Lydia, my dear.” I could always tell when my mother-in-law, Charlotte, was about to offer a suggestion about my life by the way she would say my dear. At that moment, she was definitely about to make a suggestion, and judging by the small, well-worn cartoon-inspired suitcase she held in her hand, I suspected it had to do with the quality of my children’s luggage.
“Hi, Charlotte,” I said as I folded pool towels by the garden door. Given that I was nearly thirty-seven weeks pregnant, this was not a speedy process, even if I could use my belly as a shelf. We’d been in Canada for a month, getting in one last vacation as a family of four before our third child would arrive. We’d had four splendid weeks of relaxing, doing a bit of remote working, and hosting friends. But now it was time to leave. Time to ease into parental leave, wind down projects, and look forward to how our family would change in only a few short weeks.
That night we’d head back to London. Dylan and I would get our children—Eleanor and Aiden—ready to go back to nursery school, make sure the baby’s room was ready, and dial down the stress as the waiting game for delivery began. It turned out that I was calm at this stage of pregnancy. I found it easy to take a deep breath, let go, and wait for nature to take its course. No one found it surprising that this was the hardest stage for Dylan—he wanted to control every second, and he couldn’t stand that doctors apparently had little to no idea what made labor start or how he might trick his wife’s body into doing it on his schedule. Nothing drove my alpha male husband crazier than not knowing.
“I was just thinking,” Charlotte continued in that suggestion-making voice of hers. “The children’s luggage isn’t really befitting their station in life, is it?” I tried to keep my eye-roll to myself. I could already imagine laughing about this exchange with Dylan later. Yes, my son was an earl and my daughter a lady, but their “station in life” was not a primary concern for me. I spent far more time worrying about whether they said please and thank you, whether they ate enough protein and got enough sleep, and about how on earth I’d ever get Aiden to agree to let me brush his teeth without a fight. Luggage and titles were not on my mind.
I was about to say something to that effect, but I didn’t get a chance. Charlotte stepped out of the way to reveal two gleaming new child-sized roller bags that appeared to be made of…Was that some kind of white reptile skin? “Oh, Charlotte,” I said, getting a closer look and hoping my tone could be interpreted as admiration. I wouldn’t trust myself with white leather, let alone my young children.
“Aren’t they darling?” She beamed.
I swallowed my sigh and took a moment to accept that my children would now be those children. The ones with ridiculously luxurious luggage. There were moments—mundane like this one, about luggage, and bigger, like when we set up trust funds for Aiden and Eleanor that were so large they could have bought really nice Brooklyn brownstones for six of my closest friends—when my own upbringing came into stark contrast to the one I was providing for my kids. There were nights I lost sleep over this—I never wanted my children to be spoiled or unaware of how privileged their lives were—but I also needed to let go sometimes and accept that this was their life.
I let out a breath and I gave my mother-in-law, the Dowager Duchess of Abingdon, a stilted hug across my big belly. A good moment to let go. Plus, some things would never change.
* * *
“Where on earth did Eleanor and Aiden get those bags?” Dylan asked as our children happily pulled their new suitcases behind them across the tarmac towards the plane. I was flying later in my pregnancy than I probably should have been. It was one of the perks of private air travel—no nosey airline attendants asking how many weeks I was. My doctor knew exactly how pregnant I was. And on a gorgeous Saturday in August, exactly three weeks before my due date, we weren’t worried.
Dylan’s hand was resting on my lower back, and he was rubbing small circles at the base of my spine. He had an instinct for my body, seemed to know what I needed often before I realized it myself, and at that moment his hand on my back was exactly what I needed. Our unborn daughter had chosen to wedge her small feet right into my ribs, or at least that’s how it felt, and I was constantly stretching, trying to make more room for her.
I glanced at him, and as always was in awe of how bizarrely and rakishly handsome he was. If you’d asked me, six years earlier, when I was twenty-four, if by the end of that year I’d be in love with a duke who looked like Dylan, I’d have laughed. Hard. Tall frame and narrow waist, broad shoulders, exquisitely defined muscles, preposterously blue eyes, and that dark hair with just a hint of wave. Every part of him felt like home to me, and at that moment my home looked damn good—his aviator sunglasses perched on his face and his pale blue linen button-down unbuttoned just enough to reveal some chest hair. Good enough that I momentarily forgot what he’d asked me—oh, right, the ridiculous luggage our children were carting around.
I looked back up at him, squinting my eyes into the setting sun, and gave him a look that said do you even have to ask? which made him chuckle.
“Don’t worry, damsel,” Dylan whispered into my ear as he pulled me closer. “In six short hours we’ll be home, in our own house, without my mother.” I smiled, imagining the privacy that awaited us. “And I intend to take full advantage, sweet girl, especially before we fall prey to the weeks of sleep deprivation that lie in wait.” His hand drifted lower, resting lightly on my ass as I began to climb the steps onto the small private jet. But Dylan pulled me back slightly by my hips, so my back hit his broad chest, and he could whisper more closely into my ear. “In the meantime, baby, I want you to get on this plane, go to the bedroom, and get comfortable. As soon as I have the children settled, I’m going to take care of you.”
Whenever he said things like that, even now, even after five years of marriage and nearly three children, my body responded. I went soft for him, receptive. He finished his thought with a kiss on my neck and gentle pat on my ass. The funny thing was that at this point in our marriage, in our family life, I’m going to take care of you was just as likely to mean bringing me a cup of tea and rubbing my back as it was to mean hot and heavy sex. Regardless, it made me pause, reminded me that he was paying attention, and it made relaxing just a little easier.
I had just crossed the threshold onto the plane, and Dylan had just stepped around me to open Aiden’s juice box, when my phone rang. I saw Caroline’s number light up my screen. It was amazing to think that the future queen of England, Princess Caroline, was my husband’s ex-fiancée. It was even more amazing that she had become one of my closest friends in the years I’d lived in England. And now, she was about to get married herself.
Two years earlier, on a trip she’d taken to the Arctic Circle to bring awareness to climate change and the dwindling polar bear population, she’d met Zach Washington, an American photojournalist there to document her visit. Fast-forward through months of long distance-flirting, several extended secret vacations (one of which had actually been at our house in Greece), and a successful campaign to get Zach to move to England, and they were finally getting married. There’d be countless meals and parties. Dignitaries and foreign leaders. It would be the society event of the decade. And it was also, coincidentally, on my due date. Dylan and I knew we probably wouldn’t be able to attend, but we were hoping to at least go to the dinner in their honor the week before, and I’d try to have lunch with Caroline if I could.
“Caroline,” I said, answering the phone, and I stepped into a small alcove so as not to draw Charlotte’s attention—I swear that woman was a bloodhound for anything involving the royal family.
“Lydia. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time, or in the middle of a scan or something.” Caroline had a way of speaking to you as though you were the only person on the planet, even though she was second in line to the British throne. It was hard to believe my ultrasounds even registered on her radar, even if we were friends. At that moment while we were on the phone, she was probably also having her makeup done or being briefed on a charity she was supporting.
“Not at all,” I replied. “In fact, we’re just getting on the plane to head back home. We’re still in Canada at the moment,” I said as I knelt as best I could to kiss the top of Eleanor’s head. She was playing ring-around-the-rosy by herself around my body, and the volume of her singing voice was steadily increasing. Dylan came to the rescue, hushing her and ushering her away. Then the good man placed a cup of tea into my free hand and gave me a concerned look, to which I nodded reassuringly.
“And the trip went well? Nothing awry over there in the Commonwealth, I should hope? You and Charlotte getting along?”
“Yes, of course. We sat up at night making friendship bracelets and scrapbooking,” I joked.
She laughed, knowing exactly how unlikely that was, no matter how far my relationship with Charlotte had come. Charlotte and I had had our rocky moments—we both knew she had always envisioned Dylan with another British aristocrat and not a girl raised by a single dad in Brooklyn. But we’d come a long way. Sometimes I thought Charlotte was actually relieved to have handed over the reins as mistress of Humboldt Park. And, apparently, I’d displayed enough vim and vigor—and, let’s be honest, enough ruthless candor—with Charlotte that eventually she gave in and let me lead, at least in most things.
Caroline paused. If I didn’t know better, I would have said she was stalling.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
I wanted to ask if she was having pre-wedding jitters, but even as good friends, there were some things you didn’t ask the future queen about her love life.
Then I heard a very un-Caroline sigh. “Well, actually, I hate to ask this of you at the moment, but I’m calling for a wee favor. And since you are on an airplane, I suppose I should just get on with it, shan’t I?”
“What can I do?”
“I do know that this is awfully late notice, and under the circumstances, it’s an imposition of course, but my grandmother has requested that you be one of my attendants at Westminster Abbey.”
Caroline was getting married at Westminster Abbey. Her wedding. The same one that was on my due date. And attendants for royal weddings were normally younger girls, what I thought of as flower-girl age. She couldn’t possibly mean—
“As you know, in a rare gesture towards modernity, my grandmother has urged me to take a maid of honor, which isn’t traditional, of course, but seems to be an appropriate nod to contemporary nuptials, and so on. But you see, I’m afraid that my cousin Annabel, whom I asked ages ago, has found herself in somewhat of a compromising situation.”
To say the least. HELLO! magazine had just broken the story that Lady Annabel, the daughter of the queen’s second son, had been sleeping with the man who was once her secondary school teacher, and the two had been caught buying drugs from another former student in Brixton only one week prior. A scandal from every angle.
“Yes, I heard. I’m, um, sorry about that,” I added, trying to sound sympathetic. Dylan signaled to me to head back towards the rear cabin. My body followed him, but my mind was still reeling from Caroline’s request, still trying to understand if she could possibly mean what I thought she meant.
“Yes, well, Grandmother can’t really brook such things, and doesn’t feel that it would be right for the family to have Annabel so front and center at the moment. Grandmother thinks you’re the perfect alternative. Dylan has always been like family, and now so are you. And you’re partially American, so it’s a nice gesture towards Zach’s family and so on. It will be lovely, of course.”
“Of course,” I said on autopilot, still not fully grasping her request.
“I so appreciate it, Lydia. Honestly, I’m thrilled. I’ve always wanted you in the party.” She laughed for a moment, her proper princess laugh. “To be honest, it will be a great relief to have you there with me.” Caroline was shifting into her end-of-the-conversation-wrap-up tone, and I knew instantly that there was no wiggle room here, no option to be forty weeks pregnant, no two-kids-at-home-and-one-baby-on-the-way box I could check to get out of it. No real choice.
For the most part I had no real qualms about saying how high when the queen said jump. It happened so seldom, and I understood it was part of the deal, part of being connected to the royal family. Dylan and I had gone on international trips at her behest, had rescheduled our work lives to accommodate her jubilee, cancelled flights to attend tea when invited. And this particular request, to be a bridesmaid in the royal wedding—well, a part of me wanted to jump for joy, squee with delight, immediately dial my friend Josh, who might literally have a heart attack due to the excitement.
But at this moment in time, a much larger part of me wanted to exclaim, Are you completely out of your mind, old lady? Do you have any idea how crazy this is? Are you aware that I’m in full waddle mode now? That I’m as enormous as some kind of lumbering manatee? That there is no earthly way I can fit into a bridesmaid’s dress and walk down an aisle and hold a bouquet and stand and look perfectly pleasant on international television!
But of course the queen already knew all that, didn’t she? And she’d still asked. And Caroline knew, which is why she’d sounded apologetic. No. At this point, there was really only one answer. I was going to be a very, very pregnant matron of honor in a very, very public wedding.
“Of course, Caroline,” I said cheerfully. “I’m honored. Anything you need—just let me know.” I could practically see her about to hang up the phone—it’s not as though she’d actually been worried I’d decline. We both knew it was a done deal.
“Brilliant,” she replied with a lot more confidence than I was feeling at that moment.
“Caroline, I have to ask though: What if I go into labor and can’t be there? Is there a backup plan?”
“No,” she replied simply. “Grandmother says it won’t be necessary.”
Huh. I knew the queen was the queen, but surely she didn’t think her power reached as far as my uterus.
“I’ll have my secretary ring you with the details for a fitting. You know better than anyone that Hannah won’t let you down. It will be fantastic.”
It was no surprise that Hannah Rogan, a premiere fashion designer and my former boss, would be responsible for my gown. It was top secret to most of the world, but I was privy to the fact that Caroline had Hannah design the wedding gown as well as the gowns for the entire royal family. Of course, those gowns had been done weeks ago. I couldn’t imagine the panic Hannah would feel at this task: three weeks to design and execute a maternity gown suitable for intense scrutiny and two billion television viewers.
Caroline’s pleasant goodbye drifted into the background and we ended the call. I’d somehow maneuvered my way into the bedroom cabin and found that I was already horizontal. Dylan was removing my shoes and running his large hand up my calf in warm rhythmic strokes. “Caroline?” he asked, eyebrow raised.
I nodded, threw my arm over my forehead, and let my head sink back into the pillow. “I’m her matron of honor.”
Dylan looked at me, confused. “But the wedding is in three weeks, and you’re—”
I just nodded in confirmation and looked up to see Dylan’s expression morph into some combination of protectiveness and anger. “Has she gone completely mad?” he said, close to shouting. “Absolutely not. This is not happening She knows you’re about to deliver. The stress alone…She’s out of order, and it’s not happening.” His voice was frantic, and his thumbs were digging deeper into the soles of my feet, and even if it was because of mounting frustration, it was great. Note to self: Get Dylan all riled up before he gives you a foot rub.
“It wasn’t Caroline’s call. You know that,” I said, and I nudged his hand with my toe, silently urging him to continue to rub my feet. He understood better than anyone that the queen called the shots. “It’s okay, knighty. I got this.”
“What if you go into labor?” he asked, looking at me as though I’d gone completely mad.
“I won’t. I just…can’t.”
“Has she any understanding of how this works? Is she under the impression that you can simply hold the baby in, or some such thing? Do you?”
I shrugged my shoulders. Of course this bugged me, of course I knew this was a bad idea for a hundred different reasons. But I also knew that if I let Dylan cycle through his own disbelief, he’d come to the same conclusion I had: It really didn’t matter what Caroline or I or Dylan or anyone else thought. This was happening.
I sat up and inched closer to the headboard, and Dylan followed me, continuing his massage. “Babe,” I said, reaching forward and grabbing his hand. I was now the one who had to calm him down. “It will be fine. I mean, I’ll look like a whale in front of the whole world, but it will be fine.” I rubbed the top of my belly and was momentarily sad for our unborn daughter. I had imagined that her last few weeks in my womb would be spent accompanying me while I leisurely checked minor things off lists and enjoyed a steady diet of pastries and Netflix. Instead, she’d be involuntarily toted around town as I balanced in high heels and attempted to curtsy. I shrugged my shoulders and swallowed back a yawn.
He sighed, and I could see resignation relax his stiff, angry brow. “You’re incredible, you know that?” Dylan leaned forward and kissed my nose, so gently, with so much care, that I wasn’t even sure it had happened. But my body registered the touch the way it always did, with little bolts of lightning flittering across my skin. “Daft, but incredible.” Then he backed off the bed. He ducked out into the main cabin, probably to tuck the children in and check on his mother, and when he came back, he locked the narrow door behind him.
I shifted to my side, nestled my head onto a pillow, and locked my gaze on him. I was exhausted and now I was distracted by this whole wedding thing. And even though I knew exactly where his mind was, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to rally for the attentions he was clearly about to bestow. Stretching his tanned muscular arms upward, he pulled the shirt over his head from behind. He kicked off his shoes, unbuttoned the top button of his well-worn, perfectly fitting jeans, and ran his hand through his dark brown hair, which had grown unruly in his weeks away from his barber. He looked sexy as sin, and he looked at me like he knew I was resisting, like maybe I’d choose the foot rub over what was coming next. Smart man. I could also see the determination in his eyes—he was up for the challenge.
Without saying a word, Dylan crawled up the bed. He kept his eyes on mine while running his palms up my legs in long strokes, with each one getting tantalizingly closer to the top of my legs, but with each stroke not quite reaching. I lay still, smiling, loving the feel of him, but there was no way we could have sex right now.
“Babe,” I said, part apology, part reminder that we had things we needed to do on our flight, and part begging him to settle my mind about this wedding. I pulled myself back up into sitting position and effectively stopped his progress.
He collapsed on the bed and groaned in frustration. His head was by my hip, and he wrapped his arm around my leg, exhaling audibly. ”I know,” he said, resigned. “I need to work on that project.” His words were muffled into the side of my body, and I ran my fingers through his hair, using my nails to scratch as I went.
He moaned a little. “Keep doing that, damsel. I’ll marry you forever if you keep doing that,” he said as he drew quiet comforting circles on my leg with his palm.
I laughed. “We’re already married, you idiot.” I paused my hand on his head.
“I’ll marry you again,” he replied, and he took my hand in his own and started to rub my fingers through his hair, making me laugh. I resumed my lazy head rub for a few more minutes, and eventually he lifted his head and pulled himself up to sit beside me.
“I’m going to look like a whale on television, aren’t I?” I said. There was, of course, only one answer to this question, but I didn’t care. I needed to hear him say it.
He curled his body towards me, and put his palm against my far cheek, drawing my face to his. He kissed me firmly on the lips and locked eyes with mine. “Lydia, you are more gorgeous now than you have ever been. More of a woman. More elegant. More capable, sexy, and strong.” He placed his hand over my belly and rubbed it affectionately. Then his lips returned to right by my ear. “You’ll steal the show. I just wish you didn’t have to.”
I nodded and kissed him back.
“That’s my girl,” he said sweetly. Then his smiled turned just that much more lascivious. “Plus, your tits are fucking stunning right now.”
I took the pillow from behind me and swatted him playfully. “Dylan!”
* * *
A couple of hours later, we’d both done the work we’d been hoping to do—Dylan needed to work on his proposal for a series of zero-energy schools his firm was building in Africa, and I needed to write the wrap-up for a two-year contract I’d had with the British Fashion Council to train designers about tech and social media promotion. We were both taking four months off of work when the baby came, and we needed to prepare.
But at that moment, thirty thousand miles in the air, somewhere between ten p.m. eastern and four a.m. Greenwich mean time, I was still awake, restless, and Dylan was sound asleep. His arm was wrapped around my belly, his head on my shoulder, and his soft sleeping breaths warming my neck. The sound of the plane hummed in the background, and the night sky was murky and black outside the windows. The children would be asleep on the flatbeds in the main cabin. As would Charlotte. I looked at my watch and saw that we still had a few hours before we’d land back home.
I thought about home, about the London awaiting us.
It was going to be crazy.
When Dylan and I had first gotten married, the media wasn’t able to get enough. I couldn’t really blame them. We gave them every ingredient for a scandalous romantic news story—a photo of me kissing another guy (long story), a photo of Dylan talking to another woman (it was nothing), an elopement (everyone thought I was pregnant), a big, over-the-top aristocratic wedding, and then a real pregnancy. The paparazzi had been all over it. Especially since Dylan was a duke who happened to have once been engaged to Princess Caroline. Yeah, we were tabloid fodder.
There’d been another flare-up when Eleanor was born, another wave of interest when I was pregnant with Aiden, but for the most part it had calmed down. It turned out that a settled, married couple taking their children to nursery school or pushing a stroller around Mayfair after a sleepless night didn’t sell as many papers. And we were so grateful. Dylan had promised me the press would lose interest once we got married, and they had.
But no newspaper would be able to resist this: the American duchess playing matron of honor to Princess Caroline…on her due date. I knew that there would be no escaping it. The media would be more insatiable than ever. I would, without a doubt, be walking right back into the eye of the storm.