Royal Match Read online

  Royal Match

  A Royal Scandal Novella

  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 © 2018 by Parker Swift

  Cover design by Elizabeth Turner Stokes. Cover copyright © 2018 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 Ebook Edition: May 2018

  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.

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  ISBN: 978-1-5387-4772-8 (ebook)

  E3-20180403-NF-DA

  Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Discover More Parker Swift

  About the Author

  Also by Parker Swift

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

  For ER

  Acknowledgments

  An emphatic thank-you to Lexi Smail and everyone at Forever Yours for pushing this little project through and continuing to believe in Dylan and Lydia’s story.

  When I’m not writing, I get to work with the most amazing, enthusiastic, delightful, brilliant, honorable, caring group of people who make my life better every day. D. J., A. Y., S. W., G. P., J. L., and the rest of the FB NT gang: I feel so lucky to get to work and learn from you. Thank you!

  Kimberly Brower, I like where we’re headed. Let’s keep doing it, and thank you for always looking out for me. You are, truly, the best.

  And Ethan: Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. (There should probably be an I’m sorry in here for lots of things big and small that occur while I’m writing: I’m sorry!) Thank you. Thank you. I love you.

  Chapter One

  Lydia, my dear.” I could always tell when my mother-in-law, Charlotte, was about to offer a suggestion about my life by the way she would say my dear. At that moment, she was definitely about to make a suggestion, and judging by the small, well-worn cartoon-inspired suitcase she held in her hand, I suspected it had to do with the quality of my children’s luggage.

  “Hi, Charlotte,” I said as I folded pool towels by the garden door. Given that I was nearly thirty-seven weeks pregnant, this was not a speedy process, even if I could use my belly as a shelf. We’d been in Canada for a month, getting in one last vacation as a family of four before our third child would arrive. We’d had four splendid weeks of relaxing, doing a bit of remote working, and hosting friends. But now it was time to leave. Time to ease into parental leave, wind down projects, and look forward to how our family would change in only a few short weeks.

  That night we’d head back to London. Dylan and I would get our children—Eleanor and Aiden—ready to go back to nursery school, make sure the baby’s room was ready, and dial down the stress as the waiting game for delivery began. It turned out that I was calm at this stage of pregnancy. I found it easy to take a deep breath, let go, and wait for nature to take its course. No one found it surprising that this was the hardest stage for Dylan—he wanted to control every second, and he couldn’t stand that doctors apparently had little to no idea what made labor start or how he might trick his wife’s body into doing it on his schedule. Nothing drove my alpha male husband crazier than not knowing.

  “I was just thinking,” Charlotte continued in that suggestion-making voice of hers. “The children’s luggage isn’t really befitting their station in life, is it?” I tried to keep my eye-roll to myself. I could already imagine laughing about this exchange with Dylan later. Yes, my son was an earl and my daughter a lady, but their “station in life” was not a primary concern for me. I spent far more time worrying about whether they said please and thank you, whether they ate enough protein and got enough sleep, and about how on earth I’d ever get Aiden to agree to let me brush his teeth without a fight. Luggage and titles were not on my mind.

  I was about to say something to that effect, but I didn’t get a chance. Charlotte stepped out of the way to reveal two gleaming new child-sized roller bags that appeared to be made of…Was that some kind of white reptile skin? “Oh, Charlotte,” I said, getting a closer look and hoping my tone could be interpreted as admiration. I wouldn’t trust myself with white leather, let alone my young children.

  “Aren’t they darling?” She beamed.

  I swallowed my sigh and took a moment to accept that my children would now be those children. The ones with ridiculously luxurious luggage. There were moments—mundane like this one, about luggage, and bigger, like when we set up trust funds for Aiden and Eleanor that were so large they could have bought really nice Brooklyn brownstones for six of my closest friends—when my own upbringing came into stark contrast to the one I was providing for my kids. There were nights I lost sleep over this—I never wanted my children to be spoiled or unaware of how privileged their lives were—but I also needed to let go sometimes and accept that this was their life.

  I let out a breath and I gave my mother-in-law, the Dowager Duchess of Abingdon, a stilted hug across my big belly. A good moment to let go. Plus, some things would never change.

  * * *

  “Where on earth did Eleanor and Aiden get those bags?” Dylan asked as our children happily pulled their new suitcases behind them across the tarmac towards the plane. I was flying later in my pregnancy than I probably should have been. It was one of the perks of private air travel—no nosey airline attendants asking how many weeks I was. My doctor knew exactly how pregnant I was. And on a gorgeous Saturday in August, exactly three weeks before my due date, we weren’t worried.

  Dylan’s hand was resting on my lower back, and he was rubbing small circles at the base of my spine. He had an instinct for my body, seemed to know what I needed often before I realized it myself, and at that moment his hand on my back was exactly what I needed. Our unborn daughter had chosen to wedge her small feet right into my ribs, or at least that’s how it felt, and I was constantly stretching, trying to make more room for her.

  I glanced at him, and as always was in awe of how bizarrely and rakishly handsome he was. If you’d asked me, six years earlier, when I was twenty-four, if by the end of that year I’d be in love with a duke who looked like
Dylan, I’d have laughed. Hard. Tall frame and narrow waist, broad shoulders, exquisitely defined muscles, preposterously blue eyes, and that dark hair with just a hint of wave. Every part of him felt like home to me, and at that moment my home looked damn good—his aviator sunglasses perched on his face and his pale blue linen button-down unbuttoned just enough to reveal some chest hair. Good enough that I momentarily forgot what he’d asked me—oh, right, the ridiculous luggage our children were carting around.

  I looked back up at him, squinting my eyes into the setting sun, and gave him a look that said do you even have to ask? which made him chuckle.

  “Don’t worry, damsel,” Dylan whispered into my ear as he pulled me closer. “In six short hours we’ll be home, in our own house, without my mother.” I smiled, imagining the privacy that awaited us. “And I intend to take full advantage, sweet girl, especially before we fall prey to the weeks of sleep deprivation that lie in wait.” His hand drifted lower, resting lightly on my ass as I began to climb the steps onto the small private jet. But Dylan pulled me back slightly by my hips, so my back hit his broad chest, and he could whisper more closely into my ear. “In the meantime, baby, I want you to get on this plane, go to the bedroom, and get comfortable. As soon as I have the children settled, I’m going to take care of you.”

  Whenever he said things like that, even now, even after five years of marriage and nearly three children, my body responded. I went soft for him, receptive. He finished his thought with a kiss on my neck and gentle pat on my ass. The funny thing was that at this point in our marriage, in our family life, I’m going to take care of you was just as likely to mean bringing me a cup of tea and rubbing my back as it was to mean hot and heavy sex. Regardless, it made me pause, reminded me that he was paying attention, and it made relaxing just a little easier.

  I had just crossed the threshold onto the plane, and Dylan had just stepped around me to open Aiden’s juice box, when my phone rang. I saw Caroline’s number light up my screen. It was amazing to think that the future queen of England, Princess Caroline, was my husband’s ex-fiancée. It was even more amazing that she had become one of my closest friends in the years I’d lived in England. And now, she was about to get married herself.

  Two years earlier, on a trip she’d taken to the Arctic Circle to bring awareness to climate change and the dwindling polar bear population, she’d met Zach Washington, an American photojournalist there to document her visit. Fast-forward through months of long distance-flirting, several extended secret vacations (one of which had actually been at our house in Greece), and a successful campaign to get Zach to move to England, and they were finally getting married. There’d be countless meals and parties. Dignitaries and foreign leaders. It would be the society event of the decade. And it was also, coincidentally, on my due date. Dylan and I knew we probably wouldn’t be able to attend, but we were hoping to at least go to the dinner in their honor the week before, and I’d try to have lunch with Caroline if I could.

  “Caroline,” I said, answering the phone, and I stepped into a small alcove so as not to draw Charlotte’s attention—I swear that woman was a bloodhound for anything involving the royal family.

  “Lydia. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time, or in the middle of a scan or something.” Caroline had a way of speaking to you as though you were the only person on the planet, even though she was second in line to the British throne. It was hard to believe my ultrasounds even registered on her radar, even if we were friends. At that moment while we were on the phone, she was probably also having her makeup done or being briefed on a charity she was supporting.

  “Not at all,” I replied. “In fact, we’re just getting on the plane to head back home. We’re still in Canada at the moment,” I said as I knelt as best I could to kiss the top of Eleanor’s head. She was playing ring-around-the-rosy by herself around my body, and the volume of her singing voice was steadily increasing. Dylan came to the rescue, hushing her and ushering her away. Then the good man placed a cup of tea into my free hand and gave me a concerned look, to which I nodded reassuringly.

  “And the trip went well? Nothing awry over there in the Commonwealth, I should hope? You and Charlotte getting along?”

  “Yes, of course. We sat up at night making friendship bracelets and scrapbooking,” I joked.

  She laughed, knowing exactly how unlikely that was, no matter how far my relationship with Charlotte had come. Charlotte and I had had our rocky moments—we both knew she had always envisioned Dylan with another British aristocrat and not a girl raised by a single dad in Brooklyn. But we’d come a long way. Sometimes I thought Charlotte was actually relieved to have handed over the reins as mistress of Humboldt Park. And, apparently, I’d displayed enough vim and vigor—and, let’s be honest, enough ruthless candor—with Charlotte that eventually she gave in and let me lead, at least in most things.

  Caroline paused. If I didn’t know better, I would have said she was stalling.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  I wanted to ask if she was having pre-wedding jitters, but even as good friends, there were some things you didn’t ask the future queen about her love life.

  Then I heard a very un-Caroline sigh. “Well, actually, I hate to ask this of you at the moment, but I’m calling for a wee favor. And since you are on an airplane, I suppose I should just get on with it, shan’t I?”

  “What can I do?”

  “I do know that this is awfully late notice, and under the circumstances, it’s an imposition of course, but my grandmother has requested that you be one of my attendants at Westminster Abbey.”

  Caroline was getting married at Westminster Abbey. Her wedding. The same one that was on my due date. And attendants for royal weddings were normally younger girls, what I thought of as flower-girl age. She couldn’t possibly mean—

  “As you know, in a rare gesture towards modernity, my grandmother has urged me to take a maid of honor, which isn’t traditional, of course, but seems to be an appropriate nod to contemporary nuptials, and so on. But you see, I’m afraid that my cousin Annabel, whom I asked ages ago, has found herself in somewhat of a compromising situation.”

  To say the least. HELLO! magazine had just broken the story that Lady Annabel, the daughter of the queen’s second son, had been sleeping with the man who was once her secondary school teacher, and the two had been caught buying drugs from another former student in Brixton only one week prior. A scandal from every angle.

  “Yes, I heard. I’m, um, sorry about that,” I added, trying to sound sympathetic. Dylan signaled to me to head back towards the rear cabin. My body followed him, but my mind was still reeling from Caroline’s request, still trying to understand if she could possibly mean what I thought she meant.

  “Yes, well, Grandmother can’t really brook such things, and doesn’t feel that it would be right for the family to have Annabel so front and center at the moment. Grandmother thinks you’re the perfect alternative. Dylan has always been like family, and now so are you. And you’re partially American, so it’s a nice gesture towards Zach’s family and so on. It will be lovely, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said on autopilot, still not fully grasping her request.

  “I so appreciate it, Lydia. Honestly, I’m thrilled. I’ve always wanted you in the party.” She laughed for a moment, her proper princess laugh. “To be honest, it will be a great relief to have you there with me.” Caroline was shifting into her end-of-the-conversation-wrap-up tone, and I knew instantly that there was no wiggle room here, no option to be forty weeks pregnant, no two-kids-at-home-and-one-baby-on-the-way box I could check to get out of it. No real choice.

  For the most part I had no real qualms about saying how high when the queen said jump. It happened so seldom, and I understood it was part of the deal, part of being connected to the royal family. Dylan and I had gone on international trips at her behest, had rescheduled our work lives to accommodate her jubilee, cancelled flights to attend tea when in
vited. And this particular request, to be a bridesmaid in the royal wedding—well, a part of me wanted to jump for joy, squee with delight, immediately dial my friend Josh, who might literally have a heart attack due to the excitement.

  But at this moment in time, a much larger part of me wanted to exclaim, Are you completely out of your mind, old lady? Do you have any idea how crazy this is? Are you aware that I’m in full waddle mode now? That I’m as enormous as some kind of lumbering manatee? That there is no earthly way I can fit into a bridesmaid’s dress and walk down an aisle and hold a bouquet and stand and look perfectly pleasant on international television!

  But of course the queen already knew all that, didn’t she? And she’d still asked. And Caroline knew, which is why she’d sounded apologetic. No. At this point, there was really only one answer. I was going to be a very, very pregnant matron of honor in a very, very public wedding.

  “Of course, Caroline,” I said cheerfully. “I’m honored. Anything you need—just let me know.” I could practically see her about to hang up the phone—it’s not as though she’d actually been worried I’d decline. We both knew it was a done deal.

  “Brilliant,” she replied with a lot more confidence than I was feeling at that moment.

  “Caroline, I have to ask though: What if I go into labor and can’t be there? Is there a backup plan?”

  “No,” she replied simply. “Grandmother says it won’t be necessary.”

  Huh. I knew the queen was the queen, but surely she didn’t think her power reached as far as my uterus.

  “I’ll have my secretary ring you with the details for a fitting. You know better than anyone that Hannah won’t let you down. It will be fantastic.”

  It was no surprise that Hannah Rogan, a premiere fashion designer and my former boss, would be responsible for my gown. It was top secret to most of the world, but I was privy to the fact that Caroline had Hannah design the wedding gown as well as the gowns for the entire royal family. Of course, those gowns had been done weeks ago. I couldn’t imagine the panic Hannah would feel at this task: three weeks to design and execute a maternity gown suitable for intense scrutiny and two billion television viewers.