A Duke Worth Falling For by Sarah MacLean

11

The show was a triumph.

The Great Court of the British Museum was awash in warm light, giving the whole space an autumnal feel that Lilah would never have expected from somewhere known for soaring white walls and a roof designed to reveal firmament and nothing else.

And her photos were perfect.

The decorators had followed her careful instructions, hanging the ten enormous prints around the central staircase of the Court, the curves of the room obscuring them until attendees made a full turn of the space. Each one highlighted the work of one of the sustainable farms she’d visited, capturing the people who had devoted themselves to ensuring their land would survive for generations while prioritizing delicate ecosystems.

Seeing them together, Lilah realized why she loved this project—not only because she’d hoped it would return her to the world from which she’d been summarily booted, but because she recognized herself in these people. Passionate. Proud. Purposeful.

And now, she recognized Max in them.

No.

No thinking about Max. He’d made it clear that he had no interest in extending their arrangement beyond the Weston estate. Beyond the nine days they’d promised each other.

Of course, Lilah hadn’t given him nine days.

She hadn’t been able to, not once she’d realized how much she’d fallen for him in such a short time. Not once she’d realized that he hadn’t fallen for her.

We go to war together, he’d promised her that day on the tower.

And yet here she was, in full armor, ready for battle. Alone.

Her chest tightened at the thought, enough for her to grab a glass of Prosecco from a passing tray and square her shoulders, willing her heartbeat steady as she entered the room.

She wore a sleek black Paul Smith tux with a cigarette pant that she’d had for years—a nod to sustainability, with the added bonus of it being a comfortable old friend. The deep plunge of the satin lapels revealed a long, narrow wedge of skin. Her hair was wild and loose, a dark, smoky eye finishing the look.

The armor looked good. It had to.

It was her against the world.

Inside, she recognized a handful of people. Some, she’d met and photographed during her travels: a Peruvian economist who had perfected small-batch cacao farming that honored a protected biosphere; a Danish chef who’d made a name bringing foraged food into haute cuisine; the grape growers from California.

Some, she’d encountered before she’d been ruined: an Academy Award winner with a passion for environmental causes; several CEOs committed to sustainability; a world-renowned Emirati architect specializing in revolutionary green skyscrapers.

The place was a who’s who of activist glitterati.

And Lilah, without her Nikon for protection.

Without anyone for protection.

When was the last time she’d walked into a showing of her work without a battalion of people—people who disappeared the moment she’d been blacklisted? People who lacked loyalty and only attached themselves to her when there was something valuable for her to give them.

She didn’t need them.

And if she kept her head high, perhaps she’d forget that the only person she wanted wasn’t there.

“Lilah!”

She turned to see Aarti Rao coming toward her with a bright smile before pulling her in close for a warm embrace.

“Friend!” Lilah said, unable to contain her relief. “I cannot tell you how happy I am to see your face!” She lowered her voice. “Do people like them?”

Aarti pulled back sharply. “You are kidding. They are magnificent. Look at them all, craning their necks to get a better view. No one cares about the rest of this old stuff tonight, darling.” Lilah laughed as her friend waved a hand in the direction of the galleries beyond. “I’ve told everyone who will listen that they absolutely must come and tell you just how perfect they are.” She added, softly, “We are very proud to benefit from the return of Lilah Rose.”

For the first time that evening, Lilah’s smile was authentic. “I’m so happy you’re happy with them.”

“We’re thrilled. And personally, I am planning on using mine as my business card!”

Lilah looked up to the picture of Aarti in the lab on her family’s farm in Andhra Pradesh, at the center of nearly a thousand saplings at different stages of growth. The biochemist’s arms were crossed, her pride in her achievements clear as day on her lovely, laughing face. “The best day,” Lilah recalled. “I want to come back.”

“Anytime,” her friend said as they began to circle the room. “But I think that after tonight, you’re going to be a bit busy.”

Lilah’s heart pounded at the prediction—everything she’d wanted.

Not everything.

She pushed the thought away. It was not for tonight.

She and Aarti were immediately swallowed by the crowd. The subjects of Lilah’s portraits were all in attendance, deep in conversation with stars and businesspeople alike, finding common ground—which was precisely the point of the evening.

Lilah was thrilled.

Aarti’s prediction came true as they circled the space; every few feet, they were waylaid by someone coming to meet Lilah—celebrities, fellow artists, the editors-in-chief of two magazines, wealthy attendees looking to discuss commissioned work. She took every introduction in stride, slowly falling back into the habit of having these conversations about her art—about what might come next.

For eighteen months she had planned for this night—knowing it would be important, because it would mark her return to the world from which she’d been exiled. And she could not have asked for a better reception. Suddenly, everything felt possible.

Everything but one thing, which she refused to think on.

One thing that she knew, later that night, back at the hotel, would make her ache.

“You’ve caught all of us in these beautiful moments,” Aarti said as another enormous portrait came into view. Gianna Simeti—an elderly Sicilian woman seated high on an enormous pile of aging cheese wheels on the farm her family had owned since she was a young girl—stared down the lens of Lilah’s camera, a lifetime of work in the lines of her face, and a familiar pride in her eyes.

“It’s honesty,” Lilah said. “You’re all in love.”

“That’s true,” Aarti replied, a gleam of something Lilah didn’t quite understand in her eyes. “I particularly like the next one.”

Lilah followed her gaze to the next photo, the outer edge just in view.

Her brows knit together and a wash of uncertainty flooded her. It wasn’t her photo. She shook her head, moving more quickly. “I didn’t—”

She stopped short as the image appeared.

It was her shot.

It was the picture of Max she’d taken at the top of the folly at Salterton Abbey, the estate laid out behind him, white pops of sheep and bales of hay and the fields of barley in the distance, turned gold in the late afternoon sun—the same as the gold in his eyes.

She caught her breath, her chest tightening as she drank in the image of him, a whirlwind of emotions coming with the memory of what he’d said immediately after she’d taken it.

You’re perfect.

She could hear the words in his low, delicious voice, carrying on the wind, whipping around them on the parapet, just before she’d put her camera away and they’d made love.

It was a gorgeous shot, one that seamlessly integrated with all the others and still felt like it was ripping Lilah’s chest open with its honesty. Max had that same look in his eye as all the other farmers.

Pride. Passion. Purpose.

Except he wasn’t thinking about the farm in that moment; he was thinking about her.

He was proud of her.

She shook her head again, unable to look away. “How did you get it?”

“The Duke of Weston sent it over himself,” Aarti said. “Direct from Salterton Abbey. He said you’d taken a final picture, and he thought we might like it for the event. As he put up the seed money for Common Harvest, we were happy to . . . ”

Her friend’s words faded away as Lilah craned to see through the throngs of people. “Is he here?”

“The duke? I think so, as a matter of fact. Another late addition,” Aarti said. “It’s a coup for the organization, as he’s notoriously private, so people will be thrilled with the photo.”

“No, not the duke,” Lilah replied, the words barely there, caught in her throat as she saw him. “Max.”

He was beneath his photo, looking nothing like the man above, dressed in a navy peak lapel three-piece suit, the watch chain on the waistcoat thick and modern—reminding her that underneath all that perfect tailoring he knew how to get dirty.

This was a man who was asking to be mussed, and she was absolutely up for the challenge.

Lilah was already moving toward him. “Sorry, Aarti. I see—”

The man I love.

She pushed through the crowd, desperate to get to him.

And then he was there, catching her up in his embrace, and her arms were wrapping around his neck and he was lifting her against him, and she let him, not caring who saw. Caring only that he was here. “You came,” she said, like a prayer.

“I should have been here from the start,” he rumbled, low and secret. She reveled in the feel of him against her when he set her on her feet, and leaned down to say at her ear, “I want very much to kiss you, but I’m on my best behavior.”

She snapped her head around to meet his gaze. “That is a shame, as I would very much like to be kissed by someone not on his best behavior.”

“Mmm,” he growled, the breath of air at her neck sending a shiver of pleasure only enhanced by the large, warm hand sliding to the small of her back. “You really ought to provide a warning when turning out looking like you do, Lilah Rose.” He slid the tip of one finger just beneath the edge of her lapel, setting the skin beneath aflame as he teased, “I am glad I am here, as this kirtle does not look as though it has room for a blade.”

She grinned. “No battle necessary.”

He shook his head. “Instant victory.”

“It feels like victory now that you’re here.”

He lifted his hand to her cheek, rubbing his thumb across her skin, like he’d missed her. She closed her eyes at the touch. She had missed him. When she opened her eyes, he was there, watching her, and he said, low and purposeful, “I’ll always be here, Lilah. As long as you’ll have me.”

And she believed him.

“Do you forgive me for sending the photo? I know it wasn’t part of the set, but Salterton is sustainable, and I thought—”

“Shh.” She looked up at it—one of the best she’d ever taken. “As grand gestures go, it’s perfect.”

“You’re perfect,” he said, an echo of the words he’d spoken the moment after she’d taken that picture.

“I’m so happy you came,” she said, the success of the evening more rewarding now that he was there.

He pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, then another high on one cheek. “Your photographs—they’re incredible. Show them to me?”

Speeches had begun, so they toured the massive prints in relative privacy, hand-in-hand, Lilah quietly telling him about each of the farms she’d visited. He listened like the perfect date, riveted to the images and her stories.

Lilah, too, was riveted—to the way he looked at her work, admiration and pleasure in his gaze. Pride. In her.

And there, in that room that had returned her to the world, Lilah realized that the time with Max had done something more. It had returned her to herself.

When they were once again at his portrait, Max took his cue, and Lilah laughed as he tugged her across the room, barely avoiding a collision with a pretty blond server.

Tucking into a little alcove off the Court, he wrapped his arms around Lilah’s waist, stealing kisses down the column of her neck. She sighed in his embrace, wrapping her own arms around his neck. “I missed you.”

“Not like I’ve missed you,” he whispered at the place where her pulse pounded. “I can’t sleep. Mabel won’t even look at me. Simon says I’m naff at women.”

She giggled. “You’re not naff at me.”

“I was, though. I thought I would disappoint you.”

“How could you possibly think that?”

He hesitated, and for a split second—barely an instant—something flashed in his eyes. Lilah saw it, wishing she had her camera. Wishing she could study it. Identify it. But in that moment, she couldn’t name it beyond a keen sense that Max had more to say.

“Max?”

He shook his head. “This night, here, it’s yours. Everything else will keep.” He looked past her to the enormous room, a thousand people in revelry. “They love you.”

“No. They love what I do. They love what I can make people feel. What I can make them see. But they don’t love me. They don’t know me. I’m just the girl behind the camera.”

“I know you,” he said. Her heart began to pound as he tilted her chin up, meeting her gaze. “I love you.”

She closed her eyes, her breath tight in her chest. “Max—”

“Let me finish. Whatever tonight brings. Wherever it takes you. I want to be by your side.” He paused and then he said, “Not that you need me.”

Tears sprang at the words. I do need you.

He was still talking. “I know it’s fast. I know we’ve only known each other for a heartbeat. But I want to be with you. I want to love you. And I’ll wait for you as long as I need to.”

“Max,” she said. “I think you might, in fact, be naff at women.”

His brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

“It means I love you too, you numpty.”

He pulled her tight to him with a low, delicious laugh. “It’s not quite the delivery I was hoping for, but I probably deserve it.”

She grinned. “Definitely. You definitely deserve it.”

He slipped a finger into the opening of her jacket again. Slightly farther this time. Enough to send shivers of pleasure through her. “I am very open to doing penance,” he said, low and dark.

“I can think of a thing or two,” she replied, desperate for him.

“Quickly,” he growled, pulling her deeper into the alcove, out of the view of anyone who wasn’t expressly looking, and tipped her chin up to press a lingering kiss on her neck. “I promise I won’t muss you, belle of the ball.”

She threaded her fingers into his hair. “I can’t make the same promises.”

His laugh was swallowed by a low curse when he opened the single button of her jacket and spread the fabric, revealing her bare breasts. “So beautiful. You are going to kill me, Lilah Rose.”

He dipped his head and took one straining tip into his mouth, suckling in long, deep pulls that had her writhing against him. “Max.”

“Mmm. I’ll stop,” he said. “But it wouldn’t be fair if—”

“No,” she gasped, the words hushed and fervent. “It really wouldn’t.”

She gave a tiny cry when he took her other nipple into his mouth, his thigh coming between hers, pressing against the place she desperately wanted him. And for a moment Lilah writhed there, rocking herself against him, slow and firm, just enough to set herself on fire. Mistake.

She cursed her frustration when Max pulled away, buttoning her jacket as he rained kisses on her cheeks and temple, whispering a wicked curse there before saying, “That is going to ruin me for the rest of the evening.”

“Let’s go,” she said. “My hotel is a five-minute walk.”

He shook his head. “No. This is your night.”

“Exactly,” she said, no longer caring about anything but this moment, this man. The photos would be here tomorrow. Tomorrow, she’d hit the pavement. Find a new agent. Start fresh and aim for everything she wanted.

And she’d get it.

But tonight, she wanted Max. “This is my night, and I want to go.” She stroked over the front of his trousers, finding his cock firm within. “I’m happy to leave them wanting.”

“Poor bastards, I know how they’ll feel,” he quipped, letting her pull him out of the alcove, back toward the entrance to the hall.

They’d gotten no more than a few feet when a man stepped into their path.

“Hello, Miss Rose.”

At the words, delivered in a nasal, American drawl, Lilah skidded to a stop. Her spine straightened as her skin crawled, but she was already turning—there was no other option on the table. And there, tall and reed-thin in an ill-fitting suit that did nothing for his pasty skin, was Jeffrey Greenwood, multi-millionaire, media mogul, creep, and the man who had destroyed her career.