Royal Treatment

Book 3: Royal Scandal

by Parker Swift

Genres: Sagas; Contemporary Romance; Multicultural & Interracial Romance; Romantic Comedy; Royalty Romance

Synopsis

"Addictive, sexy and beautifully written. I can't get enough. 5 erotic stars" -- Vi Keeland, #1 New York Times Bestselling Author on Royal Disaster All this duke needs is his duchess... For five blissful months I've been engaged to Dylan Hale, the most handsome, commanding, and wickedly sexy duke in England. For five months I've woken up next to the man I love, indulged in secret trysts, and submitted to every delicious desire. Even better? We've managed to keep it hidden from everyone. That means no paparazzi scandals, no snide comments from Dylan's mother, and no harsh public scrutiny. It's been heaven, but with Dylan's royal responsibilities looming, our time alone is running out. And while I can't wait to be Dylan's wife, I'm terrified that becoming Dylan's duchess might mean losing myself.

Release date: June 11, 2017

Publisher: Forever Yours

Print pages: 292

Sample

Chapter 1

Five months.

Five blissful months.

Five months of walking around with a stupid smile on my face. Five months of bursting into laughter in the middle of the workday like a fool. Five months of rolling over in my sleep and humming in pleasure when I realized I was in our bed in our house, and it hadn’t been a dream.

How on earth had it been five months since we’d gotten engaged?

And a better question was: How had we managed to keep it a secret for that whole time?

When Dylan had asked me to marry him, I assumed that after a few weeks of hiding away and indulging in our newly-engaged world, I’d be just as ready as Dylan to announce it to everyone. It was while telling my best friend Daphne about our new status, discussing it all out loud, that I realized I wanted more of that private time, that I didn’t know exactly when I’d be ready to go public with our engagement.

Daphne and her family had come to spend Christmas with me in London. It was Dylan’s first Christmas as Duke of Abingdon, and, as head of the family, he had to be at Humboldt to preside over the holiday for the extended family. He’d just lost his father, just been thrust into the role of duke, and all eyes would be on him. We knew that nothing would start the gossip mill turning like him bringing me home for Christmas. Plus, it was my first Christmas without my father too, and I wasn’t sure how much I’d feel like celebrating. So, as much as we hated it, we resigned ourselves to spending the holiday apart. And Dylan did what he always seemed to do when trying to cheer me up or give me a surprise—he flew Daphne over. And this time, her parents as well.

It was Christmas Eve when I finally got the chance to tell my best friend that I was engaged. Daphne’s mother had just finished telling a story when she paused and complimented me on the thin diamond band on my pointer finger. It was the ring Dylan and I had bought as a placeholder, a subtle symbol of our engagement just for us.

“Thank you,” I said. “It’s new.” I paused again, looking at each of them, debating for only a second before I continued. “Can you all keep a secret?”

Daphne’s features immediately settled into an expression of extreme skepticism. “Lydia?”

“Dylan asked me to marry him.” I smiled in a way that surprised even me, feeling the corners of my mouth stretching across my cheeks. “And I said yes.” God, it felt so good to say it out loud.

“What?!” Daphne shrieked in a register not audible to humans and literally flew out of her seat. “But. But. But. Oh my god!” She was now jumping up and down and flapping her hands like some kind of bird, making me laugh, which surely wasn’t her intention, not to mention it made it difficult to actually hug her, which I wanted desperately to do. Her mother and father were now standing together by the fire, letting us have this moment. There was more hugging and jumping, and then my hand was back in hers, and she was closely examining my ring. “I have to admit, knowing Dylan, I would have expected a ring that went a little farther in screaming, ‘Lydia Bell is going to be mine forever,’ but this is definitely gorgeous. And why isn’t it on your ring finger? And why have I not seen this splashed across every newspaper?”

I was still laughing at her eagerness. “Did you forget the part where I asked if you could keep a secret? This isn’t an official engagement ring. It’s kind of a secret engagement ring. Something just for us—I wanted something to symbolize it, but we’re not quite ready to make it public.”

“Another secret?” She asked it lovingly, but I could hear the thread of concern in her voice.

“This time the secret was my idea.” I turned to her parents to include them in the conversation, but they each gave me a quick hug in turn before heading to the kitchen. “He asked me to marry him just after you left at Thanksgiving. You were there—you know how much had been going on. You saw how relentless the press was when we went public with our relationship the first time. Then our breakup was gossiped about and spread across the papers and Internet. Throw in a cyberstalker”—I shuddered at the thought of Tristan Bailey, an employee of Dylan’s father, who’d sent me threatening emails all fall—“and, well, I just felt so exposed, trapped by all of that. So once we were back together, I wanted a few weeks of peace and quiet, just for us. And Dylan agreed. I just wasn’t ready to share the news with the world. Our world, okay, but not the world.”

“How are you even managing to keep it a secret? I feel like the paparazzi are like lethal weapons over here,” she asked in a tone that suggested we’d managed to solve some kind of unsolvable puzzle in our ability to keep the press at bay.

“If there’s one thing Dylan’s an expert at, it’s keeping his private life private. He keeps saying that if we want it to be a secret, we just have to avoid giving the media anything to chew on—no pictures of us on the red carpet, no candids of us canoodling around town, no nibbles about our private life. Eventually they get bored and move on to whoever is giving them the money shots, whoever is providing the juiciest gossip. And an engagement definitely would be juicy gossip, as you may imagine.”

“I’m sure,” she agreed.

“Right, so we’re lying low. No big kisses in front of throngs of reporters this time, no splashy red-carpet parties. His office confirmed we were back together, but otherwise we’re just keeping our life private.”

“And it’s working?” Daphne tucked her knees underneath her and held her wine close—we’d settled back onto the couches in front of the fire, the lights from the Christmas tree we’d decorated making the room glow.

“It seems to be. It hasn’t been that long. The first couple of weeks there were definitely stories—the Daily Mail printed the story about me moving in with him. But it feels like it’s dying down.”

“So when will you announce it then?”

“I don’t know,” I said, realizing that I really wasn’t sure. Daphne was still holding my hand in her own when I could see the concern about the secret turn into something a little deeper, her smile straightening out a little, her eyes going a little foggy the way they did when she was thinking about how to say something. “What?” I asked her.

“I…Lydia, I like Dylan a lot. And I think you guys are incredible together. That man would, like, eat a crocodile if you asked him to.” I smiled a little, loving Daphne’s bizarre humor. “It’s just that, well, what’s the rush? Your father died less than a year ago. Dylan’s died a month ago. He just became the youngest duke in England. I’m worried that maybe it’s not the time for you to be making life-altering decisions. It’s not that I think you shouldn’t marry Dylan. I mean, shit, girl, he’s a duke and madly in love with you—marry that dude. But you just got everything started here with your job and life outside your relationship. Maybe marry him in four years, not four months?”

Daphne wasn’t being critical. She was being protective. I knew she felt like I was supposed to be sowing my wild oats or something.

“I know,” I said reassuringly. “I said yes to him for a reason, Daph. I do want to marry him, and not four years from now. But not today either, and announcing our engagement will be as good as getting married in the eyes of the world.” I thought about what it had been like to wake up with Dylan each morning knowing we were engaged, that he was the man I was building my life with.

“And, the fact that marrying Dylan will change my life is exactly why I don’t want to announce it yet,” I continued. “I came to London to finally figure out what I want to do, to take risks, to start my life, and in most ways I still feel like I just got started. And I can only really keep doing that, keep figuring all that out, if we keep the engagement a secret. Once we announce it, the floodgates will open. Once people know Dylan has a fiancée, there will be a million questions about me, my life, our life. I’ll be in the spotlight, well, forever.” As I said the words out loud, I realized how true they were. I wasn’t ready to be in the spotlight again, wasn’t ready to have my life change so dramatically. “There’s just more I want to accomplish before I’m doing it under the watchful eye of the British aristocracy.” As I said this, I realized it was going to be more than a few weeks before we announced our engagement, realized I wasn’t anywhere near ready to open those floodgates. “So, I guess, I don’t know when I’ll be ready.”

“And Dylan is okay with this? The waiting?” she asked, eyebrow raised.

I laughed and rolled my eyes lovingly. “The man waited a decade to have his first real relationship; he can certainly wait a bit longer to have a wife.” I knew Dylan would be frustrated that he was going to have to wait any longer. “Plus, he’s not really waiting. We do live together. And I did say yes. The only trade-off is that I’m not attending any of the parties and palace events with him—but we have a lifetime of those ahead of us.”

“You sound pretty smart about this, I gotta say. And I mean, that man does love the crap out of you.” She couldn’t hide the smile creeping over her face. She looked like she was thinking for another moment, then she reached for the bottle of wine sitting on the floor by our feet and refilled our glasses. “To the court jester and my best friend! To their long engagement and the crazy aristocratic marriage that will follow!”

I rolled my eyes at her nickname for Dylan, and she raised her glass again, clearly on a roll now. “To my favorite lady—” Suddenly her gaze widened and a mischievous grin started to curl her mouth. “Oh. My. God. You’re going to be a lady! You’re going to be a duchess! Holy shit!”

And the jumping started all over again, and now I was laughing harder than ever.

“Oh, I’m never going to let you live this down,” she squealed. I could see her wheels turning and could only imagine the steady stream of royalty jokes that would be continuously flowing from her for the foreseeable future. “I’m really happy for you. No one deserves this happiness more than you do. And I think Dylan deserves a little happiness thrown his way too. He’s damn lucky to have you.”

*  *  *

When I’d told Dylan that I was going to need more time, he was disappointed. I could feel it. But he was also supportive—he’d seen what that spotlight had done to his friend Grace: His childhood friend had taken her own life when the press mistakenly reported that she was Dylan’s girlfriend. The resulting media whirlwind wreaked havoc on her life. In fact, he’d spent his entire adulthood believing that the duties and constraints that came with his life meant that he’d never get married. So, as reluctant as he was to wait, he agreed to as much time as I wanted.

And the miracle was just how right Dylan had been about the media. After a few weeks of stories about our reunion accompanied with boring pictures of us entering the house or getting into the car, the news died down. We gave as few photo ops as possible, and for the most part we’d spent our weekends at Humboldt Park, the grand mansion that had been passed down through generations of Dukes of Abingdon and that had become Dylan’s the moment his father died.

This was how, five months later, I found myself on a Sunday morning sitting at the large mahogany table in the library at Humboldt, with our engagement still a secret.

I momentarily glanced up and out one of the enormous windows, onto the huge rolling park behind the house. The sun was shining in, warming the room, and I couldn’t believe that this massive place was Dylan’s, that it would be ours. It was startling how a place like Humboldt—with its eighty-odd rooms, butler, gardeners, and ancient tapestries—could start to feel like home.

It was also startling how much work it took to run it properly.

Our weekends up here had been punctuated by tasks to do with bringing the estate up to Dylan’s standards. We would have long talks with the gardeners, farmers, and dozens of staff and tenants who made the place live and breathe and function. While alive, his father had apparently neglected the actual business of running the estate, and his death was so sudden that Dylan hadn’t had any time at all to adjust to being the 17th Duke of Abingdon. He’d been thrown in, and his primary concern was making sure that everyone associated with Humboldt was well taken care of and that it was running properly. At that moment we were going over all of the leasing agreements for the estate, trying to figure out which to renew and which to terminate.

“Thank you, damsel, for taking on this mess with me,” Dylan said, sighing and running his hand through his dark brown hair, letting his hands flick at the ends, which had just the slightest bit of curl to them. He’d started keeping it a fraction longer, and I loved it. Watching him run his fingers through it both turned me on and told me when something was on his mind. And running my own fingers through it was something I thought about doing on an hourly basis. There were still moments when I found myself breathless looking at Dylan—his lean muscular frame, the way his tailored shirts hugged his biceps or cuffed around his forearms, the way his carved jaw rested on my head when he held me against him. Then there were those lapis-colored eyes framed by those outrageous eyelashes. He was, without a doubt, stunning.

“Shall we stop? I’m famished,” I said, closing a folder in front of me and trying to focus on the fact that we were in a library and not our bedroom.

Dylan leaned back in his chair for a moment, looking at me, drinking me in the way he did sometimes. He came around to my side of the table and stood behind my chair. I felt his hands land on my shoulders, and he leaned over so his lips were right next to my ear. “Thank you, baby, for doing this with me,” he said, not letting me ignore him. I could feel the blood rising to the surface of my skin as it always did when he was near, my breathing getting shallower.

“Of course,” I said, sighing, and I leaned my head back until it came into contact with his shoulder. He kissed my exposed throat, and his lips rested there for a moment, warm and constant, and I began to feel desire pool low in my belly.

“Let’s get you some lunch, then I’ll thank you properly,” he whispered, making the goose bumps rise to the surface of my skin. He took my hand and urged me towards the kitchen. I groaned in frustration, suddenly not feeling as hungry for food, and Dylan just laughed as he pulled me down the grand hallways of the mansion.

As we entered the bright kitchen, we found Mrs. Barnes, or Christine as I called her, putting together a salad at the counter, and she greeted us with a warm smile.

“Ahh, there you are. I was beginning to wonder. Was about to come and fetch you two for a proper lunch,” she said, and gestured to the table, indicating we should sit. I loved hearing her lilting northern English voice. Christine was Dylan’s former nanny, Humboldt’s current housekeeper, and an incredible cook. In many ways she was like a mother to Dylan. And unlike Dylan’s actual mother, Charlotte, she welcomed me with open arms.

I was pretty sure Christine suspected Dylan and I were engaged, even if she’d never pry for confirmation. Meanwhile, I wasn’t even sure Charlotte was aware we were living together. Had she been around Humboldt at all, she surely would have figured it out or asked us directly. And we both knew that I, a quirky commoner who’d grown up in the States, wasn’t exactly her first choice for the next Duchess of Abingdon. But Charlotte preferred to grieve the loss of her husband from abroad, from the comfort of cruise ships and European resorts, so she, like most of the public, was in the dark, thankfully. We both knew that telling her we were engaged wouldn’t be a pleasant conversation.

“You two have been in there for hours,” Christine said, interrupting my unpleasant thoughts about Charlotte and glancing at Dylan, who was already at the table with an apple and a beer.

“Yes, well, Father left things in quite the state.” Dylan grimaced, taking another swig. Christine came over, swiped the bottle from his hand, and poured the contents into a glass, giving him a scolding you-should-know-better look.

Dylan came close to rolling his eyes like a teenager before taking a second apple. “Now, don’t fill up. I’m making a cottage pie, and it’s nearly out of the oven.” Dylan looked chagrined, and I couldn’t help but laugh out loud, which earned me a stern look as he put the apple back in the bowl.

“Christine,” I said, gasping, never ceasing to be surprised when Dylan responded to her reprimands. “What’s your secret? If I told him to put down an apple, he’d…” But I didn’t finish my thought, because Dylan was so used to being in charge that if I did tell him what to eat, he’d probably try to take me over his knee or something, which would probably just end in us having sex in the kitchen. I could feel the blush creep into my cheeks.

Dylan laughed, and I looked over to see him smile knowingly. “Bastard,” I whispered.

Christine’s voice bellowed over mine. “Yes, well, my dear, it helps if you were once the one changing his nappies. Also, you should know this one listens to no one more than he does you.” She was gesturing between us, her hands already covered in flour as she delved into making some kind of dessert that looked like it was going to involve chocolate and pecans.

We ate our lunch sitting in that kitchen, homey in spite of its twenty-foot ceilings and enormous country table in the middle, and I thought about how here, inside Humboldt’s walls, working at that table in the library, behind closed doors, I was already Dylan’s duchess. And if Dylan had his way, I knew we’d be opening those doors.

I thought about what I’d told Daphne, that I wanted more time, and I thought about how in spite of Dylan’s nagging, he’d been so patient. He put down his fork with a thud and drank the dregs of his beer. Christine had left the kitchen, and it was just us.

“Remember when you flew Daphne over for Christmas?” I asked, just as he was pulling me from my seat at the table onto his lap so I was straddling him.

He wiped a crumb from the corner of my mouth and kissed where it had been. “You mean when I flew over that daft girl who somehow convinced you to take a bloody eternity to agree to announce our engagement?” He flashed a smile to convey that he didn’t truly mind, that he’d wait forever.

“So impatient, knighty,” I scolded and kissed him back. I rose so I was standing on my knees and reached for his lapels, pulling him closer. “You know, I’m going to marry you.” I kissed him on the lips. “Eventually.” Then I felt his palm wrapping around the base of my head, and another under my ass, pulling me up and against him.

“Impossible girl. Time to get you upstairs, don’t you think?” he asked, pulling his lips away from mine.

“Dylan,” I protested as he stood, and I wrapped my legs around him. He moved his mouth to my ear, biting it briefly and signaling to my body it was time to come to attention, as if it weren’t already there.

“Shhh, damsel.” His voice was a husky whisper. “No more sounds, understand? Mrs. Barnes doesn’t need to hear your sweet little moans when I taste you.”

“Sweet little moans? You’d think I was a mouse,” I prodded in my own soft whisper.

“Fine. Your depraved riotous moans.” He gripped my ass tighter, and gave it a firm smack, making me shriek and laugh into his shoulder, all while the blood was thumping through my veins. “Now, if you’re done correcting me, you saucy thing, I’d like to get to the business of showing you exactly how much I want you to wear my ring.”

I still loved it when he released his dominant bossy side, when he acted as though he were desperate to march me down the aisle. Because I was pretty sure that as much as he wanted to marry me, our bed was the destination that was most often on his mind.

Chapter 2

Five months.

Five sodding months.

Five months of watching her light up in the mornings when I woke her with my touch. Five months of twisting that bloody ring on her finger and wanting to replace it with something proper. Five months of pulling her into dark corners and keeping the press guessing. Five months of delighting in the way she went soft on me when she forgot she was supposed to be marching through her independence—in those moments she’d relax into me, melt under me, and make me fucking crazy for her.

The number ran through my mind as I drew circles across her warm naked back. I’d just given her the afternoon shag she needed—I needed—and now she slept, her petite frame draped over me like a gorgeous blanket, her caramel-colored hair tickling my arm, her wide brown eyes hidden behind her sleepy lashes. We lay there in our room at Humboldt, the one we’d recently refitted, and I fucking cursed those five months.

When she’d told me that she wanted time to “adjust to the idea”—I think those were her words—to think about how she was going to handle a life that would be “full of compromises,” I understood. Fuck, I wanted that for her too. There’d been a reason I’d wanted us a secret in the first place—I’d seen what being in a public relationship with me could be like. “Normal” it was not and “full of compromises” it definitely was. There’d b. . .