The Rake (Boston Belles #4) by L.J. Shen

“Are you kidding me? I want this kid to know how much I suffered for her and hold it over her head for eternity.”

She laughs.

I don’t know why.

I am not kidding.

“Sweetheart, we’re fine. You’ve still got time,” Devon coos, stroking my hair out of my face. It’s all nice and romantic, and yet I’m about to push an eight-pound human out of me without any drugs. I slap his hand away. “Go get me Doctor Bjorn.”

“As you wish, Mrs. Whitehall.” He cannot speed out of the room fast enough, and I remain with Nurse Looking at Me Like I’m Crazy.

Devon and I married each other shortly after we came back from England. It was a small, intimate ceremony in Madame Mayhem. The bridesmaids wore red lingerie and garters and couldn’t say shit about it. My wedding—my rules. Sam Brennan almost punched the walls down in the room when he saw his wife ushering me across the aisle in lingerie.

Things have been really awesome between us. Almost too awesome. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and think, Today is going to be the day I screw this up and bail on him. Or more often than not, Today is going to be the day that he leaves me. That he finally understands that I’m too damaged, too broken, or simply too much.

But somehow neither of these things happen, and I finish my days in the same way: draped over my husband, sharing our stories and experiences from the day, watching TV, laughing, and unveiling piece after piece of one another.

I know there will come a day when I eventually stop worrying that he is going to break me too. That day might not be today, or even tomorrow, but it will arrive.

Devon Whitehall, after all, is the man who taught me the most important life lesson—that you can still believe.

“I got you a doctor.” Devon bursts into the room now, panting. “One you know, no less.”

“Is it Doctor Bjorn?” I bark, twisting in my hospital bed. “Is it just me or is the baby half-out?” Something’s going on between my legs, but for obvious reasons, I’m not in a physical position to bend down and check.

“Better,” Devon says, and he and Aisling appear in front of me.

My face falls. “I’m not letting this bitch see my vagina!”

But she is already walking over to the little sink and washing her hands, slapping on a pair of fresh plastic gloves. “I’ve seen worse.”

“Oh, I don’t mean that. It looks fantastic. I just don’t feel like I’m ready to take our relationship to the next level,” I huff.

But then there’s another contraction, and I scream, and Devon and Aisling rush toward me.

“Sweven,” Devon utters in pain, wiping the sweat from my brow lovingly. “I’m so sorry I put you in this position.”

“You put me in twenty-seven different ones. That’s why we’re here,” I quip.

“Still don’t want my help?” Aisling elevates an eyebrow. “Because I’m happy to call another doctor.”

“Doctor Lynne is here,” Nurse No One Asked You volunteers unhelpfully. I don’t know Doctor Lynne. And Doctor Bjorn is obviously too busy braving the Boston traffic.

“Fine!” I throw my hands in the air. “Fine. Just get this baby out of me, Ash!”

Devon snatches my hand, Aisling gets to business, and twenty minutes later—just when Doctor Bjorn enters the room full of apologies—Nicola Zara Constance Whitehall is born (and before you ask: of course I added Constance to make sure everyone knows she’s a royal).

I am not exaggerating when I say my newborn is the prettiest I’ve ever seen. With smooth, pink skin, bright eyes, and the pinkest lips. She is fragile, innocent, and perfect. I want to protect her from every possible harm. I know I can’t but at least for now, I can. But for later, when she grows up, all I can do is try and raise her to be as strong as her mother.

“My goodness, she looks just like her mother.” Devon kisses me, then Nicola, then hugs Aisling close.

With my beautiful baby in my arms, and my friends and family waiting outside, I know one thing—everything will not be okay.

Because it’s already perfect.



Six Months Later.



I donate Whitehall Court Castle to the English Heritage Foundation. It becomes a museum. A part of me—an extremely miniscule part of me—is sad that I’m giving up the marquess title. That I will not be in England to ensure Nicola inherits some sort of title. But most of me is glad I am out of this place I could never truly call home.

Nicola is growing at a fast pace. Currently, she is sporting a shock of white curls that look suspiciously like Ramen noodles. She tries to sink her gums into anything she can get her chubby hands on and is a complete delight.

Emmabelle got back to work a month ago. She appointed Ross the official manager of Madame Mayhem and is now focusing on her latest venture. She opened a nonprofit organization for women and men who have been sexually assaulted, providing therapy and help with finding work and getting back on their feet.

Her new secretary, actually—the person to replace Simon and do all the filing and administrative work—is Donna Hammond, Frank’s ex-girlfriend. She has a baby boy now. His name is Thomas and sometimes, when he and Nicola are in the same room, they stare at each other with wide, wait-you’re-a-tiny-human-too expressions.

Now I’m picking up my wife from her parents’. Nicola naps blissfully in the back of my Bentley. I catch my father-in-law watering the plants on the front porch and roll the passenger window down.