Royal Treatment (Royal Scandal Book 3)

by Parker Swift

  She was chatting politely with an older gentleman—Roger’s father, perhaps? I wasn’t willing to take my eyes off of her long enough to figure it out. She looked like she had a goddamn halo around her, backlit with those bloody candles. This was why we met here, so I could hold on to this vision for the rest of my fucking life and feed off it. Conjure it when I was having a wank, drown in it when I missed her.

  She was wearing the earrings I’d bought her on Portobello—that day seared into my mind the way this one would be. I couldn’t believe that moment—she’d brought me to my knees then, and now I was hers completely. The woman had destroyed me.

  I was closer. She still hadn’t seen me, and she looked so uncharacteristically calm, so womanly.

  She saw me as I approached but didn’t run to me, didn’t meet me halfway. Her smile was knowing, welcoming, steady, exactly what I needed. I enveloped her completely in my arms, and sealed my lips against her neck, inhaling her.

  “Baby. Lydia,” I whispered into her ear, pulling her even tighter against my chest. I wasn’t letting this girl out of my sight for at least a decade. Fuck state visits. I was never again doing one without her. Ever.

  “Dylan,” she replied, tucking her head under my chin, nuzzling into me. She looked up to me, grabbed my face, and pulled my lips down to meet hers. “I wish we were alone,” she added.

  “Why did we decide to meet here again?” I asked her, stroking her face with my hands, wanting to touch all of her.

  “So we wouldn’t have to wait another minute.”

  Just then a waiter approached, offering us Champagne, and I couldn’t ignore the fact that both Roger and his father were still standing right there. Roger had the nerve to clear his throat—I wanted to punch the bastard. If I wanted to maul my wife whom I hadn’t seen in nearly two months, I didn’t care if I was in a church, I’d maul.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the gentlemen, “I haven’t seen my lovely wife in weeks.” I took two glasses of Champagne from the tray and offered one to Lydia. She took the glass, but didn’t raise it to her lips. “Come on, baby. Toast with me. We’re back.”

  “Might I have a water with gas please?” she asked the waiter. I smiled at the way she was starting to adopt the English terms for things.

  “On some kind of health kick, damsel?” I whispered to her as Roger and his father took their drinks. “Am I going to have start all over with you? Reintroduce you to hedonism?” I looked at her, searching for the giggle I knew would come. “I wouldn’t mind, you know. We’d start with the pretense that this was all going to be just sex.” I smirked and wrapped my arm around her waist, pulling her even closer. She kissed me and smiled again. That goddamn smile.

  “Where have you been, Hale?” Roger asked, slapping me on the back. “Travelling the world without this lovely creature? Don’t you think that’s rather cruel?” His loud voice pissed me off. Nosy bugger.

  “You have no idea—cruel for me,” I said. “Where’s the blushing bride, Rog?” I asked on autopilot. I wanted to be with Lydia, alone. I wasn’t even sure what he said but I know I replied, and I must have said something to exit us from the conversation, because the two interlopers were now walking away. I only hoped I hadn’t been rude. All of my attention was on the woman in my arms.

  “Baby?” I pulled her even tighter to me and looked down between us. Was it just me, or…“Fuck me, Lydia, are you wearing a push-up bra or something?” I asked, surreptitiously stroking the edge of her breast with my thumb, my palm wrapped clear around her back to the other side. Her being so tiny had its advantages.

  She shook her head, and when I looked in her eyes I saw apprehension. Wondering. Pleading.

  Wait.

  I looked at her Champagne glass—she still hadn’t touched it. Her breasts were definitely bigger. I felt the blood drain from my face. Was she fucking with me?

  “Lydia?” I whispered, looking right into those gorgeous brown eyes, willing them to tell me what I was now eighty-five percent sure she was telling me. I moved my hands to her hips and stepped back to get a better look at my girl.

  “I’m—”

  “Pregnant. You’re pregnant.” I could hear my own words, and they sounded as though I was meeting Elvis or the president of the United States, mystified, questioning, not believing that this unbelievable thing before my eyes could be reality.

  “Pregnant,” she said, and now it was her turn to look at me imploringly. Oh god, she was nervous. This beautiful woman—my wife—was pregnant with our child and uncertain about me, how I felt. I rushed in and pulled her into me. I wrapped myself completely around her. I felt the world fall away—this was happening. It was happening with her, and I’d never have been able to anticipate the joy that was pulsing through my limbs. The utter satisfaction.

  “Nothing. Nothing in the world has ever been more beautiful to me than this,” I said directly into her ear. One hand holding her head against my shoulder, the other wrapped around her perfect waist. I could feel her chest rise and fall in quicker succession. She was crying.

  I took a swig of my Champagne and then deposited our glasses (mine empty, hers full) on the tray of a passing waiter. Then I quickly moved Lydia to the edge of the room, pulled her face into my hands, and laid a kiss on her lips that I hoped would convey everything that needed to be said. I stroked her cheeks, her neck, her shoulders with my palms as I sank my lips into hers.

  “Really?” she asked, those big brown eyes looking at me with relief and hope. “I wasn’t sure. We never got a chance to talk about it again before you left, and then I found out, and I didn’t know—”

  “Shhh, baby. Really.” And urged her back against me. And then I realized I still didn’t know how she felt. “Baby, do you…I thought you weren’t ready…” I couldn’t finish the sentence, but I didn’t need to. Lydia was nodding, a tear slipping down her cheek.

  “I am. I knew I was before you left, and I figured we’d talk about kids when you got back.” She laughed a little, looked down at her belly and shrugged her shoulders. “But it’s a little late for that.” She smiled the most calm, beautiful smile I’d ever seen on her.

  “Baby,” I said again, holding her against me. I smiled back at her, suddenly realizing that that term of endearment was also a statement of fact. “How long have you known?” I pulled away again so I could see her face.

  “I found out the day after you left. I think I missed some pills when I was in New York—I was so distracted, and the timing makes sense.”

  I wasn’t surprised often, but somehow I was almost more surprised by this than the fact that she was pregnant. “The whole time? You knew the whole time I was gone? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I wanted to tell you in person. It was never a good moment on the phone, and I just wanted to be in the same room as you when we finally talked about it, and I—”

  “Shhh,” I said into her ear as I rocked her subtly against me, “let me take you out of here.”

  “But—”

  “Fuck the lot of them, the sorry bunch of wankers.” I gestured towards the room, and she laughed through her tears. “I haven’t seen you in seven weeks, and you just told me I’m going to be a father. You’ve made me the happiest man alive, Lydia. And you’ve had to think about this all alone, and now I’m here I want it all. I want to inspect every millimeter of your body. I want to catch up on every ounce of you. I want you tell me everything about when you found out. Everything.”

  “Thank god,” she said, laughing and wiping away her tears. “I’m so happy too. And I might have had to consider having a major blowout fight with you had you suggested we stay at this party. And since I haven’t seen you in almost two months, and I’m so goddamn horny…” She slipped her hands underneath my jacket and held me tighter. I laughed—she tells me she’s pregnant, and all she can think about is sex. I knew I’d married her for a reason.

  “No rows. Only us, damsel.” I could feel her smile against my lapels, and I placed my hand agains
t her stomach. “Only us.”

  Epilogue

  Lydia

  The Canadian air was different. I hadn’t been imagining it. Or maybe it was because I was now standing in the very spot where Dylan had first kissed me.

  It’s not that we hadn’t been back there in the five years we’d been married—we had, but it wasn’t often enough, and we’d always been busy. This time I’d snuck out of the house to find this spot. The place, the slight curve in the narrow dirt path that connected the estate, La Belle Reve, to the main road, was burned in my memory. I stood under the canopy of trees, as I had before, only this time the sun was peeking through instead of the moon. And I was alone.

  It was late afternoon, a quiet time of our day, and I’d gone for a walk. I wanted to stand there and see if I could feel it, could smell it, if there really was something special about this place.

  There was.

  The smell of chamomile drifted from the lawn. The smell of roses and hydrangeas and lavender were carried from the gardens. I stood there, my eyes closed, head back, listening to the trees rustle, feeling the warm breeze meander over my skin.

  Then I felt hands on my hips. Dylan’s hands.

  “What in heaven’s name are you doing out here?” he asked as I felt his warm tall body press against my back, allowing me to lean against him. My head fell back into his chest, and my whole body relaxed there, eyes still closed.

  “I wanted to remember,” I said.

  “Our first kiss?” he asked.

  “Mmm,” I said, sinking into the moment. Dylan wrapped his arms around my torso, and his hands landed on the light linen sundress covering my swollen belly.

  “That kiss has led to a lot. In fact, it changed everything,” he said, stroking my stomach and allowing one hand to cup the bottom of my pregnant bump, the other the top. “Without that kiss, we wouldn’t have Eleanor,” he said, moving his lips to the side of my neck. I tilted my head to accommodate him, to invite him. Our almost four-year-old daughter, named for Dylan’s grandmother, our firstborn, was hopefully still napping safely back at the house, her grandmother nearby if she woke up.

  “Without that kiss, we wouldn’t have Aiden,” he said as his hand moved from my belly to my breast. He slid his broad palm into my dress and cupped my sensitive flesh. Our two-year-old son was hopefully napping happily with his sister.

  I groaned a little, catching my breath as he enveloped me. We’d discovered that pregnancy made me insatiable. And something about it made me crave him, want to curl up in him.

  “Without that kiss, we wouldn’t have our girl here, our Anna,” he said, running his hand over my stomach.

  “Chloe,” I said. We still hadn’t agreed on a name for our soon-to-be-arriving daughter. We had three more weeks to decide, plenty of time.

  Then I forgot all about baby names. Our children conveniently left my mind completely.

  His hand hitched up my dress, and his kisses to my neck, my cheek, my lips as I turned to face him, were paired with his hand slipping into my panties.

  “Thank god for that kiss, damsel. Without it, I wouldn’t have you.” I turned to face him completely and stood up on my toes to kiss him. “Fuck, I love you like this,” he breathed quietly. “I love your body, round with our child, so responsive.”

  “Well you’d better enjoy it—we only have another few weeks.” I hummed.

  “You think I can’t convince you to have a fourth?” he asked, smiling.

  I laughed. We’d been over this, and he knew better. I was already stretched thin between the fashion consulting firm I ran with Fiona, being a duchess, and our family. Plus, I knew our family was about to be complete. He murmured agreement and backed me towards the tree behind me, possibly the very same tree I’d leaned against six years earlier, when our lips had touched the first time. As I had then, I stepped onto the roots, bringing our eyes to the same height. Only this time, my belly hung between us.

  Dylan leaned over it and kissed me as he had then. His tongue sliding along the seam of my lips, prying them open. One hand against my rib cage, his thumb strumming against the edge of my breast. The other hand cupping my cheek, allowing Dylan full control of this kiss. Until I kissed him back. It was patient—we had nowhere to be. But it was also potent, full of fever, of purpose.

  “I love you,” he whispered into my mouth. “I love you so fucking much.”

  “I love you too,” I said.

  “Let me take you back to the house. Let me show you,” he said.

  “Show me here,” I said, and he looked at me, eyebrow raised. “It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve made love to me outside,” I said.

  He nodded his head, smiling. “I’ll love you anywhere,” he said, but he didn’t resume his attack. Instead, he paused. He placed his hand at my back, and pulled me towards him.

  “Anywhere, always.”

  Acknowledgments

  A resounding thank-you to Lexi Smail and everyone at Forever Yours for bringing Dylan and Lydia’s final chapters to life.

  The writing of this book occurred in exactly two locations: Metro-North and my friend Sukey’s couch. To the riders of Metro-North, you’re welcome for using a privacy screen while I wrote. And to Sukey, I clearly cannot thank you enough for all of those perfect late summer nights in the backyard chatting about life and story ideas, the sushi shared before diving into our respective writing projects, strategizing about the best ways to kill cockroaches, making me laugh so hard my sides hurt the next morning, and providing literal shelter for me and my laptop. This entire series wouldn’t have happened without you—I know it, you know it, and now the readers do too.

  Kimberly Brower, as all of your authors know, you are the best agent in the whole world. Thank you for knowing just what to say and when to say it. Thank you for seeing this story through with me. I can’t wait to see what’s next.

  And, Ethan, bring me this page of this book, and I will tell you how insanely grateful I am for all you did so I could write. There is no limit. You deserve to hear it every day.

  About the Author

  PARKER SWIFT grew up in Providence, Rhode Island, and then grew up again in New York, London, and Minneapolis and currently lives in Connecticut. She has spent most of her adult life examining romantic relationships in an academic lab as a professor of social psychology. Now, she’s exploring the romantic lives of her fictional characters in the pages of her books. When she’s not writing, she spends her time with her bearded nautical husband and being told not to sing along to pop music in the car by her two sons.

  Twitter: @the_parkerswift

  Instagram: @parker.swift

  Facebook.com/ParkerSwiftAuthor

  Did you miss the beginning of Dylan and Lydia’s story?

  Please see the next page for a preview of Royal Affair, Book One in the Royal Scandal series.

  Available now!

  Chapter 1

  Lydia? Can you hear me?”

  Barely, was the answer.

  The voice of my best friend, Daphne, was coming in and out no matter where I seemed to stand in the palatial suite. The beautiful if not a little too-perfect bedroom was straight out of a Pottery Barn catalogue, or more accurately what Pottery Barn was trying to imitate, and had been mine for the three weeks we’d been in northern Québec. It was lined in a delicate blue toile wallpaper and wainscoting, filled with floral accents, and located in the guesthouse on a large estate overlooking the Saint Laurence River. “The Cottage,” and the enormous country property it sat on, belonged to old college friends of the Franklins, the family I was travelling with and nannying for over the summer.

  I tried resting on a large white linen tufted couch, just so I could relax for a minute, but I couldn’t hear a word Daphne was saying. I stood up and walked to the window, which had worked earlier. As I pressed my hand to the warm glass, the phone crackled back to life, and I squinted into the hot August sun.

  “Well this is a first,” she said, speaking up, hoping to overcom
e our reception difficulties. “Lydia Bell has finally lost patience with Maddy and Cole Franklin. It’s no wonder you’re exhausted. I mean, I know you love those kids, but you’ve been travelling with them for nearly three months!”

  “Feels like three years,” I said. “Remind me never to have six-year-old twins of my own.”

  I hadn’t thought that there was a limit to the amount of energy I could put into Maddy and Cole, but now I could see that limit on the horizon, fast approaching. The money was good, and I really did love them, but I hadn’t had a day off in two weeks, and that included a ten-hour car ride from Martha’s Vineyard to northern Canada, during which we’d watched The Sound of Music on repeat on the in-car video system. I still had “Edelweiss” stuck in my head and thought I might scream if asked to reenact the puppet show scene one more time.

  It was one thing when I was babysitting for the Franklins back in New York City, but now, three months in, I was getting edgy for the summer to end. I’d seen amazing places with them, we’d stayed in beautiful homes in exclusive summer enclaves, and I’d gotten a taste of the way the fabulously hip and well funded spent their summers. But the truth was that I couldn’t wait to get back to gritty New York for a few days and start getting ready for my big move to London.

  “Well,” Daphne said, “you’re not missing anything here. It’s so hot the whole neighborhood smells like a sewer.”

  “I doubt that I’m not missing anything,” I said. “That’s ridiculous. You live in New York. I live in New York. Or, I used to, at least.” I sighed and looked out the window. “I love these kids. And I appreciate that the Franklins hired me for the whole summer. I’m just tired.”

  “Yeah, I know you needed to get away for a while,” replied Daphne. “How are you doing, by the way?” she asked hesitantly, the way people do when they’re referring to someone having died. Not wanting to say or do the wrong thing. People had been talking to me like that a lot recently.