The Rake Read online

  Copyright © 2022 by L.J. Shen

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial use permitted by copyright law.

  Resemblance to actual persons and things living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Epigraph

  About This Book

  Playlist

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Stay connected

  Books by L.J. Shen

  Preview of Bad Cruz

  To my brother, who will never read this.

  I ran out of people to dedicate my books to, so here we are.

  rake, n.7 - A fashionable or stylish man of dissolute or promiscuous habits.

  For the sake of this story, I took creative liberty in how property and holdings are handled by the British Monarchy.

  It should be noted that Whitehall and Butchart are not current noble titles.

  “Some of the most beautiful things worth having in your life come wrapped in a crown of thorns.”

  —Shannon L. Alder

  Boston’s most infamous femme fatale meets her match in a dangerously mild Englishman who has vowed to never marry.

  Emmabelle Penrose has cruised through life never needing a man, a plan that has worked stunningly well until about five minutes ago, when she decided she must have a baby.

  Devon Whitehall is 6’2” of premium DNA, financial security, and British royal titles. Best of all, he fears the one thing she dreads the most: getting hitched.

  Emmabelle figures it’s a no-brainer when Devon offers his services—sperm and involvement in her future child’s life.

  What begins as an innocent, modern-family arrangement, quickly erodes into a web of lies, dark pasts, and unfurled secrets.

  Inside this chaos, Emmabelle and Devon are forced to face the awful truth—they are capable of love.

  Even worse, they might feel it toward each other.

  Trigger Warning: this story contains subject matters some may find triggering, including child abuse and grooming.

  This book is not meant to make you feel comfortable and fuzzy inside.

  Please take this into consideration before starting it.

  Empara Mi: “Alibi”

  Purity Ring: “Obedear”

  Rolling Stones: “Under My Thumb”

  Young Fathers: “Toy”

  Everybody Loves an Outlaw: “Red”

  I’d been betrothed shortly before I was conceived.

  My future written, sealed, and agreed upon before my mother had her first ultrasound appointment.

  Before I had a heart, a pulse, lungs, and a spine. Ideas, wishes, and preferences. When I was no more than an abstract idea.

  A future plan.

  A box to be ticked off.

  Her name was Louisa Butchart.

  Lou, really, to those who knew her.

  Though I would not be aware of the arrangement until I turned fourteen. Told right before the traditional pre-Christmas hunting trip the Whitehalls had with the Butcharts.

  There was nothing wrong with Louisa Butchart. Nothing that I could find, at any rate.

  She was lovely, well-mannered, of excellent pedigree.

  Nothing wrong with her at all, except for one thing—she wasn’t my choice.

  I suppose this was how it all started.

  How I became who I am today.

  A fun-loving, whiskey-drinking, fencing, skiing hedonist who answered to no one and tumbled into bed with everyone.

  All the numbers and variables were there to create the perfect equation.

  Great expectations.

  Multiplied by crushing demands.

  Morally divided by more money than I could ever burn.

  I’d been blessed with the right physique, right bank account, right smirk, and right amount of charm. With only one invisible thing missing—a soul.

  The thing about not having a soul was that I wasn’t even aware of it.

  It took someone special to show me what I’d been missing.

  Someone like Emmabelle Penrose.

  She cut me open and tar spilled out.

  Sticky, dark, and never-ending.

  This is the true royal rake’s secret.

  My blood never ran blue.

  It was like my heart, pure black.

  Fourteen Years Old.

  We rode at sunset.

  The hounds led the way. My father and his comrade, Byron Butchart Sr., followed closely. Their horses cantered in perfect rhythm. Byron Jr., Benedict, and I trailed behind.

  They gave the young lads the mares. They were unruly and harder to break. Taming young, spirited females was an exercise men of my class had been given from a young age. After all, we were born into a life that required a well-trained wife, pudgy babies, croquet, and alluring mistresses.

  Chin and heels down, back ramrod straight, I was the picture of a royal equestrian. Not that it helped me avoid being thrown into the sweat box, curling into myself like a snail.

  Papa loved throwing me in there for the sake of watching me squirm, no matter how hard, how diligently, how desperately I tried to please him.

  The sweat box, also known as the isolation bin, was a seventeenth-century dumbwaiter. It had a coffin-like shape and offered the same experience. Since I was notoriously claustrophobic, this was my father’s go-to punishment whenever I misbehaved.

  Misbehaving, however, wasn’t something I did often, or even at all. That was the sad part. I wanted badly to be accepted. I was a straight A student and a gifted fencer. I’d even made it to the England Youth Championship in sabre, but was still thrown into the dumbwaiter when I lost to George Stanfield.

  Perhaps my father always knew what I tried to keep concealed from view.

  On the outside, I was perfect.

  On the inside, however, I was rotten to the bone.

  At fourteen, I’d already slept with two of the servants’ daughters, managed to ride my father’s favorite horse to its untimely death, and flirted with cocaine and Special K (not the cereal).

  Now, we were going foxhunting.

  I quite hated foxhunting. And by
quite, I meant a bloody lot. I detested it as a sport, a concept, and a hobby. I drew no pleasure from killing helpless animals.

  Father said blood sport was a great English tradition, much like cheese rolling and Morris dancing. Personally, I thought some traditions did not, in fact, age as well as others. Burning heretics at the stake was one example, foxhunting another.

  Noteworthy to distinguish foxhunting was—or shall I say is—illegal in the United Kingdom. But men of power, I’d come to learn, had a complex and oftentimes tempestuous relationship with the law. They enforced and determined it, yet disregarded it almost completely. My father and Byron Sr. enjoyed foxhunting all the more because it was forbidden to the lower classes. It gave the sport an added shine. An eternal reminder that they were born different. Better.

  We were heading into the woods, passing the cobbled path to the grand iron-wrought gate of Whitehall Court Castle, my family’s estate in Kent. My stomach churned as I thought about what I was about to do. Kill innocent animals to mollify my father.

  The soft tapping of Mary Janes clunked behind us, hitting the pebbles.

  “Devvie, wait!”

  The voice was breathless, needy.

  I leaned back on Duchess, pushing my feet forward, pulling at the reins. The mare gaited back. Louisa appeared at my side, clutching something wrapped haphazardly. She was in her pink pajamas. Her teeth were covered in colorful, horrendous braces.

  “I got you thomthing.” She slapped away pieces of the brown hair sticking to her forehead. Lou was two years my junior. I was at the unfortunate stage of adolescence where I found anything, including sharp objects and certain fruits, sexually appealing. But Lou was still a child. Loose-jointed and pocket-sized. Her eyes were big and inquisitive, drinking in the world in gulps. She was not exactly a looker, with her average features and boyish frame. And her braces gave her a speech impediment she was self-conscious about.

  “Lou,” I drawled, quirking a brow. “Your mum’s going to have a fit if she finds you snuck out.”

  “Don’t care.” She rose on her toes, handing me something wrapped in one of her sensible cardigan sweaters. I tossed her jumper, delighted to find my father’s engraved flask inside, heavy with bourbon.

  “I know you dislike foxhunting, so I brought you thomthing to … how does Daddy say it? Thake the edge off.”

  The others moved along, entering the thick, mossy woods bracketing Whitehall Court Castle, either unaware or disinterested in my absence.

  “You little nutter.” I took a swig from the flask, feeling the sharp burn of the liquid rolling down my throat. “How’d you get your hands on this?”

  Lou beamed with pride, cupping her mouth to cover all the metal. “I snuck into your papa’s study. No one ever notices me, so I can get away with loads of stuff!” The despondence in her voice made me sad for her. Lou dreamed of going to Australia and becoming a wildlife rescuer, surrounded by kangaroos and koalas. I hoped for her sake that she would. Wild animals, no matter how aggressive, were still superior to humans.

  “I notice you.”

  “Do you really?” Her eyes grew bigger, browner.

  “Cross my heart.” I scratched behind Duchess’ ear. Females, I’d come to realize, were ridiculously easy to please. “You’ll never get rid of me.”

  “I don’t want to be rid of you!” she said hotly. “I’ll do anything for you.”

  “Oh, anything, now?” I chuckled. Lou and I had the relationship of an older brother and younger sister. She did things to try and win my affection, and I, in return, assured her she was nice and caring.

  She nodded eagerly. “I’ll always have your back.”

  “Right then.” I was ready to move along.

  “Do you think you’ll ever tell your parents you’re vegetarian?” she blurted out. How did she know this?

  “I noticed you shy away from meat and even fish when we dine.” She buried one of her Mary Janes in the pebbles, digging her toes in, looking down in embarrassment.

  “No.” I shook my head, my tone cold. “There are some things my parents don’t need to know.”

  And then, because we had nothing more to say, and maybe because I was afraid Papa would throw me in the dumbwaiter if he saw me loitering behind, I said, “Well, cheers for the drink.”

  I raised the flask in salute, squeezed Duchess’ belly with my riding boots, and joined the others.

  “Oh, look, if it isn’t Posh Spice.” Benedict, Lou’s middle brother, poked a finger to loosen the strap of his helmet. “What was the holdback?”

  “Lou gave us a good luck charm, Baby Spice.” I tipped the flask in his direction. Unlike Louisa, who was a bit eager but overall agreeable, her brothers—for lack of better description—were complete and utter twats. Super-sized bullies who liked to pinch the maids on the arse and make an unnecessary mess just to watch others tidy after them.

  “Bloody hell,” Byron snorted. “She’s pathetic.”

  “You mean considerate. Spending time with my father requires some level of intoxication,” I drawled sarcastically.

  “It’s not about that. She’s obsessed with your sorry arse,” Benedict supplied.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I growled.

  “Don’t be blind,” Byron barked at me.

  “Eh. She’ll get over it. They all do.” I took another swig, grateful that my father and Byron Sr. were so engrossed in discussing parliament-related matters, they did not see fit to turn their heads and check on us.

  “I hope she doesn’t,” Benedict sneered. “If she is destined to marry your shite for brains, she should at the very least enjoy it.”

  “Did you say marry?” I lowered the flask. He might as well have said bury. “No offense to your sister, but if she is awaiting a proposal, she better get comfortable because one is not coming.”

  Byron and Benedict exchanged looks, grinning conspiratorially. They had the same coloring as Louisa. Fair as the fresh-fallen snow. Only they looked like I drew them with my left hand.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know.” Byron cocked his head, a cruel smile spreading across his face. I never was fond of him. But I especially wasn’t fond of him at that moment.

  “Know what?” I gritted out, loathing that I had to play along to find out what they were talking about.

  “You and Lou are going to tie the knot. It’s all settled. There’s even a ring.”

  I laughed metallically, kicking Duchess’ right side to make her bump into Benedict’s mare, throwing him off balance. What a load of rubbish. As I continued laughing, I noticed their smiles had vanished. They were no longer looking at me with playful mischief.

  “You’re taking the piss.” My smile dropped. My throat felt like it was full of sand.

  “No,” Byron said, flat out.

  “Ask your father,” Benedict challenged. “It’s been decided in our family for years. You’re the eldest son of the Marquess of Fitzgrovia. Louisa is the daughter of the Duke of Salisbury. A lady. You will one day become a marquess yourself, and our parents want the royal blood to stay within the family. Keep the estates intact. Marrying a commoner would weaken the chain.”

  The Whitehalls were one of the last families in peerage people still gave half a fuck about. My great, great, great grandmother, Wilhelmina Whitehall, was the daughter of a king.

  “I don’t want to marry anyone,” I said through gritted teeth. Duchess began picking up speed, entering the woods.

  “Well, ob-vi-ously,” Benedict made an unflattering d’uh face. “You’re fourteen. All you want is to play videogames and fondle your meat to Christie Brinkley posters. Nonetheless, you’re marrying our sister. Too much business between our fathers to let this opportunity go to waste.”

  “And don’t forget the estates they’ll both get to keep,” Byron added helpfully, giving his mare a vicious kick to make her go faster. “I’ll say, good luck giving her children. She looks like Ridley Scott’s Alien.”

  “Children …?” The only thing p
reventing me from vomiting up my guts was the fact I did not want to waste the perfectly good brandy currently sloshing in my stomach.

  “Lou says she wants five when she grows up,” Byron cackled, enjoying himself. “I reckon she’s going to keep you busy in the sack, mate.”

  “Not to mention exhausted,” Benedict leered.

  “Over my dead body.”

  My throat grew tight, my hands clammy. I felt like I was the butt of a terrible joke. Of course, I couldn’t talk to my father about it. I couldn’t stand up to him. Not when I knew I was always one wrong word away from the dumbwaiter.

  All I could do was shoot helpless animals and be exactly who he wanted me to be.

  His little well-oiled machine. Ready to kill, fuck, or marry as commanded.

  Later that night, Byron, Benedict, and I sat in front of one of the dead foxes in the barn. The Pavlovian scent of death swathed around the room. My father and Byron Sr. had taken all their prized dead foxes to the taxidermist and left one for us to dispose.

  “Burn it, play with it, leave it for the rats to eat for all I care,” my father had spat before turning his back on the corpse.

  It was a female. Small, malnourished, and dull-furred.

  She had cubs. I could tell by the teats poking through her belly fur. I thought about them. How they were all alone, hungry and stranded in the dark, vast woods. I thought about how I shot her when Papa ordered me to. How I nailed a bullet straight between her eyes. How she stared at me with a mixture of amazement and terror.

  And how I looked away because it had been Papa I wanted to shoot.

  Benedict, Byron, and I were passing a bottle of champers back and forth, discussing the evening’s events, with Frankenfox staring at me accusingly from across the barn. Benedict also obtained rolled-up cigarettes from one of the servants. We puffed on them heartily.

  “Come on, mate, marrying our sister isn’t the end of the world.” Byron offered a Bond-villain laugh as he stood over the fox, one of his boots pressed against her back.

  “She’s a child,” I spat. Strewn on a wooden stool, I felt like my bones were a century old.