The Rake Page 2

  “She’s not going to be a child forever.” Benedict poked the edge of his boot into the fox’s gut.

  “To me, she will be.”

  “She’ll make you even richer,” Byron added.

  “No money can buy my freedom.”

  “None of us were born free!” Benedict thundered, stomping. “What’s the incentive to stay alive, if not to gain more power?”

  “I don’t know what the meaning of life is, but I’m sure as fuck not going to take pointers from a pudgy rich kid who needs to pay the maids to cop a feel,” I growled, flashing my teeth. “I’ll choose my own bride, and it won’t be your sister.”

  Frankly, I did not want to marry at all. For one thing, I was certain I’d be a terrible husband. Lazy, unfaithful, and in all probability obtuse. But I wanted to keep my options open. What if I did run into Christie Brinkley? I would marry the shite out of her if it meant getting into her knickers.

  Byron and Benedict exchanged puzzled looks. I knew they had no loyalty to their younger sister. She was, after all, a girl. And girls were not as distinguished, not as important as boys in peerage society. They couldn’t continue the family’s name and, therefore, were treated as no more than a decoration you had to remember to include in Christmas card photos.

  It was the same with my younger sister, Cecilia. My father largely ignored her existence. I always doted on her after he sent her to her room or tucked her away for being too round or too “dull” to parade around high society. I’d snuck cookies to her, told her bedtime stories, and took her to the woods, where we played.

  “Get off your bloody high horse, Whitehall. You’re not too good for our sister,” Byron moaned.

  “That may well be, but I’m not going to sleep with her.”

  “Why?” Byron demanded. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Nothing. Everything.” I poked hay around with the tip of my boot. I was fairly drunk by now.

  “Would you rather kiss this fox’s mouth or Lou’s?” Benedict pressed, his eyes wandering around the barn, behind my shoulder, and beyond.

  I gave him a wry look. “I’d rather kiss neither, you class-A minger.”

  “Well, you must choose one.”

  “Must I?” I hiccupped, picking up a stray horseshoe and throwing it at him. I missed by about a mile. “Why the bloody hell is that?”

  “Because,” Byron uttered slowly, “if you kiss the fox, I’ll tell my dad that you’re gay. That’d fix everything up. You’d be off the hook.”

  “Gay,” I repeated numbly. “I could be gay.”

  Not technically, no. I loved women too much. In every shape, form, color, and hairstyle.

  Byron laughed. “You sure are pretty enough.”

  “That’s a stereotype,” I said and immediately regretted it. I was in no state to explain the word stereotype to these two morons.

  “Bleeding heart liberal,” Byron cackled, elbowing his brother.

  “Maybe he is gay,” Benedict mused.

  “Nah.” Byron shook his head. “He’s already shagged a couple birds I know.”

  “Well? Are you going to do it or not?” Benedict demanded.

  I considered the proposal. Benedict and Byron were known for this kind of outrageous ploy. They spun lies around people, and others just bought it. I knew because I went to the same school with them. What was one silly kiss on a dead fox’s mouth in the grand scheme of things?

  This was my only hope. If I butted heads with my father, one of us would die. As it stood right now, that someone was going to be me.

  “Fine.” I pushed myself up from the stool, zigzagging my way to Frankenfox.

  I bent down and pressed my lips to the fox’s mouth. It was gummy and cold and smelled like used dental floss. Bile coated my throat.

  “Mate, oh gawd. He is actually doing this.” Benedict snorted behind my back.

  “Why don’t I have a camera?” Byron moaned. He was on the floor now, clutching his stomach he was laughing so hard.

  I pulled back. My ears were ringing. My vision turned milky. I saw everything through a yellow haze. Someone behind me screamed. I swiveled back quickly, falling to my knees. Lou was there. At the open double doors of the barn, still in her pink pajamas. Her hand pressed against her mouth as she trembled like a leaf.

  “You … you … you … perv!” she mewed.

  “Lou,” I grunted. “I’m sorry.”

  And I was, but not for not wanting to marry her. Only for how she found out about it.

  Benedict and Byron were rolling on the hay, punching each other, laughing, and laughing, and laughing.

  They’d set me up. They knew she was there, by the door, watching all along. I was never going to get out of this arrangement.

  Lou whirled around and bolted. Her tears, like tiny diamonds, flew behind her shoulders.

  The scream that tore from her mouth was feral. Like the one Frankenfox had made before I killed her.

  I keeled over and threw up, collapsing into the remains of my dinner.

  Darkness spun around me.

  And I, in return, succumbed to it.

  My father handed me a whiskey the morning after. We were in his big oak study with a golden bar trolley and burgundy drapes. One of the servants had hauled me into his office minutes earlier. No explanation was needed. He’d simply dragged me across the carpets and disposed of me at Papa’s feet.

  “Here. For your hangover.”

  Papa motioned for the tan leather recliner in front of his desk. I sat, accepting the drink.

  “You’re giving me whiskey?” I sniffed it, my lips curling in distaste.

  “Hair of the dog.” He sprawled in his executive chair, smoothing his moustache with his fingers. “Taking the hair of the dog that bit you eases up the withdrawal.”

  I took a swig of the poison, wincing as it scorched its way to my gut. I’d had a sleepless night on the hay in the barn. I kept waking up in a cold sweat, dreaming about tiny Louisa-like babies running after me. The taste of the dead fox’s kiss didn’t exactly soften the blow either.

  The scent of black tea and fresh scones wafted through the hallways of Whitehall Court Castle. Breakfast wasn’t quite over. My stomach roiled, reminding me that appetite was a luxury for men who weren’t newly and unwittingly betrothed.

  I drained my whiskey. “You wanted to see me?”

  “I never want to see you. Unfortunately, it is a necessity that comes with siring you.” Papa did not mince words. “Something quite disturbing was brought to my attention this morning. Lady Louisa told her parents what happened yesterday, and her father relayed to me the situation.” My father—tall, lean, and striking with sandy-blond hair and a neatly pressed suit—drawled with accusation in his voice, inviting me to explain myself.

  We both knew he disliked me on a personal level. That he would sire new successors, if it wasn’t for the fact that I remained the eldest and therefore the heir to his title. I was too graceful, too much of a bookworm, too much like my mum. I’d allowed other boys to dominate me, to make me defile an animal.

  “I don’t want to marry her.”

  I expected a slap or a thrashing. Neither would come as a surprise. But what I got was a light chuckle and a shake of his head.

  “I understand,” he said.

  “Do I not have to?” I perked up.

  “Oh, you will marry the girl. Your wishes have no significance. Neither do your thoughts, for that matter. Marriages of love are for the great unwashed masses. People born to follow society’s thankless rules. You shall not desire your wife, Devon. Her purpose is to serve you, sire children, and look lovely. Word to the wise—keep your desire for those of whom you can dispose. It’s smarter and cleaner. Commoner rules do not apply to the upper class.”

  The need to violently smash his head against the wall was so urgent, my fingers twitched in my lap. When I remained silent for several minutes, he rolled his eyes, looking skyward, like I was the one being unreasonable.

  “You think I wanted to marry your mother?”

  “What’s wrong with Mum?” She was pretty and reasonably nice.

  “What’s not?” He took a cigar out of a box and lit it up. “If she ran as much as her mouth, she’d be in good shape. She was a package deal, though. She had the money. I had the title. We made it work.”

  I stared into the bottom of my empty whiskey glass. That sounded like a tagline for the most depressing romantic comedy in the world. “We don’t need more money, and I’ll already have a title.”

  “It’s not just the money, you eejit.” He slammed his palm against his desk between us, roaring, “All that stands between us and the commoners that serve us is pedigree and power!”

  “Power corrupts,” I said curtly.

  “The world is corrupt.” His lip curled in disgust. I knew bloody well I was close to being thrown into the dumbwaiter. “I’m trying to explain to you in simple English that the matter of your nuptials to Miss Butchart is not up for debate. At any rate, it is hardly going to happen tomorrow.”

  “No. Not tomorrow and not at all,” I heard myself say. “I won’t marry her. Mum won’t stand for it.”

  “Your mother has no say in things.”

  His azure eyes darkened into a marbled mirror. I could see myself in their reflection. I looked small and sunken. Not myself. Not the boy who rode horses with the wind dancing in his face. Who pushed his hand under a servant girl’s dress and made her giggle breathlessly. The boy with the explosive speed and dazzling footwork who made some of Europe’s best fencers weep. That boy could pierce his father’s black heart with a pointy sword and eat his heart while it was still beating. This boy could not.

  “You’ll marry her, and you will give me a male grandchild, preferably one superior to yourself.” My father finished his cigar, stubbing it in a nearby ashtray. “This matter is settled. Now go apologize to Louisa. You will marry her after you finish Oxford University—and not a moment later, or you will lose your entire inheritance, your family name, and the relatives who, for a reason unbeknownst to me, still tolerate you. Because make no mistake, Devon—when I tell your mother she is to disown you, she won’t think twice before turning her back on her child. Am I understood?”

  My cunningness overtook me just then, as it had the tendency to do, washing over my skin like acid. Making me turn inside out and become someone else. There was no point fighting him. I had no leverage. I could get thrashed, locked, mocked, and tortured … or I could play my cards right.

  Do what he and Mr. Butchart did so often. Play the system.

  “Yes, sir.”

  My father narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “I’m telling you to marry Louisa.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And apologize to her now.”

  “Certainly, sir.” I bowed my head deeper, a ghost of a smile hovering over my lips.

  “And kiss her. Show her you like her. No tongue or funny business. Just enough to prove you are true to your word.”

  Bile scorched its way up my throat. “I’ll kiss her.”

  Astonishingly, he looked even less pleased, the tip of his upper lip twisting as he snarled. “What made you change your mind?”

  My father was both mean and an idiot, a horrid combination. He had more temper than brains, which led him to make many business mistakes. At home, he reigned with an iron fist that, more often than not, landed on my face. The business mistakes were easier to deal with—my mother had taken over the books without his knowledge, and he was nearly always too drunk to realize. As for my abuse … she knew bloody well that if she tried to protect me, he’d take the belt to her too.

  “Suppose you’re right.” I leaned back in my seat, crossing my legs casually. “What difference does it make who I marry, as long as I can sleep my way into the record books of history?”

  He chuckled, the darkness in his eyes melting. This was more his speed. Having a heathen sinner of a son with a deficit of scruples and even fewer positive traits.

  “Shagged anyone yet?”

  “Yes, sir. At thirteen.”

  He brushed his thumb under his chin. “I first slept with a woman at twelve.”

  “Brilliant,” I said. Though the idea of my father pounding into a woman from behind at twelve made me want to curl onto a therapist’s sofa and not leave for a decade.

  “Well then.” He slapped his thigh. “Onward and upward, young lad. English aristocracy does not come cheap. One must preserve it in order to maintain it.”

  “Then I shall do my part, Papa.” I stood up, shooting him a sly smirk.

  That was the day I truly became a rake.

  The day I turned into the crafty, soulless man I now saw when I looked in the mirror.

  The day I indeed apologized to Louisa, even kissed her on the cheek, and told her not to worry. That I had been drunk, that it had been a mistake. That we would most definitely get married and that it would be a beautiful event. With flower girls and archbishops and a cake taller than a skyscraper.

  I played my cards right for the next decade.

  Sent her birthday presents, showered her with cards, and met her often during summer breaks. I tucked flowers in her hair and told her all the other girls I’d shagged were meaningless. I let her wait, and pine, and crochet a future for both of us in her head.

  I even convinced my parents to fund my Harvard law degree across the pond and postpone the marriage for a couple years, explaining that I would be back as soon as I graduated to take Louisa as my wife.

  But the truth was, the day I completed secondary education and was shipped to Boston was the last time I set foot on British soil.

  The last time my father saw me.

  It was the perfect betrayal, really.

  I used his wealth and connections until I didn’t need them anymore.

  An advanced law degree from an Ivy League school was sufficient capital to bag a 400k a year partnership at one of the biggest law firms in Boston. By my third year, I tripled that amount including bonuses.

  And now? Now I was a self-made millionaire.

  My life was mine. To lead, to rule, and to cock up.

  And the only dumbwaiter I was stuck in was deep in my head.

  The voices from my past still echoed inside it, reminding me that love was nothing but a middle-class affliction.

  Present Day.

  “Uterine malformation,” I repeated numbly, staring back at Doctor Bjorn.

  I felt ridiculous. In my tight red leather pencil skirt and cropped white shirt, one leg flung over the other, my high-heeled Prada sandals dangling from my toes. Everything about me screamed woman. Everything other than the fact that, apparently, I couldn’t have children.

  “That’s what the ultrasound indicated.” My OB-GYN gave me a sympathetic look, somewhere between a flinch and a grimace. “We ordered the MRI to confirm the diagnosis.”

  It was peculiar that the thing I thought about in that moment wasn’t the implication of my condition, but rather how profoundly and oddly hairy Doctor Bjorn was.

  Like a Teacup Pomeranian, though not half as cute, he appeared to be in his early sixties, salt and pepper hair covering most of him. From his bushy eyebrows and wild mane to the fluffy tufts on his fingers. His chest hair curled out of his green scrubs, like he was hiding a chia pet.

  “Explain to me what it means again. Uterine malformation.” I cupped my knee, sending him a lip-glossed smile.

  He shifted in his seat, clearing his throat.

  “Well, your diagnosis is uterine septum, the most common form of uterine malformation. This is actually good news. We’re familiar with it and can treat it in various ways. Your uterus is partially divided by a muscle wall, which puts you at a risk of infertility, repeated miscarriages, and premature birth. You can see it right here.”

  He pointed at the ultrasound photo between us. I wasn’t in the mood to make direct eye contact with my failure of a uterus, but I looked anyway.

  “Infertility?” I wasn’t in the habit of parroting people’s words, but … what the shit? Infertility! I was barely thirty. I had at least five more years to make gorgeous, memorable mistakes with random men before I needed to think about having babies.

  “Correct.” Doctor Bjorn nodded, still mesmerized by my lack of emotion. Didn’t he know I had none? “Paired with your PCOS, it could be an issue. I am happy to discuss the next steps with you—”

  “Wait.” I raised a hand, waving my red-tipped French manicure back and forth. “Go back to that abbreviation. PC-what?”

  “PCOS. Polycystic ovary syndrome. It says in your file that you were diagnosed at fifteen.”

  Right. Things were a bit hazy when I got to the hospital that time.

  “I’m guessing it’s not good either,” I deadpanned.

  He swiped a thumb on his phone—to me it was a low point in my life, but to him it was just another Wednesday. “It could cause more infertility issues.”

  Great. My womb gave Monica from Friends a run for her money. I wanted to pick a fight. I turned my wrath toward Doctor Bjorn.

  “What does it even mean?” I huffed. “Isn’t uterine malformation an issue that develops over the course of a pregnancy?”

  With another apologetic smile, Doctor Bjorn turned to the screen in front of him and frowned, his bushy eyebrows high-fiving one another. He clicked his mouse to scroll through my medical history. Stupid mouse with stupid-sounding clicks.

  “It does say here that you had a spontaneous abortion at the age of fifteen.”

  A spontaneous abortion.

  Like I decided to go to coffee with a friend.

  Doctor Bjorn looked so embarrassed that I was surprised he didn’t dig a hole in the carpet and disappear to the bottom floor. His eyes asked me if it was true. His mouth did not. He knew the answer.

  “Oops.” I smiled grimly. “That’s right. Must’ve forgotten. It was a busy year.”

  Doctor Bjorn stroked his furry arm. “Look, I know this is overwhelming—”

  I let out a throaty laugh. “Please, doc. Spare me the we’re-here-for-you leaflet speech and let’s get down to business. What are my options?”