The Rake (Boston Belles #4)(5)

“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.”