by Parker Swift
“Who was that?” I asked.
Dylan shook his head. “I don’t know him.”
“But he was walking across your land,” I said, confused. Surely he’d know the strange person walking through what was essentially his backyard.
“Freedom to roam,” he said. “It’s the law here. Anyone is free to walk across anyone’s land. Not the house, of course, or any private gardens or anything, but large parks like this are open to any walkers or hikers.”
“That’s so cool,” I replied, looking around as though I might see another Englishman or lady popping out of the woods. “I love that. My country is filled with NO TRESPASSING signs. Different mindset.”
Dylan just chuckled. “Yes, well, different histories.”
And the history of Humboldt Park was everywhere. It felt old, not in a costly Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous way, but in a calming way, as though all of the tradition, the lack of technology, the beautiful oldness of it all, actually made it humble. As though it was purposely taking a slower path to change, hanging back, being cautious, and reverent of the idea that this was part of a country’s history.
“I understand why you like to walk here, I think,” I said to Dylan, our hands linked, my scarf muffling my words.
“Is that right?” he asked, just as we came to the top of a small hill. He pulled me close to him, resting our linked hands at the base of my spine. I leaned into him, resting my cheek on his wooly sweater and prompting him to put his broad hand against the back of my head, stroking it. I could feel and hear the dogs circling us.
“I feel calmer. There’s something about this place that feels almost centering, clearing, like I can breathe easier. It’s beautiful.”
“It is,” he replied and took my face in his hands. “I’m so glad you like it. When I’m in that house, it’s easy to feel suffocated, but out here…”
I looked back at the grand house in the distance. “So you’ll be ‘Your Grace’ someday.”
“Hopefully not for a long while,” he said.
“I know you don’t want to be like your father, but do you want to be duke?”
Dylan didn’t reply for a moment. “No one has ever asked me that before.”
“Really?”
“Well, it’s not as though I have a choice,” he said very matter-of-factly, and he took my hand, guiding us back down the hill.
“I never thought of it that way.”
“Because of the way these things work, the title only goes to sons—”
“Yeah, Emily explained that bit.”
He nodded. “Right, well. So if I die, the title dies.”
I stopped walking, jerking him back a bit. “So if you don’t have a son you’ll be the last duke?”
“There’s actually a third cousin, who I believe is currently twelve, who lives in a hippie commune in the Australian outback. Technically he may have a right, but there is some dispute about that, because his grandmother wasn’t actually married to my father’s second cousin when she gave birth to his father, who subsequently died in a some horrible business involving wild dogs.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Not really?”
“Really.”
“So you’ll be the duke, then.”
He nodded solemnly.
“The only way to get out of it is to commit a horrible crime, wherein the queen will take the title away, or to die. Neither of those is on my list.” I remained quiet for a moment, hoping he’d continue. “And I don’t know if I’d want to even if I could. I am proud of this place, of my family’s place in history, in keeping this part of my culture alive.” He looked to me. “There are only twenty-five dukes left in the country. I mean, dukes that aren’t directly related to the royal family. There have been a few unlucky generations—lots of daughters. I mean, I’m sure they were lucky in their delightful daughters, but it was bad for the title, obviously.”
“Obviously,” I smiled, ribbing him. There was no way I was ever going to let him forget that at least a part of this was just crazy.
He laughed a little, but the seriousness was so near the surface for him. “But then I look at my father,” he continued. We were looking over a vast green area, and I could see some deer skirting the edges of the woods. “Earlier this year he fired a footman who’d been with our family his whole life. He was born here, for fuck’s sake. I mean, literally—he was born in the house. His father had served my grandfather. And you know why the bastard did it?”
I looked up to him, holding his hand, and I could feel the anger pulsing through it.
“His favorite Scotch had run out.”
“What?”
“It wasn’t even Robert’s job to make sure that Scotch was in stock. Really that’s my mother’s job more than anyone’s—she’s the one who suffers the most, normally…But poor Robert went to pour it, and there wasn’t a full glass left, and my father fucking fired him. I’d grown up with Robert. I may have high standards and expect the best from my employees, but I reward them handsomely, and I’m loyal, just as much as they are. No one should be treated the way Robert was, and I don’t want any part of it.”
“What happened to him?”
“Well, actually it worked out for the best. Will hired him at the restaurant, and he was quickly promoted and now holds a high post at the Ritz. So, well done for him—probably the best thing that ever happened to him. But I mean, bloody hell. The old man hasn’t a shred of decency.”
“But you’d never be like that,” I urged, not even sure why I was pushing him, except that I could see the part of him that loved this place written so clearly on his skin, in his eyes. I wanted him to see himself in a way he wasn’t—he was seeing his father mapped onto himself. But he was better than that.
He closed his eyes for a moment, contemplative. Then he opened them and put his palm against my cheek. I could feel that my face was a little windburned, chilled from the cool breeze. “You’re cold. Let’s get back, damsel.”
And that was that. A part of me wanted to dive at him with a hundred more questions, but I knew, now more than ever, that when we were just about to dine with his parents was not the time. The one question I wasn’t even willing to look at, but I knew was there, lurking, was: If this was his destiny, was there really any place in it for me?
* * *
We’d been at Humboldt Park for four hours before I set eyes on Dylan’s parents. The sun had set, giving the house a medieval quality, lit mostly by wall sconces and table lamps. We entered the lounge, a sprawling living room that reminded me of the living room back at La Belle Reve, the Canadian mansion the Hales also owned and where I had originally met Dylan. The duke and duchess were sitting properly, elegantly, but somehow managing to also look relaxed on couches by a roaring fire. Jake now stood in full livery, waiting to pour us cocktails.
“Laphroaig for me, please, Jake,” Dylan said with his arm around me. Then he looked down at me without letting go and asked quietly, “Champagne?”
“Yes, please.” I was so glad I’d worn the dress he’d suggested. It felt country club-ish, which now felt appropriate. Dylan was wearing a dark grey suit with no tie. I noticed his father was wearing a tie.
“Dressing down tonight, Dylan?” He actually huffed with disapproval.
Dylan ignored him and bent down to kiss his mother on the cheek. “Good evening, Mum. You remember Lydia.” She was wearing an elegant knee-length teal dress with lace sleeves.
Charlotte politely looked up at me from her seat and said, “Of course. Welcome to Humboldt, my dear,” without a trace of emotion.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” I said to her, shaking her hand, which all of a sudden felt like a very American thing to do, and I looked across to the other couch and addressed the duke. “And you, Your Grace. It’s lovely to see you both. Thank you for having me. Dylan took me around the property today, and it’s just stunning.”
Neither of them said anything, and I gratefully took my glass of Champagne from Jake, who ga
ve me a wink.
Dylan clasped my hand and moved us to stand by the fire.
Everyone seemed so quiet, and it was driving me crazy.
“Ma’am,” I said, deciding to just go for it and addressing Dylan’s mother according to the rules I’d memorized and rehearsed with Fiona that week at work, “Dylan showed me the gardens earlier, and I noticed the beautiful stone animals towards the far end. They add so much spirit to the garden. Have they always been there?”
She hiccupped a little, maybe surprised that I was making the first move so willingly. But of course I was. I loved her son, and I wanted to know her, even if I hadn’t heard the best of things. “No, actually I commissioned those when I first arrived from a London stone smith.”
“They almost reminded me of the Beatrix Potter books I read as a child,” I continued, and she almost—not actually, mind you, but almost—smiled.
“Mmm, yes, I’ve thought the frog by the tea roses did have a Jeremy Fisher quality to him. I’m glad you enjoyed them, of course.” I think I saw, maybe just for a moment, this woman’s guard drop, a slight slump in her perfect posture. It felt somehow as though with two sentences I’d cracked something.
“And have you seen Amelia recently, my dear?” She looked at Dylan pointedly as she asked the question.
Or maybe not.
“Mother,” Dylan said sternly. “Behave.”
Oh boy.
“Dinner is served,” Jake chimed in from the doorway. Thank fucking god.
Dylan’s parents rose, and Dylan held my elbow, pulling me back. He leaned down and whispered into my ear. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”
I smiled and squeezed his hand.
We sat at the far end of a long table that looked like it could seat at least twenty people, and the entirety of dinner was a dance between cold apathy and elegant passive aggression between Dylan and his parents. There were some Please pass the salt cellar and The carrots came in nicely this year interspersed with complaints from his father and social inquiries from his mother. Charlotte also asked a lot of seemingly casual questions about Emily, which revealed just how little she knew of her children’s lives. At one point she asked if Emily was enjoying her psychology studies, and without thinking I piped up and said, “Emily’s studying art history.”
Dylan stilled as he was bringing water to his lips. I think stunned that I had just corrected his mother about his sister, but I could see the edges of his mouth curl up.
“Of course,” Charlotte replied, and she quickly turned the conversation to something about horses.
After dinner we retreated to the library for cards and what I feared would be another hour of polite non-conversation. We drank some more, and I fielded questions about where I’d travelled and what my father had done for a living. Even though I stayed firmly in polite meet-the-aristocratic-parents mode—my ankles crossed, my hands in my lap, my back straight—I told stories of my life before the way I would to any boyfriend’s parents. I was determined to be myself.
Dylan sat near me on the pink silk sofa and occasionally elaborated on a story I was telling, always demonstrating his pride in me. And every time he spoke I recalled his words from the previous night, about how much was at stake for him, sharing things with his parents. After everything I’d heard about Geoffrey, I half expected him to just usher me to the door or come out with something cruel, but in the end he never moved from his post by the fireplace and demonstrated only the minimum interest in our conversation. And his mother barely said a word as she sat primly on the chair across from us. As the night wore on, I realized this kind of indifference was almost worse.
I was looking at my own hands in my lap, thinking about how sad this all was, when Dylan’s hand landed on top of my own. Just the touching of our skin brought me back to life, sending a jolt of energy flying across my skin. I shivered slightly, and my eyes snapped to his.
He rose, urging me to stand with him, and looked me in the eye as he said, “Mum, Dad, we’ll see you in the morning.”
I cleared my throat and forced myself to look at his parents. “Thank you so much for dinner. It’s quite incredible to be in a place like this, and I really appreciate you having me.”
How I got those words out, I’ll never know. In that moment, Dylan’s fingers threading with my own, him pulling me towards the door, I remembered all at once why I was even there. Dylan. And as he came back into focus, after hours of tense conversation, I wanted nothing more than to dive into him. As we left the room, I let myself sink into the feeling of just being together, into the anticipation of being alone in his room, and I was relieved to let him lead me there.
Chapter 14
Dylan urged me through the door to his bedroom, his palm spread widely across my lower back. “In you go,” he said firmly.
I stepped into the dark room, lit only by the light coming from the bathroom door.
Dylan moved behind me, to the side, and stood me in front of a leather club chair. I waited as he poured himself a glass of water and placed it on the table next to the chair after taking a long swig.
“What? No more Scotch?” I asked, following his eyes as he circled me, coming to stand behind me.
“I want my senses about me for this. You were bloody gorgeous tonight,” he said into my ear, his fingertips stroking my arms. “So perfectly yourself. You didn’t let them get to you, and it was fucking thrilling. I want to reward you. I want to sink into you. I want to goddamn consume you,” he said slowly, taking his time, and I gulped in anticipation. “And no more talking,” he said softly, finally settling into the chair before me and gazing up at me. “Undress.”
I giggled a little. “So it’s going to be that kind of night.”
He tsk-ed at me, wagging his finger as he sat down. “Shh, damsel. This will be better if you follow instructions.”
My skin was singing—it felt like there were a million little weather systems moving in the air around me, all electric, all feverish. My breathing was picking up.
I walked up to him, put my hands on the armrests of the chair where he sat, leaned over, and kissed him slowly on the lips. No tongue, just firm, warm lips.
“Can you unzip me at least?” I whispered, our faces centimeters apart, the air between us warming. Our eyes met, and my little challenge added heat to this game. He was getting ready to devour me.
I stood and turned, so my back was to him, and I felt him rise behind me. He dragged the zipper slowly down my back and slid his hands into the dress. They were so warm and felt so big, like he could grab me fully around my middle. His thumbs stroked my underarms, and the subtle movements caused a ripple, a shiver of anticipation.
The dress, now loose, slumped off my shoulders, making room for his hands. He unclasped my bra, and it fell into the dress. Then he pushed the whole thing off my arms and down my body, so it hung in front of me, and my bra spilled to the floor. “I think you can handle the rest yourself.”
I shimmied out of my dress, kicked off my heels, and turned to see Dylan shrugging off his jacket and rolling up his shirtsleeves. “On the bed, damsel.” He smacked my ass—hard. I smiled, eager, scurried to his majestic four-poster canopy bed, and perched myself on its edge. I bit my lip between my nervous teeth and sat on my hands. My hair, grown in the last couple of months, drifted around my shoulders. The pit in my stomach and the round ache between my legs were getting sharper, firmer, more demanding. I wanted his hands on me, all over me. He was taking this too slowly, like he was stalking his prey.
Dylan reached into his bag, parked by the base of the bed, and lifted out a long coil of velvety-looking fabric, wider than rope, softer looking. “You game for this, sweetness?” I nodded hungrily, shamelessly. “Good. Then up at the headboard. Now.”
I crawled on all fours and turned back to look at Dylan stalking me. “Thought this through, did you?”
Smack.
Another crisp slap to my ass.
Right, no talking. But if that was my punishme
nt, I might have to keep rebelling. I couldn’t stop the eager smile forming on my face, and Dylan shook his head. “Incorrigible.”
I got to the top of the large mattress, and Dylan removed all but one pillow from the headboard. He lifted me and placed me square against it, so my ass was on the fluffy pillow, raised, and my back was flush with the upholstered headboard.
“Arm out.” Dylan spoke with precision and pointed to my left arm. I couldn’t help but just stare into his face, taking it in. The late-in-the-day stubble, the flustered bits of hair haphazardly arranged on his forehead, the sharp definition of his shoulder muscles and biceps, not to mention his pecs and abs, the bare light of the room highlighting every delicious shadow on his torso. I drank him in.
I had remained still, arms at my sides, wanting to prolong whatever devilish plan Dylan had brewing but also simply because I was already lost to this feeling, this closeness, this electric air in which we were floating. One of his free hands landed on my pussy, and his mouth hovered by my ear. “You need a reminder of who gives instructions around here and who follows, baby?” He inserted a finger into me and crooked it, hitching right into that spot, my ignition. I threw my head back and mewed. “Arm. Out,” he instructed again.
I flung my arm out to my side. Dylan swiftly tied one end of the long piece of fabric to my wrist, testing it to make sure there was enough slack for comfort, then looped it around the post of the bed behind me, tugged it but didn’t tie it down anywhere. What was he doing? He quickly arranged my right arm the same way, so my breasts were projected out, my upper back was cushioned against the headboard behind me, and my legs were stretched out on the bed before me.
Then I felt a tug on my left arm. Dylan lifted my left leg by the knee and wrapped the soft fabric around my thigh, just above my knee. He tied a similar knot, leaving some slack but getting my knee at just the right height, just the right angle away from my body.