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Synopsis
"Addictive, sexy and beautifully written." -- Vi Keeland, #1 New York Times bestselling author on Royal Disaster What to expect when you're royally expecting In five years of marriage to Dylan Hale - the hottest (not to mention most deliciously insatiable) duke in England - I've learned one cardinal rule: Never say "no" to the Queen. Her orders? I'm to be the matron of honor at the royal wedding of the century... which is, coincidentally, my due date. Dylan's plan is to seduce me into an early labor to avoid this royal ruckus. So now I'm caught between the Queen's command... and my sexy duke's desire.
Release date: May 8, 2018
Publisher: Forever Yours
Print pages: 101
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Royal Match
Parker Swift
Chapter One
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 Canad. . .
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 Canad. . .
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