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

Most sought after bachelor in England, my foot. Marrying into a royal family was only marginally worse than marrying into the mafia. At least Carmella Soprano didn’t have to deal with The Daily Mail photographers taking pictures of her bin’s content.

“I’ll arrive to ensure the smooth transition of the estate and funds,” I said. “And, of course, to be there for you and Cece. How’s she handling it?”

“Not well.”

My mother lived in the Whitehall Court Castle and so did my sister Cecilia and her husband, Drew. I intended to hand over the castle to them—I was never going to live in the bloody thing, anyway—and allot them a monthly allowance to keep them comfortable.

“I’ll get there as soon as I can.” Which, for the record, would still be too soon.

The last time I’d seen my mother was a year ago. I wondered what she looked like these days. Was she still tragically beautiful, draped head-to-toe in black silks? Did she maintain the habit of an afternoon cuppa with her lady friends, where she allowed herself half a shortbread cookie she’d later burn off on the treadmill?

“It’s been over twenty years,” she said.

“I can count, Mummy.”

“And although we’ve seen each other often … it’s not the same when you’re not here.”

“I know that too. And I’m sorry I had to go away.” I wasn’t. Boston suited me fine. It was culturally diverse, inherently rough, and drenched in history, much like London. But without the paparazzi chasing after me or upper-class aunties throwing their daughters at my doorstep hoping I’d make one of them my lawful wife.

“Are you seeing anyone?” Mum sounded like a crushed widow like I sounded like Celine Dion. It must be the shock, I thought.

“Someones. Plural. I am, as you’re well-informed by your friends across the pond, a well-established rake.”

This part was true. I loved women. I loved them even more without their clothes. And I made it a point to go through them like they were the morning paper—one time was enough, and they needed to be exchanged daily.

“So was your father, until a certain point,” Mum mused.

I picked up a wooden humidor, turning it in my hand. “That point was not after he’d gotten married, so don’t mourn him too hard.”

She whimpered in protest but changed the subject, knowing it was too late to convince me my father was anything but a monster. “Louisa is single again. You must’ve heard.”

“I mustn’t have.” I put the humidor back on the desk, as the scent of aged tobacco leaves and amber musk filled my nostrils.

Louisa was my least favorite topic to talk about with Mum, even though she came up quite often. I was highly tempted to curl the cord of the switchboard around my neck and tug. “I don’t keep tabs on anyone from home.”

“The fact that you still call it home speaks volumes.”

I chuckled softly. “Hope is like ice cream. The more you indulge in it, the more sickened you get.”

“Well,” she said brightly, refusing to admit defeat, “Louisa is, indeed, single. Lost her fiancé to a polo accident a year ago. It was quite dreadful. There were children watching the game.”

“Goodness,” I agreed. “Polo is boring for the average adult, let alone to children. How atrocious.”

“Oh, Devvie!” Mum chided. “She was gutted when it happened, but now … well, I almost think it is fate, isn’t it?” Mum sniffed.

Did this woman just find the silver lining in a man meeting his premature death in a violent, public accident? Ladies and gents, my mother, Ursula Whitehall.

“I’m glad you see the positive in the two deaths that’d bring Louisa and I back to the same post code,” I said with a slight smile.

“She’s been waiting for you, not so patiently.”

“Color me skeptical.”

“You can see for yourself when you get here. You owe her, at the very least, a proper apology.”

This was one truth I couldn’t escape. Before I got on a plane to Boston at eighteen, I had told Louisa I was coming back for her. That never happened, though she’d waited patiently the first four years, sending me print-outs of wedding gowns and customized rings. At some point, the poor lass realized our engagement would not be fulfilled and moved on. But it took her about a decade or two.

I owed her an apology, and was going to deliver one, but to think I owed her a whole entire marriage was preposterous.

“You know,” my mother said, dropping her voice down an octave conspiratorially, “it was your father’s last wish that you marry Louisa.”

You know, I wanted to say, in the exact same tone, I could not give one single toss.

“While I sympathize with your pain, I find it extremely hard to make concessions for Edwin. Especially now, when he is not around to appreciate them,” I said mildly.

“You need to settle down, my love. To have your own family.”

“Not going to happen.”

But Ursula Whitehall did not let a measly thing such as reality stand in her way of a good speech. I could practically envision her stepping onto the soapbox.

“I hear about you all the time from acquaintances on the East Coast. They say you’re sharp, astute, and never let a good opportunity go to waste.