by Parker Swift
He leaned back down, getting close enough to make my heart rate go up another notch, smiled, and asked quietly, “Are you always this much trouble?” My breathing hitched—god, there was something so goddamn masculine about the way he said things like that. “Meet me at the Lucky Fox pub at eight forty-five.” And he was gone once again, in and out of my life like a specter.
* * *
At eight thirty, using a map Charles had drawn for me, I found myself walking through the gardens and navigating down a narrow wooded path through the property. With the moon shining through the canopy of trees and the smells of the flowers sifting through the warm air across the narrow footpath, I felt like I was in a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The path let out at the edge of the road, and the pub was just across from it—it looked like a perfect version of a small English local with its wooden painted sign hanging over the door: a fox with a bow and arrow.
As I reached the door, Dylan was suddenly there behind me, appearing out of nowhere. We both reached for the door handle at the same time.
“I got it,” I said, pulling on the door handle, but he stopped my progress.
He looked shockingly handsome and alarmingly seductive in a soft black leather jacket over a perfectly cut linen shirt and the most amazingly well-fitting, worn-in jeans I’d ever seen. Since we were so far north, the sun was still setting and his aviator shades were back in place. He had this refined Top Gun thing going on and it was totally working on me.
He looked down at me, eyebrow raised. “Can’t I open a door for you?” Somehow he packed both a sweet gesture and a scolding into his tone.
I smiled and gave him a grin, gesturing towards the door as if to say, with more than a little snark, By all means. I don’t think one guy I’d dated had ever thought to hold a door for me. But, as I walked through the open door, I was surprised that my snarky defensiveness gave way to something else, something slightly foreign but also pleasant. I felt taken care of.
The pub was a classic dark low-ceilinged affair, smelling of polished wood and warm fried food. It was making me hungry with anticipation for England. “Only two more weeks,” I hummed under my breath.
Dylan gently put his hand at my back and led us to the back of the pub with purpose. “It’s quieter back here,” he said by way of explanation. The way he said quieter made me smile and remember my Lord Grantham comment earlier. I had the feeling that as posh as this guy sounded, he was not the staid, reserved lord of the manor.
I slid onto a bench lining the back wall, and Dylan addressed a passing waiter as he slid in next to me. “We’ll both have the Laphroaig fifteen, on the rocks.”
“I’d prefer wine, I think,” I said before the waiter could leave, and the waiter had the gall to look at Dylan for confirmation.
Dylan smiled. “Fine,” he said. He looked at me briefly before turning this attention back to the waiter. “I’ll have the Scotch, and she’ll have a glass of the 2012 Bourgogne Blanc.” The waiter didn’t even bother looking to me for approval—Dylan’s authoritative tone didn’t leave any room for questions. I had a feeling this was how most interactions went in his life—Dylan ordered and others followed. I gave him a raised eyebrow.
“They stock that wine when I’m in town,” he said in response to my skepticism. “You’ll like it.” I tried to summon another snarky retort—it should have been reflexive given the circumstance—but oddly his whole gentleman-in-charge demeanor was wearing me down. Maybe it was a whole summer of being in charge of two scampering cavorting uncontrollable children, but there was something about having him take control that took the edge off. It settled me.
He removed his jacket and leaned back, looking at me. “You look lovely,” he said with appreciation. I was pretty sure the lump in my throat made my thank-you come out as six syllables. It wasn’t that I was nervous, although I was a little; it was that I didn’t recognize this feeling, this pull, like a long-shut door was being pried open.
I made a point of looking around the bar, away from him, attempting to regain some control, but I could feel Dylan’s eyes on me, pulling me back. Every inch of my body was responding to him, tingling as though champagne were bubbling just underneath my skin. He reached over and tucked my hair behind my ear and swept my bangs aside, which was becoming his signature move, and my nipples instantly hardened beneath the thin lace of my bra and even thinner cotton of my tank top. I shifted back in my seat, hoping to hide the evidence of my arousal.
There was a part of me that screamed to run back into my safe hole and wondered what the hell I was doing out with a man who had me this on edge, but it didn’t stand a chance against the part of me—the majority of me—that was intensely drawn to him, to the way it felt to be drawn to him. But I was so tense, my whole body engaged in this battle between opening up and protecting myself. The air was letting off sparks around me, as though this tension was living on my skin and interacting with the atmosphere.
“Relax, Lydia.” He leaned forward as he spoke. “This is the part where we get to know one another.”
Our drinks arrived, and I took a swig. Just enjoy this, I told myself. I lifted my chin and smiled. “So, what do you want to know?”
He smiled with approval. “When are you coming to London?”
“I arrive at Heathrow the morning of the sixth.” I loved saying Heathrow. That small detail reminded me that it was really happening.
“And you’ll be working with Hannah Rogan when you get there?” I nodded while taking a long sip of my wine. “Is that what you want to do for work? Be a fashion designer?”
I looked down at my clothes and gave him a skeptical look. “I think we can both agree I wouldn’t get that far as a fashion designer. I want to work in fashion, but not design. I’ve had plenty of experience in retail and some internships, but I’m really interested in the business aspect, which I will be learning more about in this job. I’ll be able to see the design-to-market process, from beginning to end.” I began to breathe more easily, adjusting to being the sole focus of this incredible-looking man in front of me.
He looked puzzled. “But why fashion?”
His question surprised me. No one had really asked me that question before. Daphne and my dad had just trusted it was what I wanted to do. “I’m in awe of fashion designers, what they do. Creating something that represents them, as artists, but also works on a moving body and has to become something so personal for someone else. It’s not like a painting, simply there to be admired. It’s functional. I’ve seen people feel transformed by clothes, and it must be pretty incredible to feel that way.”
“What way?”
“So beautiful, to be so transformed, especially by someone else.” The words tumbled out of me, and, as I spoke, I realized that what I had just said about fashion could just as easily be said about architecture. Buildings gave people literal shelter, for crying out loud.
He took my response in and looked surprised. “You’ve never felt that way? Transformed? Beautiful?”
I looked down into my glass, feeling too exposed. I’d never asked myself that question, and I wasn’t sure I even knew the answer. For some reason transformed and beautiful felt like someday words—they applied to a woman I wasn’t, at least not yet.
Dylan gave me a reprieve and continued, “Where are you from?”
“I lived in Connecticut when I was little, but I feel like New York is really home. It’s where I’ve grown up.” Although I was seriously beginning to doubt that I had grown up. Looking at the man in front of me looking back at me, I felt like I was being seen as a woman for the first time, which oddly made me feel more like a girl than ever before.
“Oh?” He was intrigued. “And why is that?”
“Oh…Um, well, we moved there when I was a kid, and then I stayed—”
“To go to NYU.” He finished my sentence. It wasn’t a question. I looked at him suspiciously. “Celebrities aren’t the only ones on Google, Lydia,” he explained. He’d Googled me?
There’d been an article in the student newspaper about me around graduation, which must be what he had seen. “You’re quite accomplished,” he said admiringly.
Two could play at this game. “So are you,” I said, challenging him. He smiled, bigger this time, but it quickly shifted into a stern, even worried, look.
“Don’t believe everything you read.” What? Oh great, now he was mad.
“I just saw an article about the architecture award you received and your buildings.” I felt compelled to reassure him, although why he would need reassurance was beyond me. “If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t read anything, really. I only had time for a quick search on my phone.” I figured he didn’t need to know I’d been blabbing about him to my best friend. “And all I saw, as I said, was something about the award. I think the word ‘prodigy’ was even thrown in there?” I smiled, hoping he could see my teasing was meant to be gentle.
He still looked suspicious, almost resigned, like he was waiting for something else, but I didn’t continue. “So, no questions about being a Marquess then?” he finally asked, with a hint of disgust under what he was trying to make a normal question. He was almost wincing, as if he were thinking, Here we go.
“The Internet said you were an Earl,” I said as generously as possible. Maybe I should be more intrigued by this part of him than I was, but it just didn’t seem real. The architecture stuff made sense in my world, but I didn’t even know where to start when it came to the aristocracy.
“Right, well, I was, until my grandfather died. Just last month, actually,” he replied, looking down at his drink for a moment.
“Oh god, Dylan, I didn’t know,” I said, having enough familiarity with this to know when not to continue. He nodded and looked back to me. “And no, no Earl or Marquess questions…Unless you want to tell me about it, or unless I’m supposed to call you ‘My Grace’ or walk two steps behind you or something.” I hoped this was the kind of thing one could joke about. Or was I supposed to be reverent about it?
He gave a weak smile, apparently relieved. I had him back from whatever dark place he had just receded to. I felt like I’d just pulled our evening back from the ledge. “Definitely not.”
“Were you close with your grandfather?” I asked. I was determined to get some piece of information from him that I wouldn’t be able to glean from the Internet.
He nodded. “We got on well. He’s the reason I’m here actually,” he replied, his last word hanging in the air with a sadness he seemed to be guarding. I looked at him, urging him to continue. “La Malbaie was his favorite place on earth, and I promised him we’d get back here together, but he died before we could. I came to spread some of his ashes.”
“That’s so sad, but I can see why he loved it. It’s beautiful.”
Dylan looked thoughtful for a moment, as though he were remembering something. “Yes, well, just don’t tell the cemetery at St. Helen’s—they don’t need to know that we only buried half of him there,” he said, smiling devilishly. “And don’t tell my parents either—they wouldn’t approve.” I smiled back, imagining him with this secret and all of a sudden I felt a small chink in his steely armor. “Back to you, Lydia. Why London? There are plenty of fashion designers in New York.”
I hesitated, debating only for a moment about how much to open up to him. To tell him my feelings about London, about that particular part of me, was more than I could give. “I’ve never been.”
He could tell there was more to it than that and looked at me disapprovingly. “That’s all I’m getting?” He waited, commanding me to open up with his eyes, but in this case I had no trouble resisting. Yes, that was all he was going to get.
“Why’d you Google me, Dylan?”
“The same reason you Googled me, Lydia.”
His acknowledgment of this strange attraction emboldened me. “Well, I’m sure Googling ‘Lydia Bell’ blew up your Internet,” I joked, and he smiled.
“You might be surprised. I learned that someone holds a darts record at a certain Brooklyn bar.”
“Oh god. Really?” I hid my face in my hands to conceal heat rising to my cheeks. Great Lakes had been my father’s favorite bar, and I’d practically grown up there. I was beating the other patrons at darts well before I was legally allowed to drink.
He chuckled and pried my hands from my face. “But I want to know more. Keep talking.” He looked like he was actually enjoying himself, and to my surprise I was too.
I told him the story about the darts record, about my life in Brooklyn, about Daphne, about how much I loved New York. He listened about school, my jobs and internships, and nannying, and he seemed interested in all of it, asking questions, probing. He let very little slip about himself, but I was beginning to the get the sense that taking a woman for drinks was somehow as unfamiliar to him as it was to me. He seemed insatiable, like we had to make the most of this time while we could.
After I told him about my stint volunteering at New York Fashion Week, there was a pause in conversation. He was looking directly into my eyes in a way that was beginning to feel familiar, pulling all the blood to my cheeks. For a moment, I felt like we were on the same page. I felt myself opening up, my eyes getting bigger, waiting for him to acknowledge this tension in some palpable way.
I was silently begging him to touch me, kiss me, something. The bubble he’d created had me feeling safe, so I summoned the confidence to make my own move. I turned towards him, and in that moment I was his completely. One of his hands was on the back of my chair and the other on the table in front of him, as though I was being embraced in an oversized hug without us even touching. But I wanted to touch. I began to lean forward, hoping, praying he’d meet me halfway. The pit in my stomach told me I was taking a huge risk, and it screamed at me to pull back, but I wanted this. I wanted him. I looked at him, straight into his deep blue eyes and thought, Please, please show me what we’re doing here.
Chapter 5
Suddenly he pulled his hands back and leaned away from me, his lips tight. “Lydia, don’t—”
I pulled back just as quickly, instantly regretting opening myself up. Instantly feeling like an utter fool. All of the relaxed warmth and delicious excitement drained from my body in a flash. What did I really think was going to happen here? Did I think this guy, this feverishly hot and apparently famous, accomplished Marquess, was interested in me? I felt completely confused around him and now, humiliated. I had to get out of there.
“I need to be going, Dylan. Thank you for the drinks,” I said, more bitterly than I intended.
“Lydia, sit down,” he ordered, exasperated.
But I ignored him and headed out of the pub with my don’t-fuck-with-me walk, the stride I reserved for walking back from the subway late at night. I could feel tears dangerously close but held them back. I summoned all my strength, all my bullshit-detecting badass-ness, and firmly began to convince myself that the last thing I should waste my tears on was a confusing, arrogant, although undeniably sexy, asshole.
I could feel him right behind me, pushing chairs aside as he followed me out of the pub. “How are you getting back to the cottage?” he demanded.
“You know, would it kill you to speak to me with a little less annoyance when it was you who just rejected me?” I let out in a frustrated grumble. “I’m walking.”
“Lydia.” He sighed impatiently. “You’re not walking alone at nearly eleven in the evening.”
“Don’t be ridiculous—I’m not a damsel in distress. We’re in the most pristine, beautiful, idyllic page from a children’s book,” I huffed back at him. I was walking, and he was following right next to me, and it was driving me crazy. “My dangerous walk home will be paved with hydrangeas and rose petals, and I’ll be greeted by a butler. I don’t think I have anything to worry about. Plus, I’m a Brooklyn girl—I can take care of myself.” I could feel the anger rising.
“Can you now?” he said, clearly doubting me. He pulled ahead, grabbing me by the hand g
ently but with no question as to who was leading the way, and we marched down the path towards the cottage.
“Really, this is completely unnecessary,” I muttered, my hand still firmly ensconced in his as we continued at a brisk pace. “Do you do this often? Rescue helpless young lasses from the wilds of manicured gardens and quaint country pubs?” He still didn’t bite, and we were fast approaching the end of the path. “Do all women fall for this I-won’t-talk-to-you-but-I’ll-somehow-still-get-under-your-skin routine?” Nothing. “Do they teach you this delightful technique at boarding school or something?”
He stopped. We were on a narrow bit of path, harbored by a canopy of trees. Apart from the moonlight filtering through, it was nearly pitch-black. He looked down at me with a combination of fury, restraint, and what I hoped to god was lust. He let me go, and he placed one hand over his eyes, his thumb and forefinger pressing into his temples in irritation.
“Goddammit,” he hissed through clenched teeth.
Before I knew it, he’d pulled me into him, my whole front pressing, molding into his, our faces nearly touching. He grabbed my wrists with his hands and firmly swept them behind my back, pinning them there in one of his large hands and using them to push us closer together. He backed us against a tree behind me, and I stepped up onto its roots, bringing my face level to his. His forcefulness should have scared me, but it didn’t. It felt necessary. All I could focus on were all the places our bodies were suddenly touching, a manifestation of the energy between us. He slowly slid his free hand beneath the side of my tank top, skin on skin. His cool, broad palm nearly covered the expanse of my warm side, his fingers wrapped around to my back, his thumb stroking the tender skin just under the band of my bra, rhythmic, gentle. He pulled me closer.
