping her friend. You’d think that with the decade of finishing school between them they could have kept the shrieks and chaos to a minimum.
What a fucking mess. I set my drink on the tray of a passing waiter, bent down, and lifted Beadie to standing—she gripped my side tightly, plastering herself against me. “Are you all right?” I asked. “What in god’s name happened?”
“I tripped. These shoes…” She sucked air in through gritted teeth, indicating she was in pain, and pointed towards a pair of lime-green stilettos that looked more like weapons than shoes. Amelia remained close by, holding Beadie’s hand with about as much strength as a kitten. Totally fucking useless.
“All right, well, let’s get you to a place to sit, shall we?” I wrapped my arm around Beadie’s waist and let her put all of her weight onto me as I moved her out of the main room towards a lounge by the toilets. The room had gotten crowded, tuxedos and evening gowns brushing up against one another right along eg
os and Oscar-worthy social performances. And here I was navigating around drunken chatting groups with a hobbled socialite and her sidekick. Fucking hell. These women were a nightmare.
“In here,” Beadie said, pointing towards a closed door.
“It’s just a big farther to the lounge.” I kept moving.
“No, I can’t go another step. Please, let’s just go in here.” I sighed in resignation as Amelia opened the door to the darkened room, and I lifted Beadie over the threshold.
“Now, let’s find a place to put you and perhaps, Amelia, you can go fetch one of the staff?” The noises from the party had dimmed behind us, and light shining into the darkened space illuminated a harpsichord and a standing harp but nowhere to sit. Could nothing be easy that night? I pulled a low side table from the wall and gestured for Beadie to sit on it, but she didn’t budge; in fact, she leaned in closer.
“What’s the rush, Dyl?” Amelia asked, her eyes falling into half-closed seduction. Oh, fucking Christ.
I looked down to Beadie, who was still standing, hugged into my side, only now she miraculously seemed to be able to stand perfectly well on her own. They had to be joking. In a flash, Beadie’s arms were around my neck, and her face was alarmingly close to mine. Amelia was moving in on my other side, her hands sliding under my jacket lapels, her nails curling to dig into me and her lips perched at my ear.
“What the ever-loving fuck?” I said sternly as I stiffened instinctively and pulled away, not allowing another inch to close between us, expanding the distance as efficiently as possible. The feel of other women touching me, seducing me, and even hinting at that kind of intimacy felt repellant, every cell in my body rejecting the scene they were begging for.
I looked at both of them, their faces lit by the light pouring into the room behind me, neither having any trouble standing on their own at all, and took in their expressions—far too smug to suggest they’d understood the full extent of my rejection. They looked as though my no was just a starting point for negotiations.
“To answer your earlier question, Beadie, Lydia and I haven’t broken up, nor are we likely to. My girlfriend and I live together, and we intend to for some time. And let’s be perfectly clear, lest there be a misunderstanding on this point: I will never be unfaithful to her.” Amelia had the goddamn nerve to roll her eyes, as though my dating Lydia were some kind nuisance I was inflicting on her, and Beadie just looked confused.
To be fair, I’m not sure either of them ever thought they’d hear a speech railing against infidelity from me, of all people. I often forgot that to the vast majority of people, I was still the commitment-avoidant cad I’d always been. It was funny really, and I couldn’t help but smile, because if they had any grasp of who I was was, they’d realize how comically little chance they had at seducing me away from Lydia.
“Now, ladies, for your sake and mine, let’s pretend this little interlude didn’t happen, shall we? The last thing I’m sure either of you want is that lot”—I gestured back towards the party—“prattling on about how you were rejected for a threesome in the palace music room.” The two of them gasped in offense and looked at each other before returning their attention to me. “And I’d appreciate your continued discretion as well. Lydia and I are together, decidedly, but we prefer to keep that private. I’m sure you understand.” The two of them had dropped jaws, and I caught a flicker of a scowl at the edges of Amelia’s brow. I stepped from the room into the brightly lit hallway and said over my shoulder, “I’ll send a waiter with some ice.”
Fuck, that had been close. How had I been naïve enough to follow Beadie fucking Pollard into a dark room? Bloody hell. A second longer and her lips would have been on mine. What was an annoyance had been a hair away from being something I’d have a damn hard time explaining to Lydia. The fact was, I was lucky to be walking away from those two women being able to honestly say that nothing had happened. What a goddamn nightmare. I couldn’t bloody wait until Lydia and I were married and every twat in this fucking town would understand that they had better luck of getting struck by goddamn lightning—twice—than getting anywhere with me.
I went straight to the bar, ordered a whisky, and emptied the glass like a classless arse before asking for another. As I stood there, softening my stress with liquor, I saw Beadie and Amelia on the far side of the bar, laughing heartily at something some tosser was saying. Amelia caught my eye and gave me a look that confirmed, with zero uncertainty, that I had fully crossed the line from the man she thought she may land one day to being on some list of men she despised. It was probably titled something like The Real Wankers of London. Good riddance. After forking over enough dosh and making the polite conversations I was there to make, agreeing to possibly redesign the Majorca estate of the newly married Baron of Essex, and generally having made a presentable appearance, I headed for the exit. I needed to get back to Lydia and get that pretty pussy of hers under my mouth before I lost it entirely.
Chapter 7
Lydia
I was so tired that I could barely keep my eyes open, which was not good.
Hannah had asked me to meet her at her office—I normally went straight to the store, where it wouldn’t really matter if my eyes were at half-mast. But I had a ton to get done—it was Friday, and I’d be leaving for New York the next morning. The night before Dylan had come home from that party in a state of near desperation. Presumably the fact that there’d be no sex for a month had just dawned on him—the last time he’d gone a month without sex was probably middle school.
I’d been asleep, sprawled out facedown on our bed, and I’d woken to him hovering above me, his hand sweeping my hair off my back, pushing my T-shirt over my head, laying kisses across my bare back. He had whispered “marry me” and “say yes” as we’d made love. He’d done this before while making love to me, reminded me how much he wanted me to be his. I’d usually say “I love you” and “soon” and make love to him right back. But last night felt just a little more raw, a little more real. And making love had turned into the feverish kind of fucking that included handcuffs he apparently had stowed away in his sock drawer and sounds I should have been embarrassed by in the light of day. It had been nearly two in the morning before I’d fallen asleep again.
“Lydia?” I looked up, fighting a yawn, and saw Fiona glaring at me in a way that suggested she’d probably said my name three times already. “Hannah said she’s ready to meet now.” She held out a cup of coffee, which I pulled out of her hand with probably a little too much enthusiasm.
“Are you in this meeting too?”
She nodded. “Any idea what it’s about?”
I shook my head as we stepped into Hannah’s crisp white office and sat before her desk. She was beaming, so presumably it was good news.
“Morning, ladies. I’ll cut right to it.” She looked between us like she was about to tell us we’d all won the lottery. “We’re opening up a proper shop on Madison Avenue in New York.”
Fiona and I just looked at each other, then back at her. This was amazing. It was everything we’d been working for. Her brand was growing, faster than any of us had anticipated. If we managed to get a New York store up and running within the next eighteen months, it would represent unprecedented growth for a company of our size.
“That’s incredible, Hannah. I’m thrilled for you,” I said, still in awe, pleased that the Knightsbridge store must be doing well if we were moving forward.
“I’m glad to hear you say that, Lydia. Because my hope is that you’ll be the one to do it. I want you to go to New York tomorrow and do the pop-up as planned, but I’d also like you to stay on and oversee the opening of the proper shop.” Thoughts started to swarm through my mind. Stay? In New York? “And, Fiona, you can take over for Lydia here. You can work from her office and take over management of the shop in Knightsbridge, if it suits you.” Fiona dove right in with the effusive gratitude. I smiled, still struggling to process this.
“Wait, what?” I asked, pro
bably a little more abruptly than was professional. I cleared my throat and tried to refocus while images and thoughts of being back in New York for more than a few weeks flew through my mind. “Um, when would this happen? What’s the timeline?”
“Oh, I shan’t think you’d need to be there for much more than six months, don’t you think? So if you leave at the weekend, you’ll be back before Christmas. Or of course if you want a permanent position in New York, I’d be happy to discuss it.”
Six months? Why did that number make me feel sick? It was an opportunity. To be trusted to open the shop in New York was a big deal. But something felt off about the whole thing. I couldn’t process it here, in Hannah’s office. Before I had time to think it through, to respond, to do anything other than the situation required in terms of thanks and enthusiasm, the meeting was over, and technically I was committed to leaving London tomorrow. For New York. For six months.
* * *
After downloading the news with Josh, who was immediately planning Hannah-funded trips to New York, I chose to walk to the store. It wasn’t too far, and I needed to think. I needed to figure this out.
For the past five months, I’d taken my mission to heart: Put yourself first. Enjoy the freedom of life out of the spotlight. Get your career off the ground before it competes with running an ancient estate and being on your husband’s arm.
For five months, I’d said yes to all things. Late nights dancing with Fiona and Josh. Girlie nights with Emily. Paris for Fashion Week. Long runs in the park by myself without paparazzi trailing me. Late nights working on the launch of Fiona’s online store. Dylan and I had kept our relationship low profile so that I could do all those things, so I wouldn’t get sucked into the aristocratic machine, so I could move freely and make choices without fear of how it would look or who would be watching. And it had been great. It did feel freeing, like I’d been slipping into a version of adulthood I’d always been waiting for, figuring out who I wanted to be in the world, taking a deep breath while I thought about the reality of being a duchess. But no matter what I did, I was always happy to go home to Dylan, to find him there, to let him find me there. Nothing had changed in that regard—I wanted to be with him.
