The Rake (Boston Belles #4)(72)

“I fancy you,” I admitted to Louisa.

“Not enough to make a move, apparently,” she said easily.

Everything was easy with her, and therein lied the temptation of yielding to my mother’s request.

“Then why are you here?” I asked.

“I still have hope. Is it foolish?” She twisted the wineglass here and there on the table, holding it by the stem.

“Foolish? No. Unlikely? Always.”

“I reckon I might be able to break you,” Louisa mused, sipping her red wine. Candlelight danced across the planes of her face, making her smile appear softer. “If I told you a year ago that we’d be sitting together, discussing a potential affair, you wouldn’t have believed me.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” I admitted.

“Yet, here we are.”

“Here we are.”

I stole another glance at Sweven’s door.

This time, she didn’t eavesdrop or peek.




At the end of that week was a gala.

The seventy-eighth annual Boston Ball, a fundraiser for the Gerald Fitzpatrick Foundation, a 501c3 tax-exempt non-profit organization that symbolized to many the official arrival of spring.

Proceeds of the ball, which usually sat at around three million dollars, went to various local establishments I didn’t care for nor wanted to know about.

But it was an excellent write-off for my firm, not to mention a terrific excuse to wear my Ermenegildo Zegna suit.

Attending the Boston Ball was also a business move.

I’d be hard-pressed to find a better place which gathered all of Boston’s Private Island Owners’ Club, most of which were existing or potential clients.

As I stood there, at the O’Donnell Ballroom, scanning the place, I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of pride.

I’d become the polar opposite of my father.

A hardworking, law-respecting man who did not let himself be swayed by women or booze.

The O’Donnell Ballroom was a five thousand square foot venue on Boylston Street, with grand windows, elegant Tudor architectural details, black wooden beams, ecru chandeliers, and champagne-silk draperies.

Waiters floated across the room, bypassing women in ball gowns and men in dashing suits. I stood in a cluster of people, including Cillian, Hunter, Sam, and Sam’s stepfather, Troy, while keeping an eye out for Emmabelle.

I knew she was going to be here. Her sister helped organize the event, and Sweven celebrated every one of her sister’s mundane accomplishments.

“…said him starting a private bank is as laughable an idea as my starting a Christian crusade to save hairy frogs. I’d never buy into his ventures,” I heard Cillian explain to Troy.

If Cillian was here, his wife was nearby. And if Persephone was on the premises, Belle couldn’t me more than a few feet away.

“I’ve only put two mil into it,” Hunter cried out defensively. “So I could be on the board and gain some experience. If it bombs, it bombs. It’s no skin off my back.”

“Devon? What do you think about James Davidson’s new bank?” Sam pulled me into the conversation, the devious smirk on his face telling me he knew I didn’t listen to a word they said.

I tapped my index finger over the glass of champagne I held.

I tried to think what I thought. I’d been more focused on trying to find my roommate than the conversation. “I think Davidson is rubbish at everything he does, and I said so to Hunter when he came to me with the proposition. Luckily, Hunter needs his money like I need another hormonal female to handle, so as he said, no worries.”

“How is Emmabelle doing anyway?” Hunter asked. “Is she starting to show?”

I thought she was, last time I saw her, a couple of days ago. When she’d passed me in the kitchen, I thought I caught a glimpse of a rounded stomach. I couldn’t tell for sure. But since I kept my cards close to my chest when it came to my personal life, they had no idea I was not on speaking terms with her.

“Moderately.”

“Are you taking advantage of the pregnancy cravings?” Sam elevated an eyebrow.

I raised my champagne in the air in salute. “Same answer.”

“Well…” Cillian took pleasure in directing his pinky beyond my shoulder, pointing at something “…then you may want to ensure you’re the only one enjoying those cravings, because Davidson seems to be working on his next private venture.”

I followed his line of vision, turning around to see Emmabelle standing in the corner of the room, wearing a light blue silk Cinderella gown, her sandy hair in an elegant do.

She was laughing at something James Davidson was saying, her fingers fluttering over her necklace.

The same Davidson who wouldn’t know a rotten deal from a good one if it chopped off his leg without anesthesia.

He was objectively handsome in a white bread sort of way, with brown, thick hair, big white teeth, and the languid, lazy manners of a man who never had to work for what he owned.

And he was completely enchanted with the lurid, shockingly vivid woman in front of him.

I squinted, focusing on her midriff. To my disappointment, her dress hid her belly quite well. It didn’t even matter. If Belle wanted to sleep with Davidson tonight, nothing was going to stop her.

“Isn’t James Davidson married?” I was surprised to hear my question sound more like a moan.