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

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I growled.

“Don’t be blind,” Byron barked at me.

“Eh. She’ll get over it. They all do.” I took another swig, grateful that my father and Byron Sr. were so engrossed in discussing parliament-related matters, they did not see fit to turn their heads and check on us.

“I hope she doesn’t,” Benedict sneered. “If she is destined to marry your shite for brains, she should at the very least enjoy it.”

“Did you say marry?” I lowered the flask. He might as well have said bury. “No offense to your sister, but if she is awaiting a proposal, she better get comfortable because one is not coming.”

Byron and Benedict exchanged looks, grinning conspiratorially. They had the same coloring as Louisa. Fair as the fresh-fallen snow. Only they looked like I drew them with my left hand.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know.” Byron cocked his head, a cruel smile spreading across his face. I never was fond of him. But I especially wasn’t fond of him at that moment.

“Know what?” I gritted out, loathing that I had to play along to find out what they were talking about.

“You and Lou are going to tie the knot. It’s all settled. There’s even a ring.”

I laughed metallically, kicking Duchess’ right side to make her bump into Benedict’s mare, throwing him off balance. What a load of rubbish. As I continued laughing, I noticed their smiles had vanished. They were no longer looking at me with playful mischief.

“You’re taking the piss.” My smile dropped. My throat felt like it was full of sand.

“No,” Byron said, flat out.

“Ask your father,” Benedict challenged. “It’s been decided in our family for years. You’re the eldest son of the Marquess of Fitzgrovia. Louisa is the daughter of the Duke of Salisbury. A lady. You will one day become a marquess yourself, and our parents want the royal blood to stay within the family. Keep the estates intact. Marrying a commoner would weaken the chain.”

The Whitehalls were one of the last families in peerage people still gave half a fuck about. My great, great, great grandmother, Wilhelmina Whitehall, was the daughter of a king.

“I don’t want to marry anyone,” I said through gritted teeth. Duchess began picking up speed, entering the woods.

“Well, ob-vi-ously,” Benedict made an unflattering d’uh face. “You’re fourteen. All you want is to play videogames and fondle your meat to Christie Brinkley posters. Nonetheless, you’re marrying our sister. Too much business between our fathers to let this opportunity go to waste.”

“And don’t forget the estates they’ll both get to keep,” Byron added helpfully, giving his mare a vicious kick to make her go faster. “I’ll say, good luck giving her children. She looks like Ridley Scott’s Alien.”

“Children …?” The only thing preventing me from vomiting up my guts was the fact I did not want to waste the perfectly good brandy currently sloshing in my stomach.

“Lou says she wants five when she grows up,” Byron cackled, enjoying himself. “I reckon she’s going to keep you busy in the sack, mate.”

“Not to mention exhausted,” Benedict leered.

“Over my dead body.”

My throat grew tight, my hands clammy. I felt like I was the butt of a terrible joke. Of course, I couldn’t talk to my father about it. I couldn’t stand up to him. Not when I knew I was always one wrong word away from the dumbwaiter.

All I could do was shoot helpless animals and be exactly who he wanted me to be.

His little well-oiled machine. Ready to kill, fuck, or marry as commanded.




Later that night, Byron, Benedict, and I sat in front of one of the dead foxes in the barn. The Pavlovian scent of death swathed around the room. My father and Byron Sr. had taken all their prized dead foxes to the taxidermist and left one for us to dispose.

“Burn it, play with it, leave it for the rats to eat for all I care,” my father had spat before turning his back on the corpse.

It was a female. Small, malnourished, and dull-furred.

She had cubs. I could tell by the teats poking through her belly fur. I thought about them. How they were all alone, hungry and stranded in the dark, vast woods. I thought about how I shot her when Papa ordered me to. How I nailed a bullet straight between her eyes. How she stared at me with a mixture of amazement and terror.

And how I looked away because it had been Papa I wanted to shoot.

Benedict, Byron, and I were passing a bottle of champers back and forth, discussing the evening’s events, with Frankenfox staring at me accusingly from across the barn. Benedict also obtained rolled-up cigarettes from one of the servants. We puffed on them heartily.

“Come on, mate, marrying our sister isn’t the end of the world.” Byron offered a Bond-villain laugh as he stood over the fox, one of his boots pressed against her back.

“She’s a child,” I spat. Strewn on a wooden stool, I felt like my bones were a century old.

“She’s not going to be a child forever.” Benedict poked the edge of his boot into the fox’s gut.

“To me, she will be.”

“She’ll make you even richer,” Byron added.

“No money can buy my freedom.”

“None of us were born free!” Benedict thundered, stomping. “What’s the incentive to stay alive, if not to gain more power?”