The big day
On Saturday, I woke at four in the morning. It was one of those things where I’d set the alarm for four thirty, but the anticipation, the fear of missing it, woke me up early.
It was dark—our room lit only by moonlight streaming in between the long curtains. And I was taking those last few moments to just be, to take a deep breath. I thought back to waking up on our wedding day. Not the day we legally became husband and wife, but the day we had a wedding, our own grand affair society event.
The morning sun was pouring through the eight-foot-high windows into our bedroom at Humboldt Park, Dylan’s ancestral home, and a place I now considered my own. It was August, and they predicted uncharacteristically hot weather, not exactly ideal for an outdoor wedding. Nearly four hundred guests, which I’d learned was small by aristocratic standards, would be arriving in a couple of hours to watch us walk down the aisle. Of course we were already technically married—we’d done that in private, our way, a few months earlier, but this was the wedding for everyone else.
We were bucking tradition, I supposed, sleeping together the night before the wedding. But Dylan had just returned from seven weeks abroad, and we couldn’t bear to be separated. Couldn’t keep our hands off each other. I’d woken up in his arms, naked, warm, the reassuring feeling of his firm chest against my back and his hand running along my thigh.
I was pregnant then too, but barely. Just showing. Our first child was concealed beneath my tiny belly, easily hidden from anyone but Dylan, who knew my body too well to miss even the smallest change.
“It’s our wedding day,” I said quietly, not even knowing if Dylan was awake.
“You’re already my wife,” Dylan said, whispering into my ear from behind. He wrapped my legs in his own, trapping me against him, and spread his large palm across my soft abdomen.
“You’re already the mother of my child,” he added and gently bit my ear—I gasped and bucked against him in surprise, but he held firm, making me squirm even more.
“You’re already mine, aren’t you, my sweet girl?” My legs were still trapped, and he smoothed his hands up my body, bringing my arms above my head. I looked him in the eye, trying to decide whether to make fun of him for being so utterly himself or to succumb to him, to this, to what he could do to me. He held my hands another beat, my wrists trapped while he explored my changing body with a look of total wonder. Fuck. I was a goner. That look, that determination undid me every time. He cupped a breast and squeezed it gently, examining, stroking my hard nipple with his thumb.
“We only have two hours before things get started, “ I said softly, not really wanting him to stop, but the list of things we had to do in that time was also running through my mind. I groaned and tried to turn in his arms, but he was having none of it. Instead, he shifted me, repositioning me to his liking. I found myself on my belly, with my face turned over my shoulder towards him.
“We’re already married, damsel. And two hours sounds like plenty of time. Now hush that mind of yours. And your mouth. I want you quiet.” His palm rubbed light circles on my ass, making me hungry for other kinds of touch.
“I didn’t promise to obey, you know.” I remember almost wishing I had, because in moments like this, obeying him was delicious. Intoxicating.
“Ah, but we’ll see about that, won’t we, baby?” He lifted his hand, depriving me, and his voice had grown thicker with need.
I smiled and groaned again, leaning into his touch, because this was us. No one else would understand it, but this teasing, taunting…He could play me like a fiddle.
I was his, and I loved it.
He was mine, and he reveled in it.
I looked up to his face, locked my brown eyes on his blue ones, and kissed him, hard. “I can’t wait to marry you again,” I said, and kissed him again. My backside was itching for his touch—my body had grown electric with want. Then his hand was gone, and in a flash it landed hard on my ass. It was exactly what I’d been hoping for.
Pregnancy had made me horny as hell, needy, with a constant itch that needed scratching, and Dylan seemed to know just how to scratch, how to build it and then satisfy it like only its creator could. He spanked me again, and I moaned pathetically into his arm.
“That’s right,” he whispered as he rose from under the sheet to kneel behind me. In one swift move he lifted me by my hips, so I rested on my elbows and my knees. The hundreds of tiny muscles at my core clenched in anticipation. He took a moment to gently caress my bottom before I felt the sweet sting of his palm there again. I heard my breathing pick up pace, felt my chest heave towards the sheet, felt that subtle shift inside as I gave myself over to him. I shut my eyes as he spanked me, one side and then the other, so I could just feel the heat between my legs. I’d missed this while he’d been away. I’d craved it.
“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Dylan said from behind me as he shifted to soft strokes against my skin. One palm was resting between my shoulder blades when I felt a finger slide into me. “And so wet.”
“Dylan, please. Stop teasing me. I’m ready.” I breathed heavily in frustration. I shamelessly pushed my ass in his direction, begging him with my body. The heat in the room wrapped us, pulled us together, and I needed to close that last remaining space between us.
I felt the tip of him nudge against my folds, but then he was gone. I quickly turned back to look at him at the same moment that he gently eased me onto my back. Not with urgency, but with care.
“I need to see you,” he whispered as his lips met mine and he took in the front of my body with his hands, feeling me, loving me, and lowering himself even closer against me. His dominant side was there—it always would be—but at that moment, we were too close, too intricately tied together to play at power differences for long. Not on this day.
His chest pressed against mine, mirroring his lips. He slid his hands up my arms and held them there over our heads, as though he wanted every limb to be aligned, touching. His tongue swept between my lips—his kiss was so deep and purposeful, patient, and I was so lost in it that it almost took me by surprise when he nudged my legs apart and slid into me.
I arched my back and groaned as I took him. I wrapped my legs around his waist and tilted my hips to take him more, to pull him into me. He wrapped his arms around mine, pulled me even closer, took me, kissed me, held me as he changed his angle to land his thrusts masterfully, to touch that place inside me that had me spinning towards an orgasm.
“I love you,” I chanted against his skin, and he kissed my hair, my cheek, my lips in response.
There was the way looked at me when he was inside me, with so much adoration, making me think I might crumble beneath it.
There was the way I came apart in his arms, and time seemed to stop, as it always did.
There was the way I screamed his name and realized his name was our name, that the enormous estate where we were making love was ours, that I was already Lady Lydia Bell Hale, Duchess of Abingdon.
All of it was perfect.
We lay there entwined in each other, the sweat slick between our bodies, Dylan’s hand resting on my belly. We heard the house coming alive, the sounds of delivery trucks, and the shouts of gardeners. And we stayed, wrapped in each other, as long as we could.
An hour later, Fiona was covering up a bite mark on my shoulder with makeup and lecturing me. “You couldn’t have had normal, boring, stiff posh sex just this once, could you?”
I looked up at her and shrugged my shoulders.
“I can’t believe I ever thought I was the slutty one,” she exclaimed, and I playfully hit her on the arm.
After finishing with my makeup, Fiona helped while Hannah worked me into the gown she’d made me, a gown she’d had to alter two additional times as my body changed. She supervised while a hairstylist that Emily had flown in from Paris trimmed each individual bang and added four inches of fake hair to my own. Daphne had let me cry one good cry on her shoulder while I succumbed to missing my dad. And they all stood up with me while I married Dylan again.
* * *
By six a.m. I crept into the children’s room to say goodbye for the day. I should have just let them sleep, but the truth was, any day now—hopefully not today, but very soon—I’d be going to the hospital to have the baby. And when I returned, our family would be brand new in so many ways. I wanted these little moments, these trinkets from our last days as a family of four.
“Sweetheart, Ellie,” I said quietly, stroking her hair. She opened her eyes, and I scooped her out of bed. “Go snuggle in with Daddy. I’ll be in in a minute.” She took her worn stuffed monkey in her arms and padded off towards our room. Then I picked up Aiden and followed her. I settled them both into my spot on the bed, and I had three sleepy pairs of eyes looking up at me.
“You off, damsel?” Dylan asked, his long arm stretching over the pillow and stroking Aiden’s hair.
I nodded. “Mommy has to go get ready for Caroline’s wedding now, okay?”
“Are you going to wear that dress?” Eleanor asked, excitement beginning to wake her up.
“I am. You’ll be able to watch on TV with Aunt Daphne, okay?”
“Mummy on telly?” Aiden asked, confused.
“That’s right,” Dylan added. “Your mummy is going to look like a princess on the telly today.” I looked at Dylan, and his eyes were so warm, so gentle.
Suddenly, Aiden’s eyes were enormous and he threw the covers off the bed and began shouting, “Mummy on the telly!” over and over. Laughing, I looked at Dylan. “Sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have woken them.”
He sat up and put both hands on my face, pulling my lips to his for a kiss. “Go. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.” The children were now exploring under the covers, trying to find the end of the bed and squealing as they ran into Dylan’s legs and started trying to tickle him.
I grabbed his Brooklyn Industries sweatshirt from the floor and handed it to him, knowing he’d want it in a second.
“And, baby,” he added, before I could walk from the room, “I love you.”
“I love you too,” I said.
A few minutes later, I was climbing into the Land Rover with Frank, wearing a pair of leggings, flats, and one of Dylan’s dress shirts—basically the only clothing that fit me at the moment. At least the only clothing that wasn’t a custom-made priceless gown I’d be wearing in a few hours. And not ten minutes later I was safely delivered to Kensington Palace, where the Royal Wedding Day machine was already humming at full speed. The hospital bag that sat in the back seat of the car taunted me, dared me to get through this day.
It was now nine in the morning, and I was currently wearing a silk robe, had a hot tea in my hand, and was trying not to disturb whatever was happening with my hair. I was pretty sure there were rollers in it, but I’d honestly lost track. There may also have been some kind of mask hardening on my face.
Elsewhere in the room at other little stations like mine buzzing in the large parlor, face masks were being applied, hair was being rolled. Caroline’s mother, Felicity, the princess of Sussex and wife to Caroline’s father—the future king of England—was sitting five feet to my right. Her eyes were closed and she was getting something yellow and mushy applied to her eyelids. Zach’s mother, Josie, was on my left. Caroline was in her bedroom. The remaining twenty or so odd people were the multiple facialists, hairstylists, makeup artists, manicurists, dressers, ladies’ maids, secretaries, and coffee fetchers to attend to us. We, as the women in this show, were seriously outnumbered.
I twitched and felt the mask on my face crack just as my phone buzzed in my hand.
Dylan:
Daphne is here, and Fiona has joined for the day apparently. Children absolutely prefer them to us.
Fiona and Daphne, as close as they were to me, had not been invited to the day’s festivities. By now, it was clear that they should have felt relieved about that. Instead, they’d be holding down our fort, minding our children.
Dylan:
Daphne is smiling before 9am and she is *humming* in our kitchen. I suspect Nick is to blame. I am depending on you to get the gossip there.
Me:
Nope. Girl code.
Dylan:
Husband code!
The mask cracked against my cheeks as I smiled again. Dumb mask. I missed him, which was silly, since only four hours earlier we’d been in our bed together. But I did.
Dylan:
I’m off now.
I’ve booked us a room at the Lanesborough.
Me:
You did?
Dylan:
After all of this, I need you to myself. And you’ll need to rest. Daphne will mind the children.
Me:
Thank you, babe.
Dylan:
It’s entirely selfish, I assure you. I have every intention of keeping you in bed and naked for the foreseeable future.
Me:
Be warned, I am likely to fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.
Dylan:
Oh, I know. By “in bed and naked” I assumed that meant you’d be sleeping while I rubbed your back.
Me:
Now we’re talking.
The aesthetician approached me with a warm damp cloth to remove the face mask and began reclining my chair.
Me:
Gotta run.
xx
Dylan:
See you soon.
XX
Another two hours later and I’d been buffed to perfection. I was manicured and cleansed, and the rollers in my hair had been replaced by pins, locking whatever style they’d concocted into place. I currently had my eyes closed with my head tilted up as someone applied fake eyelashes, one by one, to my eyelids.
“Lyddddiiia.” I would know that singsongy voice anywhere.
“Emily!” I smiled at her even though I couldn’t see her. “Welcome back! I’m sure you look incredible.”
“Where’s my brother?” she asked. I snuck a peek at her and saw her looking around the room for Dylan. “Don’t tell me he’s actually left you unattended.”
“Bookshelf. My one o’clock,” I instructed. Frank hadn’t left his seat in the chair by the books in four hours.
“Ah. Well then. You’re in good hands. I just wanted to check in with you before heading to the church.”
“Already?” I ignored the eyelash-putter-on-er and moved my face as close to Emily’s as possible before whispering, “the ceremony doesn’t start until one, right?” Given my pregnancy brain, it was entirely possible that I had no real idea when this wedding started.
“Yes,” she whispered back before resuming normal volume. “But you’d be shocked at how long it takes to get two thousand people into Westminster Abbey. They’ve even asked the VIPs to arrive no later than noon. The queen is planning on arriving at twelve forty-five, and no one but you lot are allowed in after she is, which is fair, I suppose.”
“Emily, in case I didn’t thank you properly at the time, thank you for planning our wedding. I know ours didn’t involve this level of attention, but I know it was a lot.”
“Oh, well, someone had to make sure you two had a proper wedding. And it certainly wasn’t going to be Dylan, Lord of Brooklyn Elopements.” She scoffed, but I knew there had been a part of her that was actually proud of us for essentially telling her mother and the rest of the peerage to fuck off, which is what we’d done by getting married in New York. “You’re going to look incredible today, Lydia. You’re so nearly in the clear, and then you can lie in your bed for hours, watching Netflix, eating cake, and ignoring the world until my niece arrives. It will be divine.”
I raised my eyebrow at her. “Divine? You’ve obviously never been pregnant. Or given birth.”
Emily fake shuddered, and I laughed back at her, disturbing the eyelashes.
“I missed you, Em. I’m glad you and Will are back.”
“Me too,” she replied before giving my shoulder a light squeeze in lieu of a hug.
It was only an hour later that I found myself standing in front of one of the several full-length mirrors that had been set up. The dress Hannah had designed—and miraculously pulled together—was nothing short of stunning. That morning I’d felt like a heavy lumbering whale. Now I was looking back at a floating Aphrodite. The first layer of the dress was the softest cream silk satin slip, tailored into a perfectly fitting sweetheart neckline at my chest and barely-there straps at my shoulders. But the showstopper, the work of art, was the ethereal, featherlight silk netting overlay. It was the same soft shade of white as the slip, but had capped sleeves with the most subtle lace trim. It hugged me perfectly. A thin satin belt rested above my belly in the front and then sloped gently down towards my lower back. The dress skimmed my body in an almost sensual way, my curves appearing like surprises as I tilted or turned, and the short train in the back made me feel about five inches taller than I was. It was simple, regal, and just as sexy as the occasion would allow.
I wore matching ballet flats hidden by the floor-length skirt, and while the top section of my hair had been swept back into an elegant knot, the rest just hit my shoulders and was curled into gentle, natural waves.
This team had done wonders.
The wedding planner approached me, clipboard under her arm, and she carried the blue velvet case I’d last seen at the palace. Together with the hairstylist, they placed the hair comb in my hair, and the earrings found their way into my ears.
It had seemed impossible when I arrived in my leggings and crumpled button-down, but I felt so beautiful.
“Your Grace, you’ll need to be in the carriage in five minutes,” said the planner.
I was about to open my mouth to question her when a familiar voice piped up. “We’ve been over this. No carriage.” I swept my head towards the door and saw Dylan standing there in his morning suit. I rarely saw him in the traditional English attire, and he looked so much like the duke he was. His eyes were fixed on me, wandering, wondering. My body warmed under his perusal, came alive, as it always did.
“What?” The planner looked exasperated. Her hand was on her hip, her glasses on the tip of her nose. We were down to the wire, fifteen minutes to showtime, and an infinitesimal amount of panic was beginning to show.
Dylan glided towards me, his shoes reflecting the light pouring in through the enormous windows. He came to stand behind me and moved his hands down my sides, gliding over the silk fabric and landing on my hips. I smiled at him in the mirror, knowing what he saw, what he was thinking.
“You are a goddess, damsel,” he whispered in my ear. “I’m speechless.” He kissed my cheek and then stood a little taller, finally acknowledging the planner. “I’m her husband. Today is her due date, and if you don’t want her going to labor en route to Westminster Abbey, I suggest you pause, remember that we’ve already discussed this, revise your plan, and allow me to escort her to the cathedral in Caroline’s car as previously decided.”
The planner’s jaw dropped. “You’re due today?”
I nodded.
“Jesus Christ.” I thought her clipboard was going to fly out of her hands as they flew up in the air. “I’ll be right back.”
I took Dylan’s hand and squeezed, and just as I did, I felt a pang in my side running along to my back. Subtle. But there. Please don’t let that be a contraction. Please don’t let that be a contraction, I chanted internally, and squeezed Dylan’s hand just a little harder.
“You all right, darling?” Dylan stepped before me and tilted my chin up to his with his finger, searching my eyes.
I nodded. “Let’s do this. Then let’s go home.”
Dylan gave an affirmative look and took me towards the hallway. The planner was now full on swearing to herself, but ushered us out the door towards a waiting black Daimler limousine. The car fell in line behind two coaches carrying a cadre of adorable bridesmaids and page boys—the children dressed like little dolls were being hoisted into the gilded horse-drawn vehicles with their minders. I climbed into the car to find Caroline and her father, the prince of Sussex, sitting before me. I was quite sure that, under any other circumstances, Dylan and I would not be riding with the bride and her father.
“Your Royal Highnesses,” I said, bowing my head slightly at both of them while Dylan sorted the short train on my gown.
“’Tis, isn’t it?” Caroline’s father replied. I stole a glance at Caroline, and she looked…well, she looked exactly like any other bride on her wedding day. Blissful. Excited. Nervous. And not the least surprised to see me and Dylan joining her.
“I hope you don’t mind,” I started to apologize, but I couldn’t finish the thought. I was struck by how beautiful Caroline looked, like a dream behind her veil. She actually took my breath away. “Caroline…” I paused, realizing I wasn’t exactly sure what I wanted to say. “I’m so happy for you.”
The car began to inch forward, and I felt a bit jostled, but Caroline seemed perfectly still. The assistants had expertly seated her among all of her layers—no fabric was catching, and she had full range to wave as we crept out from the driveway and into the street, which she would have to do in a moment. I could hear the crowds clearly, just a few feet beyond the driveway.
She looked at me and Dylan. “Thank you. Both of you. For being here. For doing this. It means everything.” She caught the last word on her lips, just a little, and I didn’t think I’d ever seen her so open, so totally herself. The soft smile accompanying her words was so completely genuine, and I smiled when I saw her father holding her hand gently. The moment was simple, but perfect.
And brief.
A second later, I witnessed Caroline go into the zone. She lifted her hand and began to wave just as we entered the street. She was on. She was delivering on her lifelong promise to be a princess. At one moment, she glanced at me and Dylan, and I saw Dylan give her a wink. She smiled back before resuming her public waving.
At that moment, Zach would already be at the church with his brother, waiting for his bride’s arrival. I wondered if he truly knew what lay in store for him, how his life was about to change, what it meant to be on the arm of the future sovereign of this country. It had never been so clear that my own partaking in the royal world was minor, really. Flexible, generous with his boundaries. Caroline’s life was fixed, and it was something to behold. The exuberant crowds out the window were astonished, transfixed, and loud in their appreciation of their future queen.
At exactly 12:59 p.m., as dictated by the timetable we’d been provided, the car pulled up to Westminster Abbey. A church official in full dress, a dean or a deacon or a bishop—I could never remember which—opened the door and gestured to Dylan and me to exit first. As soon as Dylan’s polished shoe hit the pavement, there was an explosion of surprised yelps and hollers—clearly the crowds had not realized he was in there. And the sound seemed to double on itself when I took his hand and stood up along his side.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked into my ear.
“I’m sure. I got this. Go.” He kissed me lightly on my cheek and discreetly exited left, ducking into the church and leaving me to my duties.
“Your Highness, it’s time.” The official looked into the car behind me and held out his hand to help Caroline out of the car. The second her leg stretched emerged draped in the sea of white skirt, the crowd went insane in a tone I’d never heard before. Not wild. Not reckless. I didn’t know it was possible, but their cheers were as equally reverent, warm, and welcoming as they were loud. They loved their princess.
Another attendant emerged from the abbey to help me straighten Caroline’s train, and we slowly, cautiously made our way into the church. And there we stood in anticipation. The attendants fussed with Caroline’s gown, and I gathered the children to my side behind the bride and her father.
The archbishop of Canterbury came to the back of the abbey to welcome us, and I stood, waiting. I took a deep breath and tried to ignore the gaze of the cameras being manned from strategic locations throughout the ancient building. I was smiling and trying just to take in the moment when I felt another ache stretch across my lower back and felt my belly tighten.
Fuck.
I closed my eyes for just a moment and breathed through it as I took my first steps behind Caroline and down the aisle. I felt the gaze of those cameras and resisted the urge to bend at my hips or to rub my belly the way I wanted to. Head high. Shoulders back. Just breathe.