A Duke Worth Falling For Read online

  “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.

  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 cou
ldn’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 r
eveal 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.”