When Dylan found me, I was sitting on a bench next to the cook’s garden, twisting a long piece of lavender between my thumb and forefinger, replaying everything that had just happened in my head. All of the warm love Dylan had ignited in me that morning was gone, and I was feeling more alone than I had in weeks. I hated Dylan’s father for offering money, but I hated him even more for instilling doubt. Was I naïve to think this would ever go anywhere? Was I actually an obstacle, obstructing some future Dylan needed or wanted? In my heart I knew that wasn’t the case, but apart from Dylan’s weekly request that I move in with him, which had become so predictable and jokey, we hadn’t really talked about it.
I was sitting on this grand estate, one that would belong to Dylan when Geoffrey died. I knew Dylan detested his father and talked about being a duke as though it were a fate worse than death. But I also knew how much he’d respected his grandfather. I recalled one of our first fights when he’d spouted off about six centuries of tradition. He respected this life. Assuming he did figure out a way to balance his passion for architecture with Hale Shipping and Humboldt Park, would I be holding him back from participating fully in something that was his right?
Geoffrey had just turned up the dial on our pressure cooker, and now more than ever I needed to give Dylan the space to figure everything out, but at the same time I also needed him. It seemed like an impossible task. That was where my mind was, heading into that unanswerable abyss, when I felt Dylan sit next to me on the carved stone bench.
“There you are,” he said. I could feel his warmth, his tall, lean body leaning into mine, but I was still lost in my thoughts.
“Lydia?” he asked, and it was immediately clear that he knew something was wrong. I couldn’t hide anything from this man. “Baby, what’s wrong?” He wrapped an arm around me, held me tightly, and I pressed my lips to his neck and lingered there, with a long, slow, simple kiss to his skin.
I still didn’t say anything. I didn’t know where to begin, and sitting right outside the open door to the kitchen didn’t seem like the place to have the conversation we needed to have.
“This place can be daunting, can’t it?” He wrapped his long fingers across the back of my head and stroked. It calmed me instantly. The single tear that had escaped disappeared into the soft fabric of his sweater. He pulled back and cupped my chin in his hand, bringing my gaze to his. “Lydia, damsel, what’s going on?”
I leaned up and kissed him. “Can we go home?”
He didn’t look entirely satisfied, as though he wanted to know what was in my mind immediately. Well, he of all people should be able to summon some patience in that department.
He nodded, stood, and held my hand tightly, urging me up. “The bags are in the car. We can go right now.”
“But I didn’t say goodbye to your mother. Or Christine,” I said, concerned. Only after I spoke did I realize I’d left out his father. I wondered if he’d even noticed.
“It’s okay, baby. They had to go into town. You’ll see them again.”
I wondered if that was true. Now there was zero doubt about the degree to which Dylan’s father, at least, and probably his mother, wanted me out of the picture.
The first ten minutes in the car were a blur. I couldn’t tell you what music was playing, what the scenery looked like, or what he even said to me. I had said something along the lines of “I just need a minute,” but eventually Dylan took my hand, squeezed it, and kissed the back.
“Please, baby. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. You seemed fine at breakfast with Mrs. Barnes. Then I went looking for you after my horrid chat with my father—you wouldn’t believe the things he said to me—”
“I know,” I said, staring into my lap at first. This was just going to pour out, it seemed. “I heard your conversation.”
“You—” I heard the confusion in his voice.
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I got lost. I was exploring the house, and then I heard your voices, and I didn’t want to call any attention to myself, and, well…I’m sorry for intruding, but I heard what he said.”
Dylan was quiet. I wasn’t sure for a moment if he was mad or concerned or neither. He just looked at the road. I took comfort in the fact that he still held my hand snugly in his own.
“I was hoping I could spare you his temper and cruelty until we’d been together, oh, I don’t know, more than a few months, but…” he started and sighed deeply, and then he looked at me, worried. He was worried about me. “I guess that explains the look on your face.”
“There’s more, Dylan,” I started. “He knew I’d heard you. He’d known I was there.” I looked at Dylan and his lips were parted. I had no idea what he was thinking, so I just continued. “He invited me into his office.”
Dylan’s eyes turned sharply to mine. “Did he speak to you?”
“He did.”
“What did the bastard say?” Dylan was seething. He’d removed his hand from mine and gripped the steering wheel, his strain and anger evident in his flexed arms and white knuckles.
“Dylan.” I gulped. I didn’t want to tell him this. I had some bizarre instinct to protect him from this information, but the reality was he’d probably had far worse done to him by his father over the years. “Dylan, he offered me money to break up with you.”
“What did you say to him?” he asked. He was all eyes, all ears.
“Oh god. I can’t believe what I said.” Dylan was looking at me, so curious. “Dylan, I was totally unleashed. I told him off and said that was never going to happen and that the conversation was over. I totally lost it. I told him to shove his money up his ass.” I cringed as I spoke the words, covering my face with my hands.
Then Dylan did something I never could have predicted. He was silent for a moment, then he laughed. He actually laughed.
“Dylan?” This wasn’t exactly the reaction I’d been expecting. “What are you…?” I said and found myself laughing a little too, but more because the situation seemed surreal.
“You’re my hero.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No. I love you.” He pulled the car over to the side of the road. We were near the highway but hadn’t yet left the village. “I’m so sorry for laughing—it’s just that, it’s…it’s almost a relief. You can’t imagine how often I’ve wanted to say that to him, for others to say that to him, but you actually did.” He was silent for a moment, taking it in. “Lord knows he deserved it. You’re bloody amazing.”
I laughed a little, relieved myself.
“But, baby, I’m also sorry he did that. That’s horrible. No one should have to deal with someone being so cruel, so insanely rude. And don’t mistake my laughter for not taking this seriously—I want to kill him for saying that to you.” And the anger that flashed through his eyes as he said these words left zero doubt in my mind about their veracity. “But, baby.” He paused, trying to find the right words. “You just showed my father, better than I ever could, what something real looks like. What it means to actually love someone. I could tell him until I was blue in the face that you are not with me because of my money or title, and he wouldn’t believe me for a second. Not believing me, not listening to me, is his standard perspective. But in one conversation you showed him.”
The more I learned about Dylan’s relationship with his father, the sadder I was for him. I could see the prison Dylan lived in more and more clearly, the bars coming into focus.
“I hated telling you that,” I said.
“You didn’t tell me anything new, not really. There’s nothing you could tell me that would make think differently of him at this point. I’m only sorry you were exposed to his particular brand of malice so early. I had hopes I could spare you, at least until we move in together?” he said, raising his eyebrows hopefully, looking at me.
I smiled, relieved to hear the question. “It’s too soon, Dylan. I just feel overwhelmed—not by you or us, but by the press and life and the store. I need a little more time. It just feels like too big of a change after so many changes.” His smile faltered a little. “But keep asking, okay?”
He nodded, then took my hand in his again and brought it to his lips.
I hadn’t known exactly how I’d felt about moving in with him until saying the words—I’d been saying no, and it had become a game, but what I’d said was true. I knew he wanted me in his house, and given that we’d only been together a couple of months, his wanting it seemed like enough. But if I listened to the voice buried beneath relationship conventions and anxieties about our current circumstances—if I dared listen to that voice—I knew what it would say. That a future without Dylan simply wasn’t an option.