by Parker Swift
I sighed. I honestly didn’t care about the jeweler—it just seemed like the kind of thing that was bound to happen.
“So you do have a ring?” I was trying to make a joke, to get him smiling, but his lips didn’t curve away from their hard line. I sighed, resigned to the mood he was in. “Who is she?” I asked, pointing at the picture of the girl.
“You can’t tell me you actually believe this rubbish?” Dylan had the nerve to sound pissed. As though I had done something wrong here. It wasn’t like I thought he had done anything wrong.
“Dylan, no. Of course not. I trust you. I was just curious. If half of London thinks you’re just as likely to be engaged to her,” I said, pointing at the couture-clad femme fatale, “I just kind of want to know who she is.” I didn’t like how this was moving into fight territory. I moved closer and linked my arm in his, trying to pull him towards me.
“Lady Beatrice Pollard.” He threw back another sip of whisky. His arms were locked on the island, and I felt as though no matter what I did, I couldn’t get him to relax and look at me, talk to me. “You shouldn’t have to put up with this shite.” His upper lip was rigid—it was an expression I’d seen before, when he was lost to whatever stress-induced place he was in. There was no way this was just about the newspaper—we dealt with crap like that all the time and it never put him in that foul of a mood. He must have had a terrible day. I had just the thing to turn the evening around.
“Well,” I said, standing a little taller, moving against the island so I could see his face. So he could see mine. I wanted him to see how sincere I was. I touched his arm, rubbing his skin with my thumb. “Baby, I think maybe it’s time we just come out with it. I want to get engaged, you know, for real.” I smiled at him, waiting for the relieved excited smile I’d been anticipating. There was a beat. Then another. No wide eyes. No big smile. All I got was silence. Why wasn’t he responding?
“Dylan, this past week Hannah asked me to extend the New York trip for six months. She wanted me to run her business there while it gets off the ground.”
His eyebrows raised a bit at this. “What did you say?”
“No. I said no. And you know why? Because I realized this is where I belong. It made me realize that I don’t want to wait anymore.” I stood on my tiptoes, grabbed his lapels, and tried to pull him towards me. “I want to be here with you, starting our life together. I’m ready, knighty. I want to get married. I want it all.”
Dylan took another swig of his whisky. “Maybe you should go.”
“What?” I asked, furrowing my brow. There was no way I’d heard him properly.
“It would probably be good for you to go.”
My heels landed on the floor. I took a step back, and my heart slammed into my chest. “What are you saying?”
“We can’t go public with our engagement right now. We can’t get married yet.” How could he be saying this?
“Dylan? I don’t—what do you mean?” I tried to remain calm. It was late. He was mad, about what I still didn’t know, and probably drunk. I was tired. We probably shouldn’t be talking about this now, but we already were, and I needed to know what the hell was going on before I got on a plane in eight hours. He was supposed to be jumping for joy. He’d been begging me to say yes just yesterday. I took a deep breath, stood up, and went to the fridge for the wine. It was abundantly clear that this wasn’t going to be the excited we’re-doing-this conversation that ended in orgasms and disheveled sheets.
“Damsel, you should go for the six months—it’s a great opportunity, and I won’t be responsible for you giving it up.” He ran his hand through his hair, took another swig of his drink, and landed his hands back on the island in front of him. “And I’m not throwing you into this life, opening you up to all the pressures of being with me. Not when I haven’t got everything sorted myself. I need to get this MI6 nonsense behind me. I’ve got to get the board of bloody Hale Shipping off my back. And I’ve got to get Humboldt back in my name, before I can properly attend to a wedding, to guarding you against the unpleasantness that is my life, and from the absolutely heinous reality of socializing with this lot.” He gestured to the picture of Beatrice again and huffed, “So, no. We’re not announcing our engagement until I can figure out a way to shield you from all that, until I know this shite won’t touch you.” He stared at me, as though that were it, as though that made any sense at all, as though the conversation were anywhere close to over.
“Are you finished?” I asked him, feeling the anger in my voice and having a sip of my wine.
He nodded, wary. And he should have looked wary. My fury was rising, and I was barely keeping it in check. I felt my shoulders stiffen, and I found myself standing on the other side of the island, my own hands braced on the cold marble, mirroring his position opposite me.
“Dylan, do you realize how crazy you sound? First of all, I’m not giving up opportunities. I’ve opened a store. In London. The next step for me isn’t going back to New York and doing it again. The next step for me is something bigger. I don’t know what it is, but I want to figure it out here with you. I want my next career move to be something that will work for our life, for our married life. And do you honestly think that Humboldt and your mom aren’t things I’m thinking about and dealing with now? The only thing that would change if the world knew we were engaged is that we wouldn’t have to put up with this crap anymore.” It was my turn to gesture towards the newspaper. I’d only meant to point to it, but somehow I’d ended up shoving it halfway across the island. “I mean, for fuck’s sake, you are engaged. To me.” I pointed to my bare chest, and Dylan’s eyes went wide. He looked from the paper to me, finally taking in that I was getting pissed. Really pissed. He stood a little taller, running his hands through his hair, tilting his head to the ceiling, rolling his shoulders, searching for answers. His collar undone, his jacket hanging lose, he looked frustrated, angry, lost. His exhale practically echoed across the room.
“Lydia, you have to trust me—”
I groaned, practically growled, in frustration. “No! No more ‘trust me’ crap. Dylan I do trust you—this isn’t what that’s about.”
“So it’s about a big fancy wedding then, is it?” He was willfully misunderstanding me. He knew I didn’t give a fuck about that shit. Leaning over the island, bracing himself on locked arms, looking right at me, his face was hard and cold, like he wanted to keep fighting, even if it was about all the wrong things. “You want the more flattering kind of paparazzi attention now? Is that it? Think once we’re engaged the press will all of a sudden treat you like a darling? Well, don’t—”
“Fuck. You.” I’d never said that to him. To anyone. But it was exactly what I felt in that moment.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You know damn well I don’t give a shit about that stuff. I don’t know why you’re pushing me away, Dylan, but I’m ready. I want to do this. With you.” I gestured between us emphatically, and he stood there, his hands hanging at his sides, looking at me, half desperate, half mad, I wasn’t even sure anymore. “I don’t want to stand to the side anymore while you handle things alone. I hate that in the privacy of our home, I’m with you, I’m there, I’m part of our team, but once we step out that door, in the eyes of the entire country, you’re on your own. I’m here, Dylan. I know that once we get engaged there is going to be more—there’ll be expectations. Expectations we’ve avoided while we’ve kept our engagement a secret. I get that—that’s why we were keeping it a secret. But I want to be in it together. Fully. You’ve been patient. You’ve waited for months for me to be ready to dive in. Well, I’m ready. So why are you fighting me? Why are we going to keep inviting this crap”—I pointed at the paper again and said it forcefully, more forcefully than it had even come out in my mind—“into our lives when we don’t have to? I want the world to look at you and see the invincible team we are. Because we are. Together we can figure out the life we want. We can do anything. But the longer we le
t this go, the more we’re going to allow them to break us down.”
I was so frustrated. I needed him to hear me. I stood there, his robe falling open around my shoulders, my hair hanging loosely, and I willed my expression to say what my words were failing to communicate.
“Lydia,” he sighed in a cold way, sounding frustrated himself, and put his hands in his pockets. “You don’t understand. We get married now, before I’ve figured this out, and I’m walking right into my father’s life. Overwhelmed by the duty of being duke and the rest of it, and I won’t risk becoming the man he was, one who threw his wife under the bus to make it happen and let that life ruin him, ruin her.”
“You’re not your father!” I practically groaned the words. We’d been here before. I knew he knew he could be a better duke than his father had been—he already was.
His head snapped up and his narrowed eyes said I’d never understand. “You’re right, and I never will be.”
“And I’m not your mother!” I looked at him, placed my hand against my chest, pleading, trying one last time to cut through whatever was eating him. “Can’t you see that? You told me once that we could do this our way. That as a team, we could take this on, that you wanted to be duke with me by your side. Has that changed? What happened to make you so skittish all of a sudden?”
“Christ.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Of course nothing’s changed. But now isn’t the right time. There’s too much…I just need to get this all sorted…once we announce our engagement, the floodgates will be open—”
“They’re already open!” I screamed, hitting the marble countertop with my hand. “You think photos of me looking pathetic on the sidewalk, like some kind of naïve thing, are nothing? Because, they’re not. I know it’s not true, you know, but do you think it’s easy to walk down the street with everyone out there thinking I’m some kind of sad desperate girl clinging to you? You think it’s any easier helping you run Humboldt in secret than it would be to help you run it in public? You think any of this is easy now?”
“Baby—”
“Dylan, are we engaged or not?”
“Damsel, don’t play that card. Of course we’re bloody well engaged. You know that’s not what this is about.”
“Do I? I don’t get it, Dylan. I’ve proven that I’m there, a thousand percent, when it comes to Humboldt. And I’ve told you I’m ready to take on the press. Even if I’m not eager for WedDyLy or whatever the press will call it, I’d rather the coverage be true, which is easier to handle than the lies. So, what? Do you think I can’t handle it? You think I’m not ready to be a duchess? Did you ever?”
“Lydia. Stop being ridiculous.” His lips drew into a hard line. He was mad. Well, I was furious. I knew he wanted to marry me. I didn’t doubt that. But I knew that didn’t mean he was going to, and I was starting to believe he really didn’t think I could handle anything.
“Dylan. Look, I love that you’re protective. Or sometimes I do—I mean, sure, it’s sexy. It’s sweet that you want to give me this perfect easy life, but that’s not life, Dylan. I don’t want to be some quiet, kept woman, unaware of her husband’s struggles. Fuck, I’m not unaware of your struggles. I’m living them right alongside you. Only instead of you owning that, instead of being able to proudly stand beside you and call them our struggles, I’ve been in the shadows, which was fine before. It was what we wanted, what I wanted, but I don’t want that anymore. And you know what? I’m kicking ass at my own life too. We’re already doing this together, and doing it well. So let’s really do it, Dylan.” I sighed, frustrated, knowing I wasn’t getting anywhere. “It’s like you want control over how all of this will play out, you want this pretty little risk-free version of life—”
“Goddamn right, I do.”
“Well it doesn’t exist, Dylan. That’s not life. We’re living life now, already, so why the hell can’t we do it married?”
He pushed away from the island and his hands went flying into the air.
“Bloody hell! You’re the one who wanted this engagement to be a secret!”
“And you didn’t! And I don’t anymore!”
“Well, you were right to want it to be a secret—I’m not going to drag you into this! I’m not!”
I stared at him. At his mussed hair. At the empty glass. At his loosened collar. And I realized this fight was over.
“Then I guess we’re done here.” I tightened my robe once again, noticing it had fallen loose at my chest, and stepped backwards, away from the island.
“What do you mean?” His eyes were narrowed.
“I mean, I have nothing else to say.” I knew my expression must have looked void, empty. And it wasn’t what I felt—I felt full, hot, powerless, and powerful in the same moment. Desperate and resigned. “I know what I want, Dylan. And you’re not willing to give it to me. And as someone who loves you, loves you with everything, you can’t imagine how painful it is to look at you, all of you, and see you holding up an epic stop sign that says ‘no trespassing.’”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means, how stupid am I that after everything, I’m right back where I started? Trying to convince you that we’re worth fighting for. Maybe you’re right, Dylan. Maybe it’s time for me to go.”
He stared at me, his expression morphing into one of desperation, but he said nothing. I looked at him, waiting, and with every passing second, the waiting turned into sadness. Why did it seem like I always found myself back at this same place?
I turned around and headed towards the stairs. My flight to New York was in less than eight hours, and instead of celebrating that we were going to make our engagement public, I wasn’t even sure we were engaged anymore. I wished with everything that he’d say something, anything. That he’d call my name, say damsel, say stop, say he was sorry, snap the fuck out of it. But I was halfway up the stairs and all there was was silence.
Chapter 10
Lydia
In every wedding toast in every movie, I felt like the father of the bride or some great-aunt told the couple, “Never go to bed angry.” Not only was I going to bed angry, I was falling asleep on a plane headed three thousand miles from my fiancé angry, and I wouldn’t see him for a month, possibly six. I’d found an email in my inbox that morning from Hannah asking me to reconsider, practically begging, and instead of giving her the resounding no I wanted to, I’d said I’d think about it. All of a sudden everything was up in the air.
I’d woken that morning at four to go to the airport and Dylan was collapsed on our bed, still in his clothes from the night before. I didn’t wake him. I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t know what to say. I honestly didn’t know where we stood. We didn’t technically break up, but I didn’t know if we had a future. There was a pit in my stomach, an ugly knot that scared me. Was I crazy to get on that plane? Was my relationship going to die on the vine because my fiancé, my “bloody fiancé,” couldn’t tell his perfect ass from his perfect eyelashes, couldn’t pull that genius brain of his out of the sand for two seconds and realize that moving forward was the only way to move through?
I wanted to kill him. Except then he’d be gone, and I loved him too damn much for that. Even now, sitting in first class, I was annoyed. Initially I’d thought his upgrading my ticket without asking was sweet, but now it felt like a metaphor for our entire predicament. He was so preoccupied with keeping me safe and in the lap of luxury, so sure that he should be handling all of the enormous things on his plate by himself, that he didn’t even consult me. Not that I was actually complaining, at least not about first class on a transatlantic flight. But about the rest of it? I was livid. I wanted to tear my hair out with frustration. Didn’t he get it? We were a team. Or we were supposed to be. We’d promised to be.
Men and their infuriating need for independence. It was going to be the end of me. Only, I was actually afraid it was going to be the end of us. There was only so much more of this upper-crust stoic, “no, no, I mustn’t be a nu
isance” man-is-an-island crap I could take.
“Excuse me, madame?” I looked up to see a blond Nordic-looking flight attendant waiting patiently for me to hand her the once-warm-now-cool damp towel I’d been wringing in my hands. Then I looked down only to realize I was practically tearing the thing to shreds.
“Oh, um, sorry,” I said, placing the towel in the basket she held.
Apparently this was getting to me. On the underside of my anger was sadness. I hated that I was going to be so far away, we weren’t going to have the chance to resolve it. And on the underside of that was worry. I could avoid thinking about it as much as I wanted, but the top plan that British intelligence was working with involved using Dylan for bait in a dangerous sting operation. I might have been angry with him, but I wasn’t ready to lose him to some stunt.
I closed my eyes and tried to push all of it aside, tried to find some sliver of calm, normal happy thoughts. I only half noticed that I was twisting my ring with my thumb as I drifted off, rhythmically turning it as though the solution to all of this would be unlocked.
* * *
Ten hours after I’d shut the door to the Belgravia house behind me, I was setting foot on New York soil for the first time in eight months.
I had packed light, just a roller bag with staples and a few other items—I’d be doing laundry and collecting some of my clothes from storage. So I felt oddly empty, just standing there with my purse over my shoulder, my hand on the small suitcase.
The New York spring air—always colder than you wanted it to be when you’re hankering for spring—was kissing my cheeks. The yellow cabs were lining up alongside those of us who were lining up for them, both of us waiting to get paired off. The American accents—my accent—filled my ears, and I caught glimpses of everything: the way people moved, how the air tasted on my tongue, the cars with their steering wheels on the left. A thousand minuscule things told me I was away from London.
