Panic. Fucking panic. That was the only word for what I felt.
I’d texted her in the middle of the night, and it was an entire day later, and she still hadn’t written me back. I wasn’t even sure why I’d texted her what I had—I didn’t know how to make up, how to go forward, and still protect her from the chaos being married to me would bring. All I knew was that I fucking missed her. So I’d texted, more than I had in days. And she hadn’t written back. And now, well, now I was a bloody mess.
My girl was slipping through my fingers.
Emily came around the house at nine that morning, practically banging down my door when I failed to meet her for coffee. After she told me I looked like I’d been run over by a mountain lion, whatever the fuck that meant, I’d told her the highlights—that Lydia and I had had a row before she left for New York, that she finally wanted to go public with our engagement but that I’d put a stop to it.
“You’re a first-class moron, you know that, right?” Emily said to me, flinging her takeaway latte cup around in exasperation so bits of milk foam were landing on the floor of my entry.
“Excuse me, dear sister, call me crazy, but the last thing I want to do is make Lydia’s life more complicated. I need to sort all of this out—deal with Hale Shipping, figure out how I’m going to balance that and my own firm, et cetera. Then, maybe, I hope I’ll be able to offer Lydia something less ridiculous by way of a life. But I’m not going to drag her any further into this until I’m certain. Does that really sound moronish to you?”
“‘Moronish’ isn’t a word.”
“Oh, sod off,” I said, marching us back towards the kitchen.
“What happened anyway? You were all ‘tallyho’ and ‘onward’ about the engagement, practically begging her to put on a fluffy white gown. What happened?” I raised my eyebrow as I took a sip of my own cup of coffee, my third that morning. “Oh, fine, maybe I’m the only one who cares about the gown, but you know what I mean. What bloody well happened?”
“I had drinks with Mum—”
“You’re not serious. You fell for one of Mum’s manipulations?” The latte cup was abandoned, and Emily was now rooting around in my cupboards, digging around for biscuits or something.
“Did you know Mum nearly did a PhD in French literature?” I looked at her skeptically, rubbing my forehead. The lack of sleep was killing me.
“What? No she didn’t.”
“She did. It actually occurred to me this week that she might be lying, but I called Uncle Harold and he confirmed it.”
“Blimey.”
“Apparently she was rather brilliant at it. But she gave it up, to be with Dad.” Learning this about my mother had convoluted everything I thought I’d understood about her and her marriage to my father. All I’d been able to think about was her potential, that she’d thrown it away without meaning to, that she resented my father and it had destroyed them. All I’d been able to think was that I was about to do the same thing to Lydia.
“Hmm,” she said, sounding surprised. “That does rather challenge my belief that Mum is as dull as a lamppost, doesn’t it?” She finally put down the biscuits, letting crumbs fly from the package onto the floor. “So did Lydia change her mind then? Say that she doesn’t want to make those kinds of sacrifices?” she asked, chomping down into the snacks.
“No.” I thought of Lydia standing before me in my robe, her hair twisted and laying over her shoulder, her bare feet on the kitchen floor. She’d come into that room so ready, so willing, so happy to see me, and I’d closed her off. She hadn’t said she didn’t want to make sacrifices or that she didn’t want to be a duchess. In fact, she’d said the opposite, that she was ready to. That she had confidence in us, that we’d figure it out, even if it were messy. But all I could think, could still think, was How could she know? And Isn’t it my job, as the duke, to know for her?
“Ah, so she doesn’t trust you not to want her to make those sacrifices then—is that it? She thinks after you’re married you’ll turn into Dad and want her to give up her career?”
Again, I thought back to Lydia, her words, her petite frame stiffening with anger across the kitchen island from me, the very island where Emily and I were now standing. I’d never seen her so angry at me before, so downright furious, but all I’d been able to think, watching Lydia grit her teeth and search me with those big brown eyes, had been She doesn’t understand. “No, she didn’t change her mind, Emily. I didn’t even tell her about that conversation with Mum. She actually said she believed we could figure anything out together, that we don’t have to do it the way Mum and Dad did. She said that we already were figuring it out, that we might as well just do it married.”
“But?” Emily looked at me as though I were possibly the most idiotic person on earth.
“But,” I emphasized—apparently I needed to make Emily understand as well—“how could she possibly know any of that? I’m the one who’s lived this life, who’s seen it. Isn’t it my responsibility to stop her? Isn’t it my job to make sure she doesn’t resent me the way Mum resented Dad?” Even as I said the words, I wasn’t so sure anymore that they were true. “Actually, I would have thought—”
“Stop.” I needed her to stop talking, because my chest was tightening, and there was no way I was going to let Emily take credit for kicking my ass into gear again.
“What?” She looked at me, confused.
“Stop. Because if you keep going, you’re going to say something smart. And you don’t need to. I’m a goddamn idiot, aren’t I?” I ran my hand through my hair and exhaled, hearing Lydia’s words echo through my mind: How stupid am I that after everything, I’m right back where I started? Trying to convince you that we’re worth fighting for.
“I—” Emily tried to start in with her emphatic agreement of my self-assessment, but I held up my hand to stop her and then braced myself on the island, just as I’d done during my fight with Lydia. Only this time, I wasn’t feeling defeated.
“I mean, bloody hell.” I’d been sitting on my arse for over a week, like some kind of self-righteous arse, thinking that my life was too much for her, that being a duchess would be too hard for her, that she couldn’t make up her own bleeding mind about her life. All because my mother hadn’t known how to fight for hers.
Absurd is what that was. Fucking mental. And during our fight I’d been too fucking stubborn to see it, too fucking terrified that I was waltzing her into a life she’d resent. And I’d continued being stubborn for the entirety of the week that followed while she was away, convincing myself I was what? Doing the right thing? Bullshit.
Lydia was the strongest woman I knew. The only reason she was slipping through my fingers was because I was goddamn letting her. I hadn’t been listening. I was a goddamn prat is what I was.
“Every reason I wanted us to get married, to make our engagement public, still stands, doesn’t it? Mum will have to lay off. Lydia will be by my side. She’s already doing most of the work of being a duchess and being bloody brilliant at work. She even said she wanted to think about her next career move, make sure it would work around the demands of our life. I’m a complete arse, aren’t I?” Emily nodded. “And I should have trusted her, believed her, when she said she was ready, shouldn’t I have?” Emily nodded again, mouth slightly agape. “Because, if I can’t trust my bride on the day she says she wants to marry me, of all the days, I don’t imagine I’ve got much of a shot, do I?” Emily shook her head. I never should have fought with Lydia. Never should have let my mother make me forget who Lydia was, how brilliant and strong, gorgeous and kind. I should have fucking swept her into my arms when she’d said she wanted to go public with our engagement. Should have kissed the ground she walked on for pushing us to do this, and do it well, do it together. Goddammit.
“I think,” Emily said, “I think that what you’re meant to say when your bride says she’d like to be publically engaged, in particular if you’re you”—she pursed her lips, acknowledging that I was some sort of special case—“is say, ‘Yes, please,’ thank all that is holy that someone as sane and lovely as Lydia is willing to take you on, and march her on down the aisle. Preferably in a Vera Wang, but that’s negotiable.” Emily smiled, relieved, and oddly, maybe even proud of me?
I smiled at her, feeling the determination well up inside of me. No one was surprised more than I when I rounded the island and gave my sister a hug—or a side hug, which was still probably more of a hug than I’d given her in her entire life, which didn’t last more than a second before she shoved me away and said, “Gross,” making me laugh for the first time in over a week.
“Am I going to have to come in and set you straight every time you have a row with your fiancée? I can’t recommend enough that you consider removing the middle man of this operation—far more efficient and all that—”
“Christ, you’re annoying. You know that?” Emily just smirked smugly, and I couldn’t do anything but smile at my kid sister.
I grabbed the car keys from the peg by the door and tossed them from one hand to the other as I grabbed my jacket.
“Where are you going?” Emily asked, digging back into the tin of biscuits.
“To get my girl—” Suddenly I remembered the day. “Ah, fuck. Shite! No, I’m going to a bloody meeting at MI6, then I’m going to get my girl.”
“MI6? Who are you?” Emily now looked thoroughly confused and as though I might have possibly gone completely mad. I momentarily forgot she hadn’t known about that operation.
“Your badass older brother.” She harrumphed as I slipped on my shoes and opened the rear door. “I’ll explain later, Em. Thanks for coming this morning—good chat!”
* * *
Because of that conversation I was late to the meeting with Jack, not that MI6 were the most efficient lot themselves, and not that I cared.
“My lord,” he said, smirking. He was taking the piss using the formal address.
“Oh, sod off,” I said, giving a half smile and sitting at the edge of my chair in his office. “I’m afraid I can’t stay long, Jack. I have somewhere I need to be. So let’s get to it, shall we?” I leaned back in the leather swiveling office chair and put my hands on my thighs.
His expression and his deep exhale said everything that needed to be said. “Right. Well, I’m afraid that the alternative plan won’t work.” I’d figured as much. “Our best option for apprehending King is what we discussed.” I nodded. “Having you on the inside, someone who can serve as an actual witness to back up any recording, is really the best avenue, the most reliable.”
“Right,” I said, although this plan took on greater weight now that it was real, now that I knew how Lydia felt about it, that it worried her.
“You’ll need to set up a meeting with him when the timing seems right, but the sooner the better. Our man on the ground in Moscow believes he’s getting spooked, and all signs point to King going underground again, soon. We’ll work with you on what you’ll need to do, the strategies we’ve found effective in getting someone like King to say what we need him to say. Really, we just need him to admit to being who he is. And of course your security will be our highest priority. You’ll be wired, we’ll have armed agents nearby, at the ready, and they will intervene the moment you can confirm verbally that he’s present.”
“Indeed.” I had a tingling sensation that told me none of this was going to be as easy as Jack thought, but I also trusted him.
“Tell Lydia she has nothing to worry about.” Jack knew about Lydia, knew I lived with her. He had no idea she was my fiancée. I wondered if knowing I was going to be married would change his opinion about any of this, make it seem like less of a risk worth taking.
But the risk, if there even was one, was worth it. When this was sorted, I’d be one step closer to putting things right, to sorting out how the hell I was going to run Hale Shipping, to getting Humboldt back in my name, so I could focus on the firm. On Lydia, on us. “I understand,” I said, leaning forward onto the desk. “I’ll reach out to the Bresnovs and I’ll let you know what I can accomplish. And then, when this is over, Jack, I’m counting on you to put those crooks behind bars where they belong.”
Jack nodded in confirmation and nodded again. “Thanks, mate. Hopefully we’ll pull this off as soon as possible, then you can officially tell that girlfriend of yours that you’re a spy for MI6. Then maybe she won’t be embarrassed to leave the house with you,” he said, laughing slightly.
“You wanker.”
He walked me through a stack of bureaucratic paperwork that would make anyone go blind, explained how the operation would work, and then I got the fuck out of there. I stopped by the house to grab a few things, and I swung by the firm to pick up what I needed. Then I told Thomas to cancel my next week.