The Rake (Boston Belles #4)(6)

“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.