In Love Again (Unruly Royals)

by Mulry, Megan

  When she asked him about his time at Cornell, he brushed her off a bit. She sensed it hadn’t been what his parents had been hoping for, but she didn’t press him.

  “So if not lovely, then how shall I describe you? Brawny?”

  He laughed again, low and rumbly, and she loved to see the way it enlarged his chest. She wanted to reach across the small distance and rest her hand on that chest of his, but it felt wrong, too soon in some strange way. If she’d had a few more drinks in her, and they’d met on a sweaty dance floor near Leicester Square, she would have been on her knees and undoing his pants by now. But he was clear and direct, and it forced her to be the same, rather than some drunken girl who wanted to get laid. She turned away from him at the realization that that’s what she’d become. Her first year at St. Andrew’s and then these past months in London, that’s all she’d wanted—the oblivion, the forgetting that she usually found after a few stiff drinks and a meaningless shag with some guy she picked up at a dance club or a party.

  “Brawny makes me sound like a cartoon hero. What else?”

  “Are you actually asking me to think of words to compliment you?”

  “Yes, I guess I am.” He smiled at the idea, turning to catch her eye for a second then looking up again. “Tell me what you like about me.”

  Her heart started flipping around. She wanted to tell him that lying there under the stars with him was the finest thing she could recall. She wanted to tell him that his hand holding hers was like a tether to the earth, saving her from flying away and self-destructing like one of those wispy paper lanterns that are so lovely until they are consumed by fire and disappear. Instead, she said the very thing that she used to think—as recently as that afternoon—was so despicable. That thing she’d always mocked as the narcissism everyone mistook for love. Because it happened to be true, and she finally had a tiny glimpse of what it really meant. She said, “I like the way you make me feel. I like how you look at me.” Her heart was pounding from the unfamiliar honesty. “I like you,” she whispered.

  He squeezed her hand and smiled to the stars. “I like you too,” he answered with that low-slung confidence of his.

  Chapter 27

  Sometime after three that morning, Claire woke to the murmurs of Lydia talking to a man outside the villa. She took a deep breath and tried not to imagine the worst. Had she gone into Nassau and picked someone up? Had she wandered on the beach and found some stranger?

  “Do you want to go talk to her?” Ben whispered.

  “You’re awake…” She sidled up against him and wrapped her arms around his neck. They pulled their bodies together, and she felt the sheer relief of him, the blessed feeling that she wasn’t alone in her bed worrying about Lydia, as she had been for so many years. They were starting to knit together, so their worries didn’t feel so hopeless. The two of them could figure it out.

  “Do you mind?” she asked quietly.

  “Of course not,” Ben said. “I mean, come back to bed soon.” He winked. “But go talk to her.” He kissed her forehead and then held an extra beat. He let go of her and watched as she got up to pull on a robe. “Good luck,” he whispered.

  “I love you,” she whispered back as she left the room.

  Claire crossed the living room and rapped lightly on Lydia’s door. No answer.

  She opened the door a crack, seeing the light on beneath. Lydia was on the bed with her earbuds in and watching something on her smartphone. Claire knocked louder and waved one hand to get her attention. Lydia pulled one earbud out and tapped the screen to pause whatever she’d been watching.

  “You okay?” Claire asked.

  Lydia shrugged and pulled the other earbud out. “Not really.”

  “May I come in?”

  She sat up straighter and put her device on the bedside table. “Sure. Fine.”

  Claire shut the door and sat at the edge of Lydia’s bed. She tried not to fall into the old pattern of looking at her eyes to see if she was high or drunk, but she must have been doing it anyway.

  “I’m not buzzed, if that’s what you’re wondering,” said Lydia.

  “I wasn’t— Oh, I don’t know, maybe I was…” Claire faltered.

  “It’s okay.” Lydia’s voice sounded softer somehow.

  “I’ve always—no, I don’t want to talk about always.”

  “Nor do I,” Lydia agreed.

  “So.”

  “So.”

  “So how can we move forward? I mean, is there anything I can be doing better, for you?”

  Lydia stared at the ceiling and took a deep breath. “Mother…” When she hesitated, it was hard for Claire to resist filling in the silence, but she stayed quiet.

  “I’ve been so lost,” Lydia faltered, her voice cracking.

  “Oh darling.” Claire reached out and pulled her into a fierce hug. “I’m so sorry. Please talk to me. We’re all lost, you know.”

  Lydia was weeping in her mother’s arms, and Claire was soothing her with all the strange and unfamiliar words she’d never been able to express when Lydia was an errant teen. Freddy had always said she’d never grow up if Claire continued to coddle her, even as he accompanied her to drunken parties and late nights in London. As if partying and gallivanting around Mayfair were the hallmarks of adulthood.

  “Oh Lydia. I don’t want you to hate your father. But I can’t—” Claire hesitated to collect her thought. “I can’t cover up for him anymore either. He’s been quite terrible to both of us.”

  “Please.” Lydia pulled back and wiped at her face with a rough pull of her fist. “Don’t. It’s not about Father—”

  “But it is, darling.” Claire kept her voice soft. “It is for me. And if we’re going to start being honest with each other, I need you to see me for who I am. He weakened me, Lyd. He belittled me for years. Forever, really. I don’t want you to think that is okay.”

  “I know it’s not okay how he treated you.” Lydia took a trembling breath, then whispered. “But you could have been stronger. You should have been.”

  Claire took it. It was true, and she had asked for the truth, but she still felt it like a slow poison spreading through her veins. Cold and penetrating. “Lydia.”

  “I know. It’s a terrible thing to say.” She looked down at her hands on the tropical bedspread. “It’s a terrible thing to feel,” she added softly.

  “Oh dear. We are quite a mess.”

  Lydia’s expression lightened slightly. “Well, that’s sort of a relief, isn’t it?”

  Claire smiled too. “Yes. It’s a relief to be a mess. Quite. So.” She hesitated, then reached out to place a strand of hair behind Lydia’s ear.

  “I hate when you do that.”

  “What? Why?” Claire was taken aback, but it felt different. Lydia’s accusation was more of a sad revelation than her typical sniping.

  “I feel like you look at me and want to adjust me or clean me up or something. I’m never going to be perfect like you.”

  Claire toed off her slippers and pulled her legs up on the bed. “I do that because I want to see your beautiful face and your hair gets in the way.”

  “Oh.”

  “Darling, look at me.”

  Lydia was still hugging her knees against her chest. Not looking.

  “Okay. You don’t need to look at me. I want to be here for you. On the phone. In person. Whatever you need. But if you want me stronger, this is me stronger. I’m going to tell you when I think you’re not doing your best. I’m going to be honest about your father. I’m going to be honest about me.”

  “Do you love Ben?”

  “I do. Unequivocally.”

  Lydia finally looked at her mother. “How do you know?”

  “How do I know I love him?” Claire tilted her head to look at the ceiling. “How do I know?” She dropped her chin back down. “It probably sounds silly, but first off, he tells me all the time how much he loves me.”

  Lydia wanted to find fault with that, but then she t
hought how it might feel if Alistair—in some imaginary future—ever got around to telling her he loved her. All the time. How lovely that would feel. But still. “I didn’t ask if he loves you, I asked if you love him.”

  “Isn’t it the same, if you both feel it?” Claire asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Claire recognized her own skepticism reflected there in her daughter’s eyes. How impossible it had all seemed even just a few months ago, that two people could find each other and open their hearts to each other, and not destroy each other. “I know. Finally. It’s so hard to trust. I haven’t had any practice at it, really.” Claire smiled at Lydia. “But I trust Ben so completely. So when he tells me he loves me”—she shrugged—“it feels real to me. The love is real.”

  They stared at each other, Claire trying hard to hold on to whatever tentative emotional cord was pulling taut between them. “I guess I think of it as the place where we meet. It’s not an arrangement or an agreement or a negotiation. I think that’s always how I felt about your father. Maybe that wasn’t his fault, really. We had been sort of thrown together by our families from the start. But with Ben…” Claire took another deep breath. “With Ben, it’s like we’ve walked into the same room and there we both are…together. I don’t really know how to explain it. We feel like we’re part of each other. Does that make any sense?”

  Lydia’s chin rested on her knees. “A little. I guess.” When Alistair held her hand, there’d been the incipient hint of something like that. Then she shook her head. “It just sounds so highly unlikely. I’m so cynical.”

  Claire patted her daughter’s feet through the coverlet. “Lydia, sweetheart. I want to tell you something.”

  “Oh god. What now?”

  “Lyd.”

  “Sorry. Go on.”

  “Okay.” Claire took another breath then gave a small laugh. “I didn’t reckon this would be so hard.”

  “Just out with it.”

  “I’m having a baby.”

  Lydia froze. No snark. Not even the slightest twitch of her mouth to indicate anger or disgust or joy. Nothing.

  “Lydia?”

  “What?”

  “Are you okay with that?”

  “Why? Would you have an abortion if I wasn’t okay with it?”

  “What a horrible thing to say. Of course not. I only meant— You know what? Never mind. I wanted you to know before anyone else. We haven’t told anyone and I was really hoping…”

  Lydia stared down at her feet where Claire’s hand still rested.

  “Sometimes I think I’m a very bad person, Mother.”

  “Oh darling—” She pulled her into another near-painful hug, all knees and elbows and awkwardness. “You are a wonderful person. You’re smart as a whip, funny. But sometimes you don’t remember to filter. Or maybe you’re just mean as a snake.”

  They both started laughing through the tears. “I am!” Lydia laugh-cried. “I didn’t mean that at all about you having an abortion. I just meant, oh I don’t know, I guess I felt like, what does it matter to anyone what I think?”

  Claire grabbed her shoulders. “It matters to me! I want you to be a part of my life. I want to be part of your life. You’re going to have a sister or brother. Do you remember how you used to beg for one?”

  Lydia smiled at the ancient memories. The endless pleading. “I remember.”

  “Well, I’m a little late, as usual.” They both smiled, then Claire continued more seriously. “I want you to move to New York or, if we move back to England or Scotland, I want us all to be together. We’ve been apart too long. Forever, really. And I hate it.” She pulled Lydia’s hands into hers, feeling her tremble, wanting to relieve her somehow.

  When they had both settled, Claire reached up to rest her palm against Lydia’s cheek. “You’re so beautiful. Inside, I mean. All that fire, from both your grandmothers.”

  Lydia quirked her mouth, unable to see any beauty in herself. “If you say so.”

  “I’ll quit while I’m ahead. You okay to sleep?”

  “Should do. I’m exhausted.”

  “Me too. I love you, Lydia. I don’t say it enough. Or I haven’t until now. I love so much about you. Your spark and wit. Please think about what I said about moving to New York.”

  “I will.”

  “Okay. And mum’s the word about the baby, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “See you in the morning. Sleep well, darling.” She leaned down and kissed her on the forehead, like she’d done when Lydia was a small girl and still allowed it. “Happy Christmas.”

  “You too. G’night, Mother.”

  As she was pulling the door closed, Claire could have sworn she heard her daughter whisper, Iloveyoutoo.

  Chapter 28

  Ben was reading in bed and set the book down when she came in. “How did it go?”

  “I don’t even know. Fine, I suppose. I think all this fence-mending is going to take a while. At least now she knows about the baby and we didn’t kill each other.”

  “Get in here.” He pulled back the sheet and patted the pillow.

  “I should wash my face and brush my teeth. I fell asleep so quickly at midnight.”

  “You’re exhausted. Just get into bed.”

  “You wouldn’t care if I didn’t bathe for weeks.”

  He grinned. “You’re right. I’d probably love that.”

  She took off the robe. “Men are so bizarre.” Then she slid into the cool sheets. “Oh. This is heavenly.”

  Ben reached across the bed and pulled her body into the turn of his. Claire was already breathing steadily with her eyes closed by the time they settled into each other.

  “I love you, Claire.”

  “I love you, Ben,” she whispered. “I love you so…”

  He stared at her, tracing the turn of her jaw, the rim of her ear. He stretched over her to turn off the lamp on the bedside table then pulled her closer against him in the darkness. The ceiling fan made a faint clicking sound as the two of them fell into a deep sleep amid the unfamiliar tropical night noises.

  When Ben woke up early the next morning, a few hours later, neither of them had moved from that position. Claire was still snug in his arms, her even breaths creating a soft rhythm against his forearm. In the past few weeks since she’d discovered she was pregnant, Claire had been particularly…eager…in the mornings. They’d laughingly agreed that making sure she had an orgasm straight away was the best method to avoid morning sickness.

  He let his hand caress her breasts, which were already feeling fuller to him, but not enough for anyone else to notice the changes that were beginning to take place in her body. He toyed with her warming skin, circling and teasing until her sensitive flesh puckered. She hummed her sleepy approval. Keeping one hand at her breast, he trailed the other down her bare abdomen to rest over the slight roundness of her belly. She softened her back against his front, still asleep but rousing just enough to register his touch. Her half-waking moan was all the welcome Ben needed. He rubbed the flat of his hand lower and lower on her stomach, feeling the deep flutter and twitch of her arousal beneath his palm.

  He removed his hands from the front of her body and gripped her hips, positioning her exactly where he wanted her. Keeping her on her side, he tilted her at a steeper angle until he was able to slip right into her. “Oh god, Claire. You’re already so wet for me.”

  He could practically hear the smile in her answering purr of agreement. Her hips were beginning to move in counterpoint to his, slow and easy, inviting him deeper into her body. She reached her hand around to his hip and scraped her nails lightly along his taut muscles there. Drowsy and sexy all at once.

  Unable to maintain the slow rhythm, Ben began to move faster, loving the increasingly higher pitch of her soft exhales. He moved one hand from her hip and slid down to cup her, then began circling her swollen clit. A few seconds later, she pushed her face into the pillow to stifle her dreamy cry of pleasure.

&nbs
p; “So beautiful.” His voice was a hoarse whisper, hot and close to her ear, as his orgasm followed quickly on hers, their insides gripping and pulsing in time with one another. “So beautiful,” he whispered again, before both of them fell back to sleep for another blissful few hours.

  When Ben awoke next, Claire was sitting up in bed wearing one of his oversized white T-shirts, reading a design magazine. “How are you this lovely morning?” he asked.

  Without looking away from the article, she said, “Quite nice. I had the most delectable dream earlier. I can’t remember the particulars, but I was in some medieval castle with some brute of a man plundering into me from behind.” She licked her finger and turned a page of the magazine. “It was so lifelike.”

  He scraped his nails through his short hair and then settled his clasped hands behind his head and looked up at the ceiling, then askance at Claire. “What a strange coincidence. I dreamt I’d grabbed ahold of a scullery maid and had my way with her in the pantry, in just the same way.”

  “The scullery maid? How terrible. You took advantage of your position as lord of the manor? You probably terrified the young lass.”

  “Who said I was lord of the manor? I was the strapping stable boy and she was my sweetheart. And she loved it when I grabbed the turn of her hip”—his strong fingers dug into Claire’s flesh to demonstrate what he meant—“like this.”

  Her eyes lowered involuntarily as she pretended to keep her attention on the magazine. “I bet she did,” Claire murmured.

  There was a light tap at the bedroom door, and Claire swatted his roving hand away. “Until we meet again, stable boy,” she whispered. “Now go shower off all that rammy stable stench.” She shoved him out of bed and waited until he was closed up in the bathroom. “Come in.”

  Lydia leaned her head in. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”