Lydia had spent the morning before work with my sister, but I’d spent it dealing with the last of the legal proceedings against Tristan Bailey.

The case was pretty open and shut—I mean the arse had confessed in front of three witnesses. He had cyberstalked and harassed Lydia for a month, taking and recording private, personal photos and videos, threatening her, scaring her, all in an attempt to dismantle our relationship, fuck with me, and ultimately expose me. Had his stunt succeeded, the company that had been in my family for three generations, Hale Shipping, likely would have gone to him. And because of the unfortunate deal my father had made with the Bresnovs, the Russian criminals who had bailed the company out, Tristan could have walked away with my estate, Humboldt Park, as well. The whole disaster had been thwarted, thank god, but even after Tristan was behind bars, there was still plenty to sift through, plenty of damage to undo.

I’d spent lunch with Jack Bickford, the MI6 agent I’d been working with on the Bresnov case, who was also a mate from my Cambridge. In reality, if it weren’t for Jack’s involvement, I probably wouldn’t have even listened to the mad plan the agency had up its sleeve. After that lunch, I’d found my way to Will, at the restaurant. I’d needed, wanted, to run the entire situation by my best friend, make sure I wasn’t completely mad to be even considering what I was considering.

“Am I completely mad for even considering this?” I asked him, taking a sip of an amarone he was thinking of adding to the wine list. We were sitting at one of the rear tables, away from the bustle of the chefs at work in his kitchen.

“Take me through it again.” Will leaned back, patient.

“Well, the goal is get to this guy, King. Russian, ruthless, and so far, the highest-ranking identifiable member of Eastern European organized crime. He’s been untouchable for over a decade and essentially, from what anyone can discern, the boss. Six different human-trafficking rings are associated with this fucker—”

“Christ.” Will rubbed his forehead, as disgusted with the concept as I was.

“Right, so according to Jack, the problem isn’t evidence, it’s actually getting their hands on the fucker—they’ve been trying for a decade with no luck. There’s a chance their man, an undercover agent who’s been on the ground in Moscow for over a year, will get close enough to isolate him. If that works, I’m off the hook.” While Will had been becoming a restaurateur, and I’d been building my firm, our friend Jack had managed to work his way into the upper echelons of Britain’s foreign secret intelligence service.

“Got it. We’re hoping for Moscow Man to succeed.” Will took a sip of the wine and made a disapproving face.

“Yes, well, I have a feeling if that were a real option, Jack wouldn’t be talking to me, and yet here we are. Their backup plan, so to speak, is to get at King through the Bresnovs, who have climbed the ranks in recent years and apparently have rather reliable access to him. And to get to the Bresnovs, they use me. From what I understand, I am the only uncompromised asset with direct contact with these people, thanks to good old Dad.”

“So how would this all work?” Will looked partially alarmed and partially skeptical that any of this was real, which mirrored how I felt exactly.

“Essentially, when they get word that King will be in London, I’d approach the Bresnovs and offer a deal good enough that they’d want to include King in the negotiations. I’d say I’d need to meet King directly—apparently Moscow Man is confident all this can be done. I meet with King, then Jack and some other agents follow me, intervene before anything foul happens, and all is well.”

Will was looking at me as though I were definitely a touch mad for considering this. “And then you’re in the clear. With King apprehended, MI6 would have no use for the Bresnovs anymore—they would swiftly be taken into custody. You’ll be able to remove Humboldt from Hale Shipping’s assets without any risk of the Bresnovs trying to retaliate, and you finally get the company back in order and get out of the goddamn shipping business. Easy peasy.” He wiped his hands back and forth, mocking the idea that wrapping up this insanely complicated situation would be at all easy.

I rolled my eyes at him. “That is the idea, yes. They have plenty of evidence against the Bresnovs—needing them as bait I’m afraid is the only reason they haven’t been taken in. And if I were to make any moves on putting Humboldt back in my name, it would alert the Bresnovs that I am no longer willing to play ball with them, alert them to my involvement, and presumably put this whole plan at risk. So, according to Jack, the agency is hoping that I continue to sit tight and play nice with these Russian arses until this is done.” I finished the glass of wine and went to work on some pork-belly-related appetizer Will had made. God, he was a good chef.

“Crikey. Does Lydia know about this?” Will leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. I nodded. “Is she all right with it?”

I sighed, exhaling deeply. I knew the plan made Lydia nervous. Every emerging detail added to the feeling of risk. “She is.” I sighed again—I hated thinking about the fact that Lydia would be affected by this. “She knows I need to do this. But I also know she’d prefer I not be involved. She doesn’t want me to know she’s nervous about it, but I can tell she is, of course. I mean, Christ, every time I think of the massive amount of utter crap I have going on in my life, it’s utterly clear that it’s a full-on miracle she’s agreed to marry me at all.”

“Well, that’s true. She’s measurably superior to your sad arse.” Will took another swig of his wine. “Look, mate, I’m not sure you have much of a choice. You could refuse, of course, but it honestly seems like the fastest route to having this all sorted. And it’s Jack, right? I’ll concede that it sounds exceedingly idiotic, even for you, but I can’t imagine that Jack would ask you to do this if there were a real risk.”

I nodded. “And according to him and his team, after this there won’t be much left of this branch of organized crime once King is out, and those that are left will be rather relieved he’s gone. The agency will provide some cover, deny my involvement, obviously. So after the actual event, the risk of retaliation is minimal.” Even just saying it out loud I felt satisfied, albeit no less apprehensive. I could do what they needed me to do. And I would. But there wasn’t a moment I thought about it that I didn’t resent the fuck out of my father for leaving me in this position. “Thanks, mate.” I ran my hand through my hair—this whole plan would have been fine before Lydia was in the picture, before it felt like I had anything to lose.

We spent another hour talking about the restaurant and a new sous chef he was hiring. We chatted about a redesign he was thinking about for his house in Camden, and whether I thought he could accomplish an addition. And eventually we made our way to the kitchen, where in spite of my protests, Will insisted on trying to teach me how to make something involving braised rabbit and polenta.

On my way home I sent Lydia a quick text to see if she was close. After my day I wanted to lose myself in her, completely.

This. This is what I needed—just texting with Lydia already had my shoulders unwinding.

I didn’t have a chance to reply, when my phone rang.

My goddamn mother.

The woman had been perpetually absent, grieving in absentia, floating between Cannes, Paris, and occasionally Italy with friends, generally avoiding her new reality: a dowager duchess. We’d speak for a few minutes a week about Humboldt, but otherwise in classic fashion we were staunchly avoiding the issues running beneath our conversations as of late. We were grieving in parallel, dealing with life without my father in our own ways. Lydia encouraged me to be patient with her, reminded me she’d just lost her husband, but fucking hell, the woman was so self-absorbed it was shocking she remembered she had a son at all.

“Hello, Mum,” I said, trying to disguise the disappointment I had at the interruption.

“Are you alone?” Her subtext was clear—Is Lydia there? My mother knew Lydia lived with me. Knew without having asked, never having confirmed, and never once inquiring about our relationship. However, I was certain she still had no idea I’d asked Lydia to marry me. Finding out that Lydia would be the next Duchess of Abingdon was going to ignite a fight I wasn’t looking forward to. The fight would of course be worth it—I didn’t give a shite what my mother thought. But Lydia wanted us a secret, as much as it killed me, and I didn’t trust my mother not to use that secret against us, against me, as soon as she knew.

“Yes, Mum, Lydia’s at work. What can I do for you? How’s Cannes?”

“Crowded. I called to talk to you about Humboldt.” No she didn’t. “But now that I have you, I also wanted to ask you about Prince Arthur’s party on Thursday—” Ah, there it was. The queen’s husband’s annual charity event was two days away, and obviously my mother saw it not as a philanthropic affair but as a way to further her bloody agenda. It was a command performance—I was duke, and I’d be there. My mother knew that.

“What about it, Mother?”

“You’re not going alone, are you? It’s getting a bit ridiculous, snubbing people the way you have been.”

“Mother, I’m not taking anyone to the party, and not inviting women to things for meaningless dates could hardly be described as snubbing them.”

“Dylan, you can’t afford to continue on this way.”

“What are you saying, Mother?” It was truly astounding how quickly conversations with this woman devolved into something unpleasant. Either that or I’d just honed my ability to cut through her crap.

“Dylan, don’t be coy. You know as well as I do that it would be wise to think about the future, that this party might be an appropriate occasion to bring a companion with you, an appropriate companion. I know we all have our way of grieving, Dylan, but it’s time you take things more seriously. It’s time you tie up loose ends, wrap up this thing you’re doing and—” Fucking Christ.

“Let me stop you, Mother, before this gets any more unpleasant. And let me remind you that Lydia and I—”

“Dylan—”

“Fucking hell—” I was practically shouting. We were speaking over each other—our mutual frustration the only clear signal. She was going on about me inviting someone or another, but I’d stopped listening.

“Mother!” I said the word loudly and clearly enough to stop her in her tracks. “We’ll speak when you get back about the changes at Humboldt. Safe travels.”

Hanging up on my mother was not something that came easily—I’d worked for years to learn to do it without flinching. But at this point, the skill was well honed, and I did it without a second thought.

She had never been so blatant about Lydia before. The day had just gone from shite to a fucking rageful disaster.

It was nearly nine when I heard the telltale sounds of Lloyd pulling the Jaguar into the garage and the car doors closing announcing Lydia’s arrival home. She’d have anyone believe she was carefree about her work, but I saw the way she snuck in extra hours, got up early, sent emails from her phone while she dressed for work. She was a tigress, determined, and it was fucking sexy.

Of course she’d said she’d take the Tube home, but I’d sent Lloyd. It had nothing to do with keeping her safe, or not entirely. I had actually gotten better about tamping down my overprotective tendencies. No, I simply wanted her back in my bloody arms as soon as was humanly possible.

And there she was in the doorway to my study not a moment later. Her long legs in one of her deliciously trim little pencil skirts, the kind that hugged her ass in a way that bloody well undid me. Blue high heels that most girls wouldn’t dare think of. Some kind of floaty blouse with animals on it—the woman was a savvy wildcat dressed as a sweet innocent.

And she looked tired—her hair falling across her shoulder, resting on the top of her breast, looked like at some point in the day it had been in a bun. She’d pulled the pins out, and now I needed to do the same with the rest of her body, still wound tightly from her day.

“Get over here,” I said, patting my lap. She snickered one of her cheeky laughs and rolled her eyes, but she still kicked off her shoes and came to me—I fucking loved that she came to me. Nothing in the world felt better than being able to touch this woman when I wanted to, the privilege of getting to end my days with my skin on hers.

She crawled onto me, her petite frame fitting perfectly over mine, and nestled her face into the crook of my neck. Fuck, just the feel of her warmth calmed me down. The floral smell of her, the subtle feel of her eyelashes fluttering against my neck. She was a like a goddamn Xanax, the way she relaxed me. Her body shifted with my exhales.

“Hi,” she said softly, and she turned to unbutton my shirt, starting at the collar and loosening my tie.

“Damsel,” I whispered firmly, ready to take her, ready to command her. I took her earlobe between my teeth. I wanted to forget about my mother completely. I was mortified by my her snobbery, hated that she was so predictably horrible. I leaned in to start kissing Lydia’s soft neck, but then I noticed she’d stopped her unbuttoning.

“What is it, baby?” I asked her, raising my eyebrow.

She just looked at me, searching. She knew I was upset, could probably tell instantly. “Everything okay?” she asked, searching, and I sighed in defeat. I knew this look. It meant she knew my look, and wasn’t going to let me just roll this away. “How was your meeting with Jack?”

I rubbed my temples. I knew by the look on her face that it made her edgy, nervous.

“It was fine, baby. He’s still going to try to make it work without me,” I said reassuringly. “They’re giving that option another month or so before going with the plan that involves me. So, there’s a chance all this will be for nothing.” She closed her eyes for a moment, and I took her hand and brought it to my mouth, kissing it. “It will be fine, baby.”

I tilted my head from side to side, trying to remove a tightness in my neck, and Lydia caught me. That nervous expression gone, her curiosity back.

“What else is wrong?” she asked. Christ, she missed nothing. I’d be fucked if my clients could read me this well.

“Nothing, damsel. Everything’s fine.” I ran my nose along her collarbone, but she didn’t move. She was waiting. I’d promised her once I wouldn’t keep her in the dark, and my stubborn girl was going to hold me to it. “I talked to my mother tonight—she was just being her lovely self, I’m afraid. Typical rubbish.” I felt her shift in my arms as I took a deep breath. “It’s not worth talking about.”

Would she let me get away with that? Please let her let me get away with that.

She raised her eyebrows at me, indicating that there was no way in hell she was letting me get away with that.

“Baby, it was just the usual.” I didn’t want to hurt her, and everything my mother said would hurt her. “She wants what my father wanted.” Marriage to a daughter of a member of the peerage, a devoted traditional ducal life, and fucking heirs.

Lydia kept looking at me. Patient. Then she prompted, because she already knew, “For you to get married. Just not to me.”

I paused, not being able to actually voice the confirmation she could see on my face.

“It’s so odd.” She had a look of puzzlement on her face, like she was trying to work something out.

“Which part?” I sighed again and wrapped my arms more tightly around her.

“Well, most of the time I don’t think about it, but it’s odd that I’m going to fill her shoes. I mean, is your mom what a duchess is supposed to be like? Is that what all the duchesses are like? Because I can assure you, in case you need assuring, that even if you forget my American accent and propensity to swear, I will probably never fit in.”

Of course she thought of this—I was such an idiotic prat. How could she not look at my mother and wonder if those were the expectations? “You could never be like my mother, baby, because with few exceptions, she and her lot are stiff and lifeless, and you, damsel, are rather stunning and vibrant.” I reached for her neck with my lips again but she pulled back.

She half rolled her eyes at me, giving me her oh-please look. As though I’d let that slide.

“Damsel,” I warned, my tone shifting to get her attention, the tone that pulled her out of herself. I took her chin, brought her eyes to mine. Her face went receptive and her body sank just a bit deeper—I wondered if she knew how her whole body responded when I took control. If she could feel how she melted into me. “I look at that life, the one my father chose to live with my mother, and I don’t want it. I never have. The only reason I can do this at all and not drown myself in whisky is that I am determined to be the Duke of Abingdon that the title deserves. And you, damsel, are a key ingredient to that. If I wanted one of those women, I’d have married bloody Amelia Reynolds a decade ago and spent my weekdays playing polo.”

“You’d never.”

“Precisely.” I shifted her so she was straddling me, her skirt riding up her legs and pooling between us. Her toned thighs gripped my own, and I held my hands clasped at her lower back, pulling her just a little closer. “You, damsel, are radiant. You’re already twice the duchess she ever was.”

She wrapped her arm around me and held her lips against my neck.

“You deserve so much more than my horrible family,” I said. I loved the feeling of her against me, loved the way I felt when she was there.

“I deserve you.” Her voice had descended to a whisper.

“Yes, well, it’s too late anyhow,” I said, wrapping my fingers around the base of her head, holding her where I could see her. “I won’t be letting you out of our engagement, even if you did despise my wretched life. The deal is rather binding, I’m afraid.” She laughed, and her laughing undid me every time, and my dick remembered what it had been wanting the entire goddamn day. I slipped my hand into her blouse, cupped her perfect tit, and kissed her exposed neck, hard.

“You, damsel, are already my duchess,” I said, lifting her and moving us to the leather love seat in my office. Fucking hell she was so warm, so soft. I couldn’t help myself—my thumbs moved to the creases of her legs of their own accord. And in perfect time those darling goose pimples rose to the surface of her skin. I slid my hand further and found her bare, freshly waxed, with no knickers between us. Good girl.

I heard my own breath hitch. Her smile was playful, relaxed.

“Your mother will panic when she finds out I’m going to be her successor, won’t she?”

I kissed the corner of her mouth. “Perhaps,” I whispered. “But I don’t care.” Her lips felt like velvet against my neck. “You know, baby, if you’d agree to wear my ring, she’d fall into line—there’s nothing she’d be able to do. No more ridiculous propositions about any woman other than you.” I practically grunted the words, weaving in and out of coherent thought. I was losing my mind, wanting to be inside her.

“Not yet,” she breathed and shut her eyes, arching into my touch. “Soon.” Goddammit, she was going to be the end of me. There was a part of me that wanted to own her, tell her, rule her, insist she let me take her in the most public possible way and then build a fortress with her, against the world, the press, my mother, who-the-fuck-ever. But I’d be patient because I adored her, and because I bloody well needed to be. Christ, her slender arms wrapped around my neck, the pull of her, felt amazing.

“Maybe she’ll finally stop bugging you about heirs when she finds out,” she whispered back, and I shifted my lips down her neck.

“No heirs, damsel.” I mumbled my automatic response to the thought of children, then quickly returned to the task at hand. I kissed her mouth like I had nothing else to do, running my tongue along that sweet crease in her lips, prying them open, slipping inside. She demanded patience from me, and I would demand it of her, the little minx. Her warm tongue slid into my mouth, desperate, hungry. She tasted like oranges, vanilla, double cream. She put her fingers in my hair and pulled, trying to get me to move faster, harder, but I just kissed, holding her and everything else at bay.