by Parker Swift
Royal Affair
A Royal Scandal Novel
Book 1
Parker Swift
New York Boston
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Parker Swift
Cover design by Elizabeth Turner. Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Forever Yours
Hachette Book Group
1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104
forever-romance.com
twitter.com/foreverromance
First published as an ebook and as a print on demand: February 2017
Forever Yours is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing. The Forever Yours name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
The Hachette Speakers Bureau provides a wide range of authors for speaking events. To find out more, go to www.hachettespeakersbureau.com or call (866) 376-6591.
ISBNs: 978-1-4555-9803-8 (ebook), 978-1-4555-9804-5 (POD edition)
E3-20170103-DA-NF
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
About the Author
Don’t miss the thrilling next installments of Dylan and Lydia’s story!
Newsletters
To ER, because fiction doesn’t hold a candle to the real thing.
Acknowledgments
Tremendous thanks to the early readers of this book. In particular, thank you to Marci Gleason, for your wise feedback, generous encouragement, and endless enthusiasm. And to Susanna Fogel, for the multiple readings of this book, for the hours spent Gchatting about plot lines and characters, and for saying this book was good—whether you knew it at the time or not, I needed to hear it, and it energized me through each turn and chapter. I’m so grateful we refound each other when we did.
Additional deep gratitude to Taryn Aronson, Kara Carroccia, Amie Rapaport, Grainne Fitzsimons, and my family for their support, and to the Johnstons for providing the ultimate writing retreat for two overworked parents/writers.
Thank you to Caroline Acebo and everyone at Forever Yours, in particular Megha Parekh, for bringing Dylan, Lydia, and their world to life.
An enormous thank-you to Kimberly Brower, who made this book better. A lot better. Thank you, Kimberly, for staying up to read Dylan and Lydia’s story that night in Canada. Thank you for taking me on. And thank you for getting on board this train and helping me believe it can get there. Let’s keep going!
Finally, every word in this book reflects the love, generosity, and support of my extremely talented husband, Ethan, the first writer of the family. From the moment you said “Go for it,” through teaching me how to write just a little bit better, you cheered on every inch of progress, and I am so grateful for how enthusiastically you went on this journey with me. This book reflects lunches you packed, dinners you made, and probably some words you didn’t get to write because you were busy explaining dialogue to me. Thank you for that, because there’s no bigger gift. I promise I appreciate every minute.
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 overcome 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.
As of April, I was officially an orphan, and Daphne had been keeping an eye on me, almost waiting for the moment I would fall apart. My father had finally lost his battle with cancer, a battle he’d been slowly losing for almost eight years. I could hardly remember a time when taking care of him hadn’t been my priority, when my days hadn’t been marked by trips to the doctor or helping him with his medications.
When things had been particularly bad—during a new clinical trial or another round of chemo—I would stay home to be with him. It was especially hard for him during these times, knowing that he was pulling me out of the college life I was supposed to be living. So we’d joke about it, the only way to really cope with what was happening. He’d ask, at least once a day, with an effortful smile across his face, “Now, sweetheart, are you living life?” and I’d reply, with a cheerful cheerleader’s pump of the fist, “To the fullest!” and we’d both crack up. Now I owed it to him, to myself, to actually go out and do that: live my life to the fullest. I’d promised him I would.
“I’m ok, Daphne, really,” I replied, and I meant it. “I mean, being out of New York is good. I’m really ready for London, ready for a fresh chapter, and honestly, ready to get to work. I mean, non-babysitting work.”
“Have you thought any more about looking for her?” she asked.
I knew she was referring to my mom, and I could almost hear her cowering behind the couch as she asked, not sure how I would react. I’d never known my mom. My parents had divorced when I was only a year old, and she’d set off for some European adventure. My father never told me about their marriage, anything about them as a couple, why she left, or even her name, and so now, more than ever, the love that brought me into this world was a total mystery. I had been floating for a long time, but now I was completely anchorless.
“Daphne, I adore you, but please stop with that—”
“Ok, ok, ok,” she said defensively. “Sorry.”
“I’ve gotta go, Daph,” I said as I walked out onto the balcony. “I promised the twins I’d take them swimming before this cocktail party we’re going to tonight. I also have to think about packing before we leave here in a couple of days, and the movie they’ve been watching is about to end.”
“A cocktail party? Does that mean you’ll finally be able to wear that adorable dress? And maybe flirt? Just a little?” she nudged in her classic Daphne way.
Daphne was constantly trying orchestrate blind dates. She was determined to get me into what she would call “a proper relationship,” by which she meant one that lasted more than three dates and included physical contact beyond an awkward kiss at my front door. She respected that I had my reasons for not really dating, but she hadn’t exactly tried to hide the fact that she thought I’d be happier if I did. She was the only one who knew how that night had unfolded when I was sixteen and found out my dad was sick, how I’d gone on my only real teenage bender. I emerged after a month of drinking, skipping school, and sneaking out, no longer a virgin by a long shot.
One night, at the end of that month, I’d come home in the early hours of the morning to see my father asleep in his recliner, facing the door. His skin was sallow, the worry etched into his eyebrows, even in his sleep. There was a thin trail of dried blood below his nose—a stark and harrowing reminder that he, my father, my only family in the world, was sick. Really sick. In that moment I realized that there would be no room in our small life for my teenage antics. No room for not facing what was happening. No room for the normal giddiness of proms or hours spent contemplating when or if a boy would call. My dad needed me, and I was going to be there.
The saving grace, and probably the only reason I didn’t emerge from that month diseased or pregnant, was that I’d had a careful and sweet boyfriend. But while he may have been happy with his suddenly-eager girlfriend, he didn’t exactly know what he was doing in bed, or with me. It wasn’t his fault. What seventeen-year-old boy knows how to handle his girlfriend finding out her dad is sick? What seventeen-year-old boy wants to have the I’m-terrified-my-father-is-dying-and-my-world-is-falling-apart existential kind of sex?
I didn’t give up on sex or guys right away. I tried six months later with a new, yet short-lived, relationship, and again in the form of a one-night stand with a friend’s older brother on my nineteenth birthday. But never once did I feel that urgency that people describe. Never once did I feel safer in someone else’s arms than I did in my own. Not once was it good enough to leave my dad at home alone or allow myself to be distracted from the life in front of me.
But Daphne was doggedly optimistic. And I did try. I would go on a date, sometimes even a few dates. I’d think, Maybe with this guy, I’ll feel the “butterflies.” But inevitably my pessimism was justified, and I’d gently extricate myself from the situation. With taking care of my dad, putting my all into school, and then work, I simply couldn’t afford to devote the time it took to date anyway. Isn’t that what they meant when they said you couldn’t have it all?
The only problem was that twenty-five was right around the corner in September, and if I wasn’t careful, I’d be looking at a full six years since the last time I’d had sex.
“Oh, lay off,” I said, teasing. “Plus, this party is geared towards the forty-plus crowd—not exactly fertile ground for flirting.” I started to hunt for my bathing suit and sunscreen as we wrapped up our phone call, and sighed heavily into the receiver. “I am so ready for a cocktail. But first,” I said, trying to sound like the world’s most earnest camp director, “to the pool with the most rambunctious, precocious twins on the planet.”
“Oh, please, a pool sounds amazing. I am going to the movies just to bask in the free air conditioning.”
“I can honestly say I wish I were with you. I would do anything to be having a drink with you on your roof.” Daphne huffed back incredulously. “Same time tomorrow?” I asked.
“You know it,” Daphne said, but then the call was dropped before I could even tell if there was a goodbye.
I missed my best friend, and on afternoons like this one I wondered if I should have spent the summer with her. But I’d had to get out of New York. I’d had to get out of the city where my dad had just died, and nannying gave me the perfect excuse to get away. I’d timed it perfectly so I’d only have to be back there for a day before leaving New York for good. In just two weeks, I’d be boarding a plan to London, to my fresh start. An internship at the Fashion Institute of Technology, four years working at two different couture boutiques, and a fashion merchandising minor had paid off—I’d landed a job as the second assistant to Hannah Rogan, an on-the-rise British fashion designer. And I had a one-way ticket to London to go with it.
I closed my eyes and let the idea calm me down. Just two more weeks.
* * *
The pool at La Belle Reve—the massive country estate had an actual name—was dark blue instead of the standard turquoise and separated from the large main house by an expansive lawn that smelled of chamomile and thyme. We’d spent nearly every afternoon out there splashing around, and I had deep tan lines that betrayed a summer chasing kids in my swimsuit.
Maddy and Cole were jumping off the high stone ledge bordering the pool, and I stood by the side judging their jumps like an Olympic coach. The well-honed routine included holding a fake clipboard, blowing a whistle, and shouting out scores as they giggled and swam for the edge.
My shoulder-length blondish brown hair, highlighted from the sun, had settled into a permanently wavy just-out-of the-pool mess. I’d completely given up putting any effort into grooming, and I was constantly sweeping my overly long bangs out of my eyes. The estate had been empty the three weeks we’d been there, except for the occasional delivery person or t
he many gardeners, so I was startled when I saw four adults approaching from the main house, where staff were busily preparing for the cocktail party.
As they got closer I could see an older couple leading the way, followed by a younger man and woman strolling behind them. All dressed and styled to a T, they looked the perfect wealthy vacationing family. The trim older woman wore a knee-length floral-print pleated skirt with a navy button-up blouse, pearls, and delicate leather sandals, her sandy hair blown dry to perfection. The gentleman, her husband judging by the way he gripped her hand, was her perfect preppy match right down to the loafers with no socks. The young woman, who appeared to be about my age, looked far more urban, with a grey V-neck maxi dress, a long dark braid over one shoulder, and Grecian sandals. I couldn’t quite see the younger guy, his back now turned, head down, and tucked in behind the others.
“Your grandfather laid this pool in the forties, Emily—no one over here had swimming pools in those days,” said the older gentleman, directing his comments to the young woman in an unmistakable posh English accent. “Isn’t it marvelous?”
They were just far enough away that I didn’t feel I had to say anything yet, but close enough for me to hear their conversation. I toned down my embarrassing Olympic-judge routine while I tried to eavesdrop. He sounded quite impressed by this grandfather’s pool foresight. I surreptitiously squinted into the sun, trying to get a glimpse of the younger guy, who’d just stepped up with his parents. He wore slim dark-brown pants and a denim shirt tucked in around a trim waist, attached to what appeared to be an unbelievable body. He was looking down, eyes hidden behind aviator shades, buried in his smartphone.
Hah! I thought to myself. Good luck with the reception.
As if on cue he said, “I have to go back to the house. I need to sort this project out, and there’s no goddamn mobile reception anywhere out here.” He was curt, and he radiated annoyance. He turned stiffly and lifted his head, clearly getting ready to voice further disapproval of the whole no-reception fiasco, but he halted when he saw his family’s pool inhabited by small splashing children and a raggedy babysitter. My jaw dropped a little. If I’d been in a Saturday morning cartoon, someone would have pushed it back up to meet my face.
