The Rake (Boston Belles #4)(15)

Plus, Emmabelle was not the type to self-indulge in a full-fledged mental breakdown over a broken fingernail. As a lawyer, I’d always been anthropologically curious. What could make this tough-as-nails woman crumble?

I approached her, showered her with compliments and reassurance, and tried coaxing the information out of her. Belle refused to cooperate, like I knew she would. The girl was thornier than a rose garden—and just as beautiful.

I decided to loosen Belle’s tongue through the international, unofficial truth serum. Alcohol.

It was after the third cognac that she turned to look at me, her big turquoise eyes aglow, and said, “I have to get pregnant immediately if I want to have a biological child.”

“You’re thirty,” I said, still sipping the same Stinger I started the evening with. “You have plenty of time.”

“No.” Belle shook her head furiously, hiccupping. I suppose today was the day of hysterical females. I couldn’t seem to escape them. “I have a … medical condition. It needs to happen sooner rather than later. But I don’t have anyone to have it with. Or the financial stability.”

A practical, albeit sick idea began forming in my mind. A two-birds-one-stone situation.

“The father part is not a big deal.” Belle snuffled, about to take another sip of her drink. I pried it out of her hand and placed a tall glass of water there instead. If she had fertility issues, becoming an alcoholic was not a step in the right direction. “I could always get a sperm donor. But Madame Mayhem is just now starting to turn in a substantial profit after months of breaking even. I shouldn’t have bought out the other partners.”

Belle was the sole owner of a burlesque club downtown. From what her brother-in-law had explained to me, she was a shrewd businesswoman with killer instincts on the fast track to turn a seven-figure profit. Buying out the two other partners of the club put a dent in her bank account.

“Babies cost money,” I tsked regretfully, setting the groundwork for what I was about to propose.

“Oof.” She sipped on the water reluctantly, throwing her arms on the bar. “No wonder people usually stop at two.”

“Not to mention, you’ll need to go back to work at some point. You work nights, don’t you? Someone’ll have to take care of the babe. Either a costly babysitter or the father.”

I was going to hell, but at least I was going to head there in style.

“A father?” She looked at me incredulously, as though I suggested she leave it with a street gang. “I already said I’m going to use a sperm donor.”

Was she now?

Impregnating Emmabelle Penrose was the perfect solution for all my pressing problems.

I would not propose to her—no. Neither of us wanted a marriage, and I suspected Belle was harder to tame than a honey badger on crack. But I would come to an arrangement with her of sorts. I would provide for her. She, in return, would be my mark of Cain. My ticket out of royalty.

My mother would be off my case, Louisa would want nothing to do with me, and other women would have no false illusions about making me settle down. Not to mention, I genuinely wanted an heir. I did not want the marquess title to die along with me. Recently, the British Parliament, in an effort to be more progressive, introduced a bill to say that children born out of wedlock were now legitimate heirs. It was like the universe was sending me a message.

Emmabelle was a flawless candidate for my plan.

Detached. Ruthlessly protective of her independence. Owner of a womb.

Plus, it needed to be said—impregnating the woman wasn’t going to be the hardest chore I’d ever been tasked with.

As my mind began drafting the fine print of such agreement, Belle was four steps behind me, still mourning her insufficient bank account.

“…probably need to get a loan from my sister. I mean, do I want to? No. But I can’t operate from a place of pride here. I’ve never not paid a loan, Devon. It’s hard to sleep at night when you know you owe people money. Even if it’s your sister—”

I cut her off, swiveling on my stool to face her. “I’ll have a baby with you.”

The woman was so drunk, her initial response was squinting at me slowly, like she’d just realized I was there in the first place.

“You, um, what?”

“I’ll give you what you want. A child. Financial security. The whole nine yards. You need a baby, money, and a co-parent. I can give you all of those things, if you give me an heir.”

She coiled away from me.

“I don’t want to marry, Devon. I know it worked for Persephone, but the whole monogamy thing ain’t my jam.”

Ain’t. She said ain’t. Pick up your things and leave.

My cock compelled me to stay.

I picked up the glass of water in front of her and guided it to her lips.

“I’m not offering you marriage, darling. Unlike Cillian, I have no interest in conveying to the world that I’ve been tamed and declawed. All I want is someone to have a child with. Separate households. Separate lives. Think about it.”

“You must be high.” Rich, coming from a woman who currently could not count the number of fingers on her right hand.

“Your child may be His or Her Highness, if you say yes,” I hissed.

There was not one sodding soul in Boston who wasn’t aware of my royal titles. People treated me like I was next in line to the throne, when in practice, about thirty people in the monarchy would have to find their untimely—and unlikely—death before I’d be made king.