Royal Disaster by Parker Swift (24)

The trip, in spite of that nagging phone call at its end, could never truly lose its luster for me—I had experienced some of the most beautiful, authentic, simple, yet outrageously stunning moments of my life over those days with Dylan. I had blissfully forgotten about Geoffrey’s bribe and the cruel Internet articles about my needing Botox. I was determined that we could hold on to it, that we could continue that bliss in the face of all the pressures and stressors that were still an inevitable part of our London lives.

But I didn’t get the chance to find out—busy life resumed almost immediately. A mere two days later would be Prince Richard and Jemma’s engagement party.

In the time between our return from Greece and Friday’s party, Dylan delved into his work, and I made final tweaks on the upholstery for the furniture in the shop and ordered the garment bags and shopping bags. We tabled the moving-in conversation until the engagement party and Dylan’s current project were over.

On Friday, after a morning of fitting and pinning and hemming, Hannah had me at her studio for a series of post-lunch final decisions about my look for the big royal event. You’d think it was my wedding day based on the hubbub. Fiona was there, running day-to-day business from a makeshift desk by the window so Hannah could oversee her as well as me. I was currently trying on a coat, and Stephen, who would return later to do my hair and makeup, was stopping by to consult with Hannah on jewelry and the overall styling. It all seemed a little excessive.

“Who is responsible for these vile coats?” Hannah said with visible disgust and irritation. “I said ‘elegant Prohibition era’ not ‘a Kardashian twenties-themed bachelorette party.’ Is it that difficult?” Hannah looked between me and Fiona, holding us equally responsible for this coat disaster. I had suggested my new fabulous black coat, but Hannah seemed to have something very specific in mind, and since I’d already vetoed two other dresses, I figured it was time to compromise.

“It’s what Harvey Nichols sent over. They did send eight, I think,” I said.

“Shall I ring them and have them send more options?” asked Fiona.

Hannah replied with a look that said Do you expect me to answer that question? and Fiona immediately picked up the phone.

“Hannah, what if we did something like this?” Stephen was doing something with the hair on the top of my head, twisting it and looking to Hannah for her opinion. Hannah meanwhile was tying the belt on a coat around my waist. I felt like a doll. “And darker?” Stephen prodded, asking Hannah for clarification.

Hannah pursed her lips, looking at my hair and then at me, almost pleading. “Lydia, how attached are you to your hair color?”

“Fine.” I sighed, understanding perfectly well that what she was really asking is how much of a fight I would put up about dying my light brown locks. “As long as you’re not thinking about making it purple or something.”

She smiled, pleased, and began writing an address down on a piece of paper. “Good. Head over to this address and ask for Mike. Stephen will call ahead.” I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. I knew this was a big deal—Hannah was insane over the gown I’d be wearing—but this really did feel over the top. Then again, I guess it was a royal engagement party. I’m sure I wasn’t the only guest out there primping.

An hour and half later, I sat in the salon chair chatting with Mike, who, according to Stephen, was a genius with hair color. This was round two of the hair dye, and the whole thing was taking forever. Mike was telling me about coloring Madonna’s hair before her last tour when my phone beeped. I hoped to god it wasn’t Hannah having changed her mind about something, and my smile stretched across my face when I saw it was from Dylan.

I quickly took a picture of the mirror in front of me. What Dylan would see was me, in a black salon robe, with approximately one zillion squares of foil sticking out of my head.

After Mike came Rebecca, the stylist, and I held my breath as she held the scissors in front of my face.

“Have you ever had real fringe?” I looked at her questioningly as she pointed at my long bangs with her threatening scissors.

“Um, well, my bangs have always been like this, swept to the side.” She was now combing the hair in front of my face, and the hair was tickling the bridge of my nose.

There was a painfully long period of snipping and trimming. I couldn’t see what she was doing or what she’d done before. After an eternity with the hair dryer and brush, she finally moved away, so I could see my reflection. I was frozen for a moment.

My hair was now a rich shade of brown with subtle caramel highlights. The layers looked somehow more natural. And my face was defined by real bangs—not ones I could twist into my long hair on the side or brush out of the way—ones that rested at my eyebrows. The effect was admittedly striking.

I was still staring when Rebecca started pulling my hair back, away from my face into a high ballerina-like bun, only somehow less severe. It was an Audrey Hepburn–ish thing, and I barely recognized this glammed-up version of myself.

Before I had a minute to truly appreciate the geniuses’ handiwork, my phone rang and Hannah was telling me to hightail it back to the studio. Dylan would be picking me up in just over an hour.

I was ready ten minutes before Dylan was meant to arrive, and our little team stood in front of the three-way mirror, admiring our handiwork.

The dress was midnight blue with a tulle skirt to the floor. The belted waist was adorned with silvery crystals and beading, and the bodice consisted of two gathered bunches of the tulle arising from the belt and meeting with the silk back of the dress at two delicate points at my shoulders. While my whole back was covered in transparent navy silk, and the skirt was long and impenetrable, the V in the front of the dress was deep. It didn’t actually show much skin, but it hinted at what couldn’t be seen. It was classy but undeniably sexy. The shoes, not that you could see them, were silver, strappy, and insanely comfortable. Fiona and I had spent approximately four hours shopping for them earlier that week, and I’d insisted on walking around Selfridges in each pair for a half hour before committing. These shoes, while they cost me what would have been a month’s rent back in New York, were not going to betray me.

Stephen slipped my lipstick into my clutch, and we were laughing at the nonsensical name of the color, Basking Berries in Bali, when my phone buzzed and indicated Dylan was downstairs.

“You look perfect,” said Fiona. “I mean it—you’re going to be the most beautiful woman there!”

“We did well, I think,” said Hannah, who I felt was congratulating herself and Stephen more than complimenting me. I looked at Fiona as I fastened my pearl stud earrings, and we jointly rolled our eyes.

I slipped on the cream-colored coat, which I thought was fabulous but Hannah had merely accepted as the least of all evils, and headed down to the car. When I emerged from the studio door, Dylan was leaning against the Mercedes, and his eyes went wide. The man looked nothing short of exquisite in his tuxedo, and it moved with him in a way that only bespoke suits can. He approached me like he was in a trance. I wasn’t sure I’d seen this look on his face since that day back at the jewelry store weeks earlier, like he was stunned, shaken by what he saw.

“What is it?” I asked, worried that something was wrong.

“You,” he began softly and gently brushed my new short bangs and put my face in his hands, “are far too gorgeous to go anywhere.”

“Oh, really?” I asked, smiling now. “Well, that would be a shame, given all the work that went into pulling this together. And you haven’t even seen the dress yet. And kiss me, for fuck’s sake. I feel like this day’s gone on forever!”

He pulled me against him and kissed me hard on the lips. Not one of his I’m-going-to-eat-you-alive kisses—this one was long, slow, and almost reverent, or even melancholy.

I pulled away to look at his face, see if everything was okay. I knew this look, a look I hadn’t seen in a few weeks, a look he was fighting off—the cold concern of having been with his father. Only it was something else too.

“Are you okay? Everything okay at Humboldt Park?” I asked.

He looked thoughtful for a moment and then determined, like he was shoving something aside. “Fine,” he said, taking my hand. “Come, I want to show you off.” He smiled, but I could tell it was forced. Something was on his mind, and I would have to press him on it later. I was done being patient for him to open up to me about things.

Lloyd came around to open our door, and as I was stepping in he said quietly, “You look lovely, Miss Bell.”

“Thank you, Lloyd,” I replied and gave him an excited kiss on the cheek. I hadn’t seen him in a week, and even though we barely spoke, my affection for the old man had grown. Frank, whom Dylan had yet to dispatch, was off for the night—he’d been less present since it seemed like we’d taken care of the cyberstalker on our hands, but Dylan still hadn’t figured out how the Bresnovs had gotten that video footage, so my sidekick wasn’t gone entirely. Maybe that was what was bugging him?

We settled into the car, and Dylan pulled me against him, but I chastised him to watch out for the skirt. “Hannah will kill me if I tear this thing before we even get there.”

“Shame,” he said while smiling. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box with a bow. “I brought you something. For tonight,” he said, and he handed me the square box. He seemed happy to be back with me, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

I removed the purple satin ribbon and opened the lid to find a delicate display of diamonds sparkling back at me. It was a bracelet, a cuff about two inches wide, decorated with a wavy grid of diamonds.

“I had it designed especially for your miniature wrist,” Dylan said, holding my wrist in his warm hand while I remained dumbstruck, turning it in my hand. “May I?”

“Dylan, I—” I didn’t even know what to say. It wasn’t that I needed jewelry or expensive gifts, but this spoke volumes of how much he had been thinking about me, and it felt like, well, probably like a present should. Really good. Not to mention stunning.

“Baby,” he said softly, sensing the emotions taking me over. He gently picked up my wrist, kissed it, and slid the cuff into place. I looked at my adorned wrist, and the piece was regal, magnificent. I’d never have been able to even imagine something like it.

“I love it,” I said, wiping a stray tear away. “It’s gorgeous.”

He wiped a second tear from my other cheek and kissed me gently on the hand. “As I said, I had to explain to the jeweler how my girlfriend has these tiny wrists, and it mustn’t overwhelm her, but it had to be original. I had a vision, and it came out exactly as I’d hoped.”

The car was slowing, lining up at the entrance to Buckingham Palace. The last time I’d been there, I’d been too nervous to say more than a few words.

“Damsel, I’m afraid I won’t be great company tonight.” Dylan’s tone had reverted to the resigned, distracted coolness I’d caught a glimpse of earlier. I tried to get a clear look at his eyes as our car crept up in the line to the entrance.

“What? Why?” I’d been hearing for days about how big a deal this party was, how many important people were going to be there. This felt like a big night, and now not only did something seem to be bothering him, but he was also going to leave me alone?

“I don’t like it either, baby,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “But my father can’t be here. He’s not feeling well,” he said, rolling his eyes. “So I’m on official duty.”

“Official marquess duty?” He nodded in reply. “Like what?”

He sighed again, highlighting the return of something darker, something I desperately didn’t want to believe was returning. “I’m representing my family, which comes with baggage, I’m afraid. It won’t take long, then I’ll rejoin you.”

“Can’t I stay with you?”

“I’m afraid not, damsel,” he said, holding my hand in his own. He had a pained look on his face. Torn. He felt torn. And guilty. “Baby, I’m sorry. Will should be here,” he added as Lloyd opened the door. “And Emily will be flitting about. It won’t be for long. Don’t fret, baby.”

I wasn’t ready to get out of this car. I wanted to hit PAUSE. Time out. I wanted to go back to Greece, to a moment when Dylan didn’t seem stressed or distracted, when I felt like I had a handle on things.

After getting out of the car to the usual fanfare, he kissed my hand but then dropped it before we climbed the stairs. Someone took my coat and gave Dylan a tag for it, which he pocketed. He glanced at my dress and smiled, but we didn’t even have time to exchange another word before we had to pause for photographs inside the palace doors.

A second later, Dylan was whisked away by some kind of butler in a morning suit. I saw him duck into a room at the end of the hall, followed by a waiter carrying a large tray of cocktails, and before I knew it I was standing before a wide set of open doors, looking into a buzzing ballroom in Buckingham Palace, alone.

The only saving grace was that I had somehow gotten a Champagne glass into my hand.

The room was enormous and gilded, and I felt like the whole scene was plucked from a fairy tale. It was packed with other gowns, other tuxedos and suits, and delightful, slightly buzzed chatter. Richard and Jemma’s friends—the young set here to indulge and party—had collected by the bar, the girls’ dresses twirling occasionally, the boys drunkenly slapping each other on the shoulder. The old important people, their parents in all likelihood—the old guard who were important enough to be here but not important enough to be wherever Dylan was—chatted more quietly at the other side of the large room.

I saw Jemma in the corner, tucked into Richard’s side, the two of them beaming. It was hard to remember why I’d been so jealous in that moment weeks earlier. Standing here now, in this ballroom, I felt like there was no way she’d ever been let into Dylan’s life the way I had. But in that moment I also felt this worry creeping over me that being let in might not be all it was cracked up to be.

I wandered the edges, eating the occasional canapé and pretending to admire the artwork but really trying to sort out how I’d gotten myself into this situation. Part of me was furious with Dylan. Don’t fret. He’d said it like he was talking to a child, like my concerns about navigating this enormous event on my own were inconsequential, like he’d forgotten for a moment that I wasn’t one of his boarding school mates, born into this scene, walking into a roomful of friends. But my fury was tinged with something that tasted like regret. I couldn’t quite understand it.

“Lydia!” I heard a familiar voice interrupt my thoughts from behind me and turned to see Emily. She looked like she’d walked straight out of a photo spread in Vogue—sleek long hair with just a little wave at the bottom; a slim pale pink dress, flowing like a column to the floor. She appeared ten inches taller than she already was. “I’m so glad I found you!”

I smiled and went in for a gentle let’s-not-mess-each-other-up hug. “Me too.”

“Where’s that rascal brother of mine?”

I shrugged and glanced back towards the doors at the far end of the room, doors that had formally clad staff standing guard outside.

“Oh, right—Caroline’s in there too. And the other dukes and their stuffy wives. And a few of the other stodgy types. And the queen and her husband and the whole sordid lot of them. They’re probably all just sipping something not alcoholic enough and congratulating each other on how proper they are. Snooze.” She rolled her eyes at the whole affair.

“Yeah, well…” My words drifted. I didn’t really know what to say. Emily must have seen my ambivalence, because she grabbed my elbow with one hand and flagged a waiter with another.

“Let’s get you some more Champagne, shall we? And then you have to turn around so I can get a good look at this dress. And your hair! You look incredible, Lydia, seriously. I mean, you were gorgeous before, but golly, I feel like I’m in the presence of a Hollywood starlet or something. My brother’s a moron if he stays in there one-tenth of a second longer than required.”

I twirled for her halfheartedly, and we chatted for a few more minutes about how Richard was a troublemaker—rabble-rouser were Emily’s words—and Jemma was an unfortunately predictable match for him. Emily’s words there were Wouldn’t it have been more fun if he’d ended up married to a barrister or a dentist or something? followed by a heavy sigh, as though it were such a shame to be so boring. Eventually she looked up and smiled at someone behind me.

“I’m afraid I have to go mingle—one of the horrors of these things,” she said, although I doubted she really minded. She was so good at it. “I’m leaving you in capable hands.”

Turning, I found Will.

“Oh, you!” I said and gave him a brief hug. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“You, dear Lydia, look absolutely ravishing. All of these poor buggers are surely killing themselves that Dylan found you first,” he said conspiratorially, gesturing to the crowd with his glass of Scotch. “I heard on good authority that Lord Dartford nearly choked when you walked into this room moments ago, resulting in half his glass of Champagne ending up on his shirt, and his wife, Lady Elsbeth, is now giving him the cold shoulder.”

“You make this stuff up. I mean, it’s sweet, but you’re a total liar.”

“On my honor,” he said, smiling, and I rolled my eyes.

“Well, you look dashing,” I said eyeing him up and down. “I never thought I’d see you outside of your chef garb.”

He shrugged bashfully. “So the daft wanker’s abandoned you, has he?”

I shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t exactly fly to introduce your mistress to one’s fellow aristocrats.” Will winced.

“Yes, well, he’s not married, so you’re not his mistress, but you’re not his fiancée or wife either, and there’s the rub, I’m afraid. None of that matters out there.” He gestured to a window, indicating life outside the palace walls. “But in here, there are some rather old-fashioned views about these things. And after what happened with the CBC and all, I’m sure you understand. But you’re here, aren’t you? That’s the important thing.”

“Wait, what? What happened with the CBC?” I asked Will, who looked slightly pale all of a sudden, like he’d just gotten himself into trouble.

“Oh dear. I thought Dylan would have told you, and now I’ve made a muck of things, haven’t I?”

“Will?” I said in as threatening a tone as possible.

He sighed heavily. “Knowing can only help. Apparently Her Majesty gave a disapproving glare or something to old Geoff when Dylan brought you to tea—a word, a gesture, a nod—I have no idea really. She wasn’t keen that Dylan had shown up with his girlfriend, and he wouldn’t give a flying fuck about that, not really, although, I mean, she is the queen.” Will shuddered in mock fear. “Well, as you can imagine, Geoffrey ripped your boyfriend a new arsehole for that one. No one cares more about the queen’s good graces than Geoffrey.”

“I’m not totally following,” I said, trying to figure out the intricacies of royal etiquette.

“You see Dylan hadn’t told his father he was bringing you—he’d just rung the queen’s secretary on his own.” He must have noticed my look of horror, because he quickly followed it with, “Not to worry. Word has it you were stunning, and the old bat said something along the lines of you ‘having spirit.’ So all’s well, and truthfully she adores Dylan, always has done, which is shocking given the Caroline debacle. But you see Geoffrey is the duke, not Dylan, and therefore it was a bit cheeky to bring you unannounced. Broke rank and all that, so liking you isn’t really the issue—Her Majesty prefers things be kept in order, so to speak. Anyhow, I’m sure Dylan’s just trying to play nice now.”

“I had no idea,” I said, thankfully feeling less embarrassed about being an uninvited guest but still frustrated with this whole mess. Would I ever understand the bizarre dos and don’ts of the royalty? What a disaster!

Will nodded. “Now let’s go tackle one of these garçons and get drunk, shall we?” Will took my arm in his, and we went looking for more drinks.

Eventually we found our way to a group of men that looked to be roughly Will’s and Dylan’s age. One of them I recognized as Tristan Bailey. I didn’t like him, and I wasn’t exactly in the mood for more snobbery.

“Will, who do we have here?” said one of the guys, patting Will on the back.

But before Will could introduce me, Tristan spoke up. “Oh, Charlie, haven’t you met Lydia? This is Dylan’s new lass. An American,” he added, looking at the group in a way that suggested they all knew what that meant, presumably that I was a slut or something. “Where are you from again? Brooklyn?” The guy was drunk, and there was no hiding the derogatory tone in his words.

Will leaned in and whispered in my ear, “Ignore him, Lydia. He’s an arse.”

“You know, I think I’ll go get some air,” I said to Will, and he nodded. I just didn’t have this in me. I hadn’t seen Dylan since we’d arrived forty-five minutes ago, and I was pissed. I had started this night feeling so glamorous and beautiful, but now I was dejected and bored. And as much as I hated to admit it, I felt intimidated, like a lamb sent to the slaughter, like that whole room of people was ready to devour me for being “unofficial” or unsanctioned or American or un-Botoxed. The room was full of interesting people, people who probably had great stories, people I normally would have been happy to meet. I should have been enthralled, giddy, but instead I felt like I was skirting the edges, hiding. I just needed to breathe, to be somewhere quiet for a moment, so I could feel like myself. I walked to the edge of the room and stepped through a door back into the main hallway.