A Duke Worth Falling For by Sarah MacLean

12

Lilah hesitated, not knowing how to respond. Wanting to ignore him. Wanting to tell him off. Wanting to run.

But she wasn’t alone anymore.

Max was immediately by her side. “What’s wrong?”

“My studio is making a movie with Marcus Anderssen,” Greenwood said, pointing to the handsome young actor in the distance, known for his passion for environmental causes. The producer’s ice-blue eyes were calculating as he smiled without warmth. “Had I known you were taking these photos, I would have made a much larger contribution.” He chuckled, the sound humorless, and pulled a glass of wine off a passing tray. “Next time, I suppose.”

The threat was clear as day. Not really a threat. More of a promise. He had enough money to ruin Lilah again and again. For kicks.

Frustration flared, then unbridled anger when Greenwood turned to Max. Easy Max. Wonderful Max, who she didn’t want anywhere near this. He extended his hand and said, “Jeffrey Greenwood. Miss Rose took some pictures of me once.”

Max couldn’t have looked calmer as he clasped the offered hand. “I hear they never made the light of day.”

Greenwood’s gaze narrowed with understanding, and he tried to pull away. Max wasn’t having it.

“Lilah,” Max said. “Look at me.”

She did, and he read it all. Every truth. Every desire.

He threw the punch before she could stop him.

“Max! Shit!” Lilah said as Greenwood went down with a screech, blood exploding from his nose. “You can’t punch him!”

“Too fucking late,” he said, shaking out his fist. “We go to war together, remember?”

He was magnificent.

“Oh my God,” she repeated, delight and surprise and horror flooding her before concern for Max won out. She grabbed his hand and checked his knuckles. “You’ve hurt yourself!”

“Worth it.”

She couldn’t help the little hysterical laugh that came at the words. “Oh my God.” A bright light registered in her peripheral vision. An iPhone. “Too bad you didn’t start that Instagram account,” she said. “You’re about to go viral.”

“I don’t care,” he said, staring down at the bastard who’d ruined her career. “I hope they got every second of it.”

And then, from below, “You broke my nose, you asshole! I don’t know who you are, but I’m going to fucking sue you into the ground. And your girlfriend will go back to not being able to get a job anywhere. The local shelter won’t let her take pictures of strays. You don’t know who you fucked with.”

Max stiffened beneath her touch, turning to steel.

Panic flared. “Max. Don’t. It’s not worth it.”

“No,” he replied, his voice cold and unyielding as he lowered himself to a crouch, sending Greenwood scrambling back. Not fast enough. Max’s hand shot out and he grabbed a fistful of the disgusting man’s jacket, holding him still. “You don’t know who you’ve fucked with. How dare you think yourself worthy of her. How dare you think yourself worthy of looking at her. At her art.” The words were no longer cold; they dripped with disdain. “How dare you think yourself worthy of speaking her name.” He tightened his fist and pulled the other man closer. “If you come for her again, I will destroy you. Don’t doubt it.”

God, she loved this man. She loved how willing he was to protect her. How proud he was of her. How proud he was to stand with her.

“Max.” He released Greenwood the second she spoke his name, rising without difficulty. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands, and in that moment, in that beautiful pause, he looked nothing like her Max. He looked like pure, leashed power. Expensive and undeniable.

Don’t blink.

Several well-dressed security guards arrived as Greenwood scrambled to his feet. One reached to help him. “Get your hands off me. Worry about him.” He waved a hand in Max’s direction. “That . . . animal . . . assaulted me.”

Time to go. Lilah didn’t want to have to bail Max out of jail tonight. Was it even called jail here? “That’s our cue.”

Max was in no hurry. He returned his handkerchief to his pocket and straightened the cuff of his jacket. “We’re not going anywhere.”

What the hell was wrong with him? “We’re not?”

A crowd had collected, phones out, and Lilah could already hear the whispers. Her name. Greenwood’s.

Who’s the other one?

He’s mine, Lilah thought.

“Sir,” one of the security guards said to him, “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to come with me.”

“No, I don’t think I will.”

“Max,” she said quietly. “What are you doing?”

She could see the murderous look in his eyes. “What I am doing and what I want to do are very different things.”

Before she could reply, a shocked voice called out, “Weston! What on earth is going on here?” Lilah recognized the tall, stunningly beautiful Black woman in a claret vintage silk Cushnie sheath moving toward them at a clip—Dr. Georgiana Chesterton, the director of the museum.

It wasn’t exactly the way Lilah had envisioned meeting one of the greatest minds in art, but life came at you fast.

Dr. Chesterton’s attention was moving back and forth between Max and the security guard who had frozen in the act of forcibly removing him. “I don’t know what you think you are doing, but this is the Duke of Weston. Unhand him, please.”

What?

Lilah turned in shocked surprise to Max, expecting him to wink at her with one of those slow, easy smiles, a laughing denial.

But there was no smile.

In the hesitation, she saw the truth. “Max?”

More hesitation. More truth.

Only this time, Lilah didn’t want to see it.

“Once more, this is the Duke of Weston,” Dr. Chesterton said firmly, as though no one had heard her at first. “Weston of the Weston Galleries,” she underscored, pointing to the bronzed words installed above a nearby doorway.

The security guard immediately released Max, who rolled his shoulders back. “Cheers, mate.”

The woman gave Max a look that indicated more than passing acquaintance. “I confess I, too, am surprised, as in my experience, causing scenes is not the duke’s favorite pastime.”

He shrugged. “Times change.”

Dr. Chesterton sighed. “Do they have to change in my museum?” She waved to a security guard standing nearby, who looked absolutely flummoxed as to how to handle whatever was going on.

Lilah understood exactly how he felt.

“Jonathan, do you mind escorting Mr. Greenwood to my offices?”

“I don’t need escorting anywhere, I need the police. I’m calling my lawyer.” He pointed at Max and repeated his threat—one that continued to have no impact. “I’m going to sue you into the ground.”

Dr. Chesterton smiled, the portrait of expensive composure. “I simply thought you’d like an opportunity to collect yourself. Perhaps do a bit of research about who, exactly, the Duke of Weston is. Of course, you are welcome to suit yourself.” Finished, she turned her back on Greenwood, as though he was no one.

Lilah’s brows shot up in admiration. This woman was incredible.

“You’d better have had a good reason for causing a scene, Rupert.”

Rupert. Rupert Maximillian Arden.

“I swear I do,” he replied, still looking at Lilah.

Dr. Chesterton followed his attention. “I see,” she said, a bright smile blooming, as though everything about the evening was perfectly ordinary. “Ms. Rose, if I may? I am a great admirer of your work. I particularly like tonight’s photograph from Salterton Abbey.”

Lilah must have thanked her, but she couldn’t remember doing it. The next thing she knew, she was watching Dr. Georgiana Chesterton disappear into the crowd, all elegance and grace.

Georgiana. Rupert. “You were married to her.”

“Yes.” No hesitation.

“And you are . . . Weston.”

The pieces fell into place. The disdain for paparazzi. The men in the pub. The apartments in the estate house. Lottie. All his strange little hesitations whenever she invoked the duke’s name. Whenever she talked about the estate.

Max was the fucking duke.

The crowd around them was already dispersing, headed for drinks and dancing now that Greenwood had skulked off and there was nothing left to watch.

Apparently, Lilah’s breaking heart was not worthy of a vid.

“I was going to tell you,” he said, softly.

She met his eyes. “When?”

“A thousand times.”

“Well gosh, Max, I can see how you didn’t get around to it. What with all those days we had together.” He winced at the words. “I don’t understand. Was it a joke?”

“No. Christ. No.” His fingers grazed her arm, leaving fire in their wake, her body instantly remembering that he’d just stretched it tight like a string and it would like its promised orgasm, thank you very much.

Her body had not received the message that he was a lying bastard.

Nope. Not a bastard. A duke.

She pulled away from his touch. “Don’t.” She was hot with embarrassment. “You lied to me.”

“It wasn’t a lie . . . ”

“I thought you were a farmer.”

“I am a farmer.”

“That’s your play? I’m a farmer? I asked you if you owned a suit!” God, it was mortifying. Of course he owned a suit. He’d turned up in Gucci, for fuck’s sake, and not off the rack—bespoke as hell and looking like he’d stepped off the pages of Vogue.

She’d invited him to this gala, filled with her work, where she’d laid herself bare for him, desperate for his approval, thinking he’d be impressed with her. And he was a duke. She laughed. “And then, when I saw you here, I thought you were—”

She stopped, not wanting to reveal more of herself to him.

He pounced. “What? What did you think I was?”

I thought you were mine. I thought you were my partner. Us against the world.

I thought you were my future.

And it turned out, he was a duke. The most glamorous guest at this party filled with glamorous people. And Lilah? She was back to where she always was.

Alone.

I thought you were home.

“Lilah,” he said softly, stepping closer. “Please. I wanted to tell you.”

Don’t touch me. Don’t make it harder.

“And how did that end? You reveal you’re secretly a duke and I throw myself into your arms and we live happily ever after . . . cosplaying in your collection of medieval suits of armor?”

He blinked. “Is that what you think we would do?”

“I don’t know what your kind do.”

“Lilah,” he started, cautiously, but she could tell he was holding back a smile, and she considered giving the British Museum a second punch in the face that evening. “I don’t own suits of armor, but I will get some if that’s what you’d like.”

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t make this a joke. You lied to me.” She turned on her heel and made for the door. Max was at her elbow instantly. “I should have known. Look at you. Of course you’re a duke. With your perfect face and your perfect voice and your . . . watch.”

“What? What about my watch?”

She cut him a look. “I thought it was a gift! But it wasn’t, was it? It’s just a normal twenty-thousand-dollar watch that you wear on regular days in a sheep pasture because you’re a duke.” She stopped at the coat check, empty now that everyone was inside, enjoying themselves. She spun to face him. “Is this some kind of bullshit game you play with all the girls who wander onto your estate? See if you can get them to bang the hot farmer?”

“What? No!”

She turned her back on him, digging a small white rectangle from her pocket, and passed it to the young woman behind the counter who stared at them, wide-eyed. “Thank you,” she said, but what she meant was Please, God, hurry.

“Lilah—listen to me.”

“No. You listen to me,” she said, anger coming hot and furious. “I’ve spent the last eighteen months of my life trying to put myself back together, trying to work up the courage to trust this world again—this world that turned its back on me. And you—” Tears came, hot and unbidden, and she willed them back. “No. Not you. Max made me believe that it was possible. That I could trust again. That I could believe in the value of my work and in my own value. And that I could open myself up again, and triumph, and maybe . . . just maybe . . . also get the guy.”

“You got the guy,” he said. “I’m here.”

“I didn’t even know your name.”

“Who cares about my fucking name?”

Weston.

Rupert Maximillian Arden. Fourteenth Duke of Weston, Earl Salterton.

That strange, foreign, mystery of a name—the name used with reverence by the staff in the estate house, the one they’d casually tossed around while they’d joked with the boys in the pub, while they’d walked to the folly tower on the edge of the estate, where she’d realized how fast she was falling in love.

And all the while he’d been the duke.

He wasn’t Max.

God, she hadn’t even asked him his last name.

Her face went hot with refreshed embarrassment. The laughter in the pub—the way they’d all guffawed and winked along with her when she’d talked about how she didn’t trust rich and powerful men. And all that time, the joke hadn’t been on the duke in the castle on the hill.

It had been on her.

Because Max was the duke in the castle on the hill.

“Obviously you care about your name a whole lot, Max, or you would have introduced yourself.”

He rocked back on his heels, and she turned back to the woman in the coat check. “Thank you,” she said, collecting her coat, clutching it to her chest. Armor.

She met his eyes then, those beautiful, whiskey-colored eyes she’d imagined looking into for the rest of her life. Now, somehow, in the face of another man.

Max was gone.

And of all the things she’d lost, this one might be the one that broke her.

Her chest tightened, tears threatening.

She would not cry. Not tonight. Not here.

Which meant she had to leave.

“Goodbye, Max.”