Royal Treatment (Royal Scandal Book 3)

by Parker Swift

  I stared thoughtfully into my empty mug.

  “Baby,” he said. “Don’t let this put a damper on this day—”

  “I’m not. I actually feel lucky. And not because of the title, but because you’re a part of something that pushes you to be a better man.”

  “And now you’re a part of it too. Or you will be by quarter past four today.” He smiled as he said the words. Then he reached across the table to grab his phone, which had started vibrating, his lawyer’s name flashing on its screen. “Hale,” he said sternly into the phone, all businesslike. “Well done. Thank you, mate.” Silence, and he began pouring himself another cup of coffee. “What’s the first thing?…I did, and the answer is still no.” He walked across to the fridge to get the milk. “I think I’ve made myself clear on this point.” He listened intently into the phone and actually rolled his eyes. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him do that before. “Bloody hell, fine! I’ll ask her.” He pressed a button on the screen of his phone. “Trevor, you’re on speaker. Lydia, say something so he can hear you.”

  “Hi,” I said warily.

  “Hello, Lydia.” Trevor’s voice crackled from the speakerphone.

  “Now.” Dylan interrupted and looked at me purposefully. “Lydia.”

  “Um, yes?”

  “Do you want a prenuptial agreement?”

  Oh, fuck. I hadn’t even thought about anything along those lines. Of course Trevor, as his lawyer, would be concerned. He should be. We’d met a few times, but regardless of that, he should of course advise his client not to marry a girl he’d known less than a year without a prenup.

  “Lydia?” I hadn’t said a word, and Dylan was obviously starting to worry.

  “Um. I think you should do whatever Trevor advises.” I tried to say it with as much warmth as I could. I didn’t care. I really didn’t, and I didn’t want Dylan to think I was being defensive.

  He looked at me for a moment, searching, making sure I was being honest. Then he spoke back into the phone. “Well, you heard her. She says it’s up to me. And I don’t want one. It’s a bloody waste of your time. And mine.”

  He looked at me with so much warmth. Not a hint of challenge. He put the phone off speaker and brought it back to his ear.

  “What you fail to understand is that if Lydia leaves me, I’ll be worthless anyway, and I’d happily give her every cent I had. And there’s no way in hell I’d ever leave her. And Humboldt, as you know, is locked up in Hale Shipping anyway. So like I said, waste of time. And ink.” He looked at me the entire time he was speaking, and I nodded back, hoping to convey that I felt the same way. Not that I had anything to give, but that I loved him that much as well.

  “Sure, I’ll let you know,” he continued. “So what’s the second thing?” He spoke more calmly into the phone and came around to stand behind me as he spoke. He was running his hand along my robe-clad shoulder, and leaning down to kiss my head when he said, “What? Well, what can we do about it?” I turned quickly to look at him when I heard him speak. His voice had gone down an octave, and he was running his fingers through his hair.

  He put the hand over the receiver end of the phone again, and spoke softly to me on the side. “Trevor got the marriage license squared away—we’ll just need to sign it when it’s delivered—but there’s a twenty-four-hour waiting period. One needs a judicial waiver—”

  At that moment, the door to the apartment swung open—I could hear it from the kitchen, and I’d know those footsteps anywhere. Daphne came barreling into the kitchen just as Dylan was filling me in. “Did he just figure out about the judicial waiver issue?” she asked.

  “Yeah, what can we do about it?” I asked her.

  “So I was looking into this on the way over, and it’s really simple. It’s just a signature. I think I know someone who will sign it for you—the judge I interned for last semester. She loves me. I’ve got you covered.”

  “I’ll call you back…No, call him anyway, but Lydia’s friend, Daphne, apparently knows a judge. I’ll call if I need you to call Senator Hampson.”

  Dylan hung up the phone, marched over to Daphne, and put his arm around her, giving her the most emotive hug I’d ever seen from him. I mean to someone other than me.

  “Well, hi there, Your Royal Highness.” Daphne patted his back.

  “Minister.” I laughed at their ridiculous ribbing of each other.

  I laughed at both of them, and enjoyed this moment of all us just standing in my kitchen. The two people I cared most about in the world.

  “So,” she said, grabbing a cup of coffee and looking at Dylan. “Once I forgive you for not asking for my blessing—”

  “Sorry for that,” he said.

  “Noted.” She reached into the fridge for milk. “Now we can get down to business. Lydia, you need to get dressed. We have errands to run. While you do that, I’ll call Judge Fogel.” I nodded, relieved to have our wedding planner in-house. “And, Dylan, you and I have some other details to discuss.”

  “Indeed.”

  I stood there, waiting to hear what they had to say, but they both just looked at me. Obviously they wanted to chat in secret. The nerve.

  Chapter 18

  Dylan

  Six hours later, and I was eating lunch in Midtown. I took a room at the Yale Club, with whom Cambridge had a reciprocal relationship, and set up office. Trevor had sent me a prenup, which I’d promptly tossed to the side. I understood the risks and the ramifications, but I’d also meant what I said. If anything ever happened, I’d want Lydia to have half. Fuck it—she could have it all. And I wanted to be making that decision while I felt this way, not if or when I was angry with her about something. That woman was the love of my fucking life, and I knew in my goddamn bones that she was a good person, the best kind of person. And I already owed her my fucking life. So fuck that. No prenup.

  I couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of how hard a time she’d have adjusting to having money though. Christ, as it was I’d already gotten several texts from Daphne about my girl’s asinine stubbornness. I’d sent them to Barneys and arranged for Lydia to see a personal shopper. I’d called ahead, given them my credit card, and instructed them not to let her know the price of any of the dresses or accessories. I wanted her to pick the clothes she wanted to wear. I knew she’d tried to weasel it out of them, and at one point she texted me from Daphne’s phone trying to suss out if I’d set a price limit. I hadn’t, and I saw right through her. I loved this side of her, but I also loved the idea of taking away the worry that lay beneath all that stubbornness.

  I thought of that apartment, of our Brooklyn day and how she’d been so conscious of saving, giving, and it thrilled me to know she’d never have to worry about money again. She had no idea, but I’d tasked Thomas with arranging for a joint bank account and second credit cards to be rushed in her name. Now that we were going to be a team, I wanted her to understand as quickly as possible that we were in all of this together. But I still couldn’t wait for the moment she called me because she saw her bank balance—it made me smile every time. She’d have a complete fit. She’d get sassy and fight me. Then I’d bring her right back to me. It was going to be fucking adorable, and sexy as hell.

  In the meantime I just had to make it until four. I’d also arranged for her and Daphne to go to the spa and booked a room at the Pierre, where they could get ready. And Daphne was supposed to text me about anything else they needed.

  The fax machine started to hum, and I saw the signed waiver slide through the printer. I couldn’t believe we still used these archaic things, but at the moment I was completely grateful. That judicial waiver was the one thing standing between me and making Lydia my wife.

  I had one more thing I needed to do before slipping into my own newly purchased clothes—the suit I’d bought at Barneys had been delivered and was hanging in the closet, waiting.

  The phone rang several times before anyone answered. Unsurprising for a bar at one in the afternoon.

&n
bsp; “Great Lakes,” said the man on the other end in a gruff well-worn New York accent.

  “May I speak with Jake Ritter please.”

  “Speaking.”

  “Jake, my name is Dylan Hale, and this afternoon I’m intending to marry someone I understand you know well. Lydia Bell.”

  “Hey, Rhodes!” the voice excitedly shouted into the room on the other end of the line. “Get your sorry ass in here. I have an Englishman on the phone who says he’s marrying Rick’s daughter.”

  “Sir—”

  “Hold your horses, fancy pants. This is a family matter,” Jake said into the phone before shouting back into the room. “You heard me…Lydia, you sorry ass. What other daughter did Rick have? Get over here!”

  I was immediately glad I’d called, and when both men were on the phone, I told them exactly what I had planned.

  * * *

  At three thirty I sat in the lobby of the Pierre. I’d settled the tab, given instructions to have the girls’ belongings brought from the room to the car, and now I was waiting. I was waiting for my bride. How this had happened, I’d never fully understand. It’s not like I’d sat around imagining my wedding day. Fuck, a year ago I didn’t even think I’d have a wedding. Ever. For a decade I’d seen relationships as an impossibility, hadn’t even entertained the possibility of building anything with anyone. And now, here I was. It was monumental, bizarre if you knew me. And there was only one person, other than Lydia, who truly knew me, and suddenly I was sad he wasn’t there. I picked up my phone and texted Will.

  FRIDAY, 3:32 pm

  I’m getting married, mate.

  FRIDAY, 3:32 pm

  I know, you sad wanker. Fancy a game of billiards? Come round the club. The new sous chef is on duty, and I’m getting obliterated.

  FRIDAY, 3:33 pm

  Can’t. I’m bloody getting married, you arse.

  My phone immediately started ringing.

  “What in the bloody hell?” Will did not sound drunk. He liked to talk a big game, but I had no doubt he would actually be home by eleven. Lately he’d been acting even more like an old man.

  “You heard me.” I was enjoying this already. “I’m in New York.”

  “And you two are getting married today?”

  “We are.” Just saying it out loud to my best mate made it real.

  “Fucking hell. Were you going to invite me, you daft prick?”

  “It was a bit spur-of-the-moment idea. We’ll have a proper do when we get back, after we deal with the wrath of the dowager.”

  “Aww, shite. I’d pay to see that conversation.” I winced, recognizing just how miserable that was going to be. “Well look, mate, happy wishes. Lydia’s perfect for you. Not to mention hotter than hell.”

  “Hey—”

  “Aww, come on. She is. You’re going to have to get used to men talking about how gorgeous your wife is.”

  At that moment, the elevator dinged, and I knew it would be her.

  “Gotta go, Will. I’ll kick your ass for that comment when I get back.” I could hear him speaking into the phone but I hung up. All of my attention was now on Lydia.

  Christ. She was wearing a dress that somehow made her look both conservative and sweet and so insanely sexy I didn’t think I could get through the next few hours. It was all ivory and silk and made her look a fucking dream. There were tulips, peonies, an entire English garden crawling up the silken fabric, gathering at the tiny tailored waist and somehow emphasizing her breasts hidden behind the scooped neckline. She was wearing a sweet navy jacket on top and wild blue heels that made her legs look fucking endless. Her hair was down, soft, perfect. Elegant and traditional with just a hint of rebellion. She was my girl.

  She looked around and then her eyes landed on me, and I knew I was smiling like a goddamn virgin. This woman. How did she render me so fucking defenseless?

  I rose, buttoned my jacket, and went to her. I took her hands in mine, and my finger grazed her bracelet. I looked down to see the diamond cuff I’d bought her the night everything went to shite the previous year at the palace.

  “It’s my favorite,” she whispered, and only then did I realize I was thumbing it, shifting up her wrist.

  “You’re stunning.” I looked into her brown eyes and watched as the blush spread from her chest to her cheeks, like I knew it would. It always did when I made her realize how I looked at her. How I saw her.

  I broke the moment to kiss Daphne on the cheeks. “Thank you, Daphne.” Even Daphne blushed. Christ—we hadn’t even left the hotel, and these girls were already on the edge of tears.

  We rode down Broadway in the car, and I kept Lydia’s hand in mine the whole time. Daphne prattled on about their day, but I couldn’t process a word. If I wasn’t looking at Lydia’s legs, crossed demurely in the footwell next to mine, then I was looking at her face. Fuck, I loved this woman. She caught me looking at her and squeezed my hand, lacing her fingers with my own.

  When the car pulled up in front of the stately building downtown, I let Daphne exit the car, but I pulled Lydia all the way onto my lap.

  “You ready for this, baby?”

  She bit her lip, and it was then I noticed her eyes were glassy. “Damsel, what is it?” She shook her head, but I caught a tear slip past. I brushed it away with my thumb and took her face in my hands. She needed to look at me. “Lydia, talk to me.”

  She took a deep inhale. “I just wish…I wish my dad could have met you. I wish he could know that I am getting married. That I love you. That you love me. That…that I’m so happy.”

  Her eyes cast down into her lap again. “Look at me.” I tilted her chin with my finger. “Are you sure you want to do this? Do you want to wait?”

  She shook her head without hesitation. “No. No more waiting.”

  I nodded and held her against me. “You’re brave, beautiful, and absolutely brilliant. I’m sure he wished he could have been here too. But I’ve no doubt in my mind that he knew you’d find your way.”

  She nodded into my shoulder, and I kissed the top of her head. I sighed deeply as the reality of that moment sank into me. For the rest of my life I’d do anything in my power to make sure Rick Bell’s daughter was the most loved woman on earth.

  Chapter 19

  Lydia

  Dylan exited the car, then reached in to take my hand. Even though we were outside a municipal building downtown on a Friday afternoon, this moment was more romantic than the all the times we’d exited a fancy Mercedes and were headed into party filled with members of the royal family. This moment was better.

  I smoothed my gown and gripped the lapels of my cropped tailored jacket, centering myself.

  Daphne and I had had a blast trying on gowns. I considered everything from a traditional white gown to a little black dress, but this one had felt right. The perfect compromise. It was tea length in front and ankle length in the back. It was white, but covered in an array of spring flowers. It was structured taffeta and silk, tailored but whimsical and summery with its spaghetti straps and simple scooped neckline. I could have worn it to a ball, but with a jacket, I could wear it to a dinner.

  I loved it. I felt beautiful. I felt bridal. I felt like me.

  Dylan, wearing a slim new navy suit, tucked me into his side and gripped my waist, ushering me up the stone steps. Daphne, decked out in a slim red dress, walked beside us. We were doing this.

  When we got inside, Dylan turned into his efficient businessman self, and within a moment had us headed into the clerk’s chambers. He introduced us all and laid our paperwork on the table, all while never letting go of my hand.

  “Shall we begin?” the judge asked.

  “Yes,” I said, before Dylan had a chance to answer. Then I leaned up and pressed my lips to his ear. “Let’s do this, knighty,” I whispered.

  Dylan smiled and took my hands in his own.

  When the judge got to the part with the rings, I looked over at Daphne, and she handed me the ring that I’d gotten polished ea
rlier that day. Dylan’s eyes widened. I knew he didn’t expect me to have thought of this part.

  “It belonged to my father’s father,” I whispered. “And now it’s yours.”

  Dylan smiled and looked at me with narrowed eyes, as though he couldn’t believe I’d managed to surprise him. Then he removed something from his pocket. Before I could process what was happening, the thin diamond band I’d been wearing for months was slid onto my ring finger. Now it was my wedding band.

  * * *

  Dylan still hadn’t told me where we were going when we emerged from the restaurant and were walking towards the car. We’d had a quiet dinner at Gramercy Tavern and talked about every aspect of the ceremony, burning it into our memory, crafting the story of our day.

  Wherever we were going now, he assured me that Daphne would meet us there, and he said that he “hoped” I’d be pleased. I’d told him I wanted to spend our wedding night in the apartment. Our life in London was our future, and of course I loved it—his luxurious house in Belgravia, Humboldt Park, the hideaway house he’d built in the country, the house on Ikaria in Greece where we’d vacationed the previous fall. Holy crap—four houses, and all of them state of the art and with nine-million-thread-count everything. But this night was the one night when I was really going to bring my side of the story to our marriage. In the absence of any real family to bring into the picture, I wanted all of the things that spoke for my past, even if they were the humble Park Slope apartment and a bodega breakfast in the morning. Dylan, to his credit, hadn’t even hesitated. And to my credit, I didn’t attempt to make us take the subway back to Brooklyn.