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

“I don’t know what the meaning of life is, but I’m sure as fuck not going to take pointers from a pudgy rich kid who needs to pay the maids to cop a feel,” I growled, flashing my teeth. “I’ll choose my own bride, and it won’t be your sister.”

Frankly, I did not want to marry at all. For one thing, I was certain I’d be a terrible husband. Lazy, unfaithful, and in all probability obtuse. But I wanted to keep my options open. What if I did run into Christie Brinkley? I would marry the shite out of her if it meant getting into her knickers.

Byron and Benedict exchanged puzzled looks. I knew they had no loyalty to their younger sister. She was, after all, a girl. And girls were not as distinguished, not as important as boys in peerage society. They couldn’t continue the family’s name and, therefore, were treated as no more than a decoration you had to remember to include in Christmas card photos.

It was the same with my younger sister, Cecilia. My father largely ignored her existence. I always doted on her after he sent her to her room or tucked her away for being too round or too “dull” to parade around high society. I’d snuck cookies to her, told her bedtime stories, and took her to the woods, where we played.

“Get off your bloody high horse, Whitehall. You’re not too good for our sister,” Byron moaned.

“That may well be, but I’m not going to sleep with her.”

“Why?” Byron demanded. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing. Everything.” I poked hay around with the tip of my boot. I was fairly drunk by now.

“Would you rather kiss this fox’s mouth or Lou’s?” Benedict pressed, his eyes wandering around the barn, behind my shoulder, and beyond.

I gave him a wry look. “I’d rather kiss neither, you class-A minger.”

“Well, you must choose one.”

“Must I?” I hiccupped, picking up a stray horseshoe and throwing it at him. I missed by about a mile. “Why the bloody hell is that?”

“Because,” Byron uttered slowly, “if you kiss the fox, I’ll tell my dad that you’re gay. That’d fix everything up. You’d be off the hook.”

“Gay,” I repeated numbly. “I could be gay.”

Not technically, no. I loved women too much. In every shape, form, color, and hairstyle.

Byron laughed. “You sure are pretty enough.”

“That’s a stereotype,” I said and immediately regretted it. I was in no state to explain the word stereotype to these two morons.

“Bleeding heart liberal,” Byron cackled, elbowing his brother.

“Maybe he is gay,” Benedict mused.

“Nah.” Byron shook his head. “He’s already shagged a couple birds I know.”

“Well? Are you going to do it or not?” Benedict demanded.

I considered the proposal. Benedict and Byron were known for this kind of outrageous ploy. They spun lies around people, and others just bought it. I knew because I went to the same school with them. What was one silly kiss on a dead fox’s mouth in the grand scheme of things?

This was my only hope. If I butted heads with my father, one of us would die. As it stood right now, that someone was going to be me.

“Fine.” I pushed myself up from the stool, zigzagging my way to Frankenfox.

I bent down and pressed my lips to the fox’s mouth. It was gummy and cold and smelled like used dental floss. Bile coated my throat.

“Mate, oh gawd. He is actually doing this.” Benedict snorted behind my back.

“Why don’t I have a camera?” Byron moaned. He was on the floor now, clutching his stomach he was laughing so hard.

I pulled back. My ears were ringing. My vision turned milky. I saw everything through a yellow haze. Someone behind me screamed. I swiveled back quickly, falling to my knees. Lou was there. At the open double doors of the barn, still in her pink pajamas. Her hand pressed against her mouth as she trembled like a leaf.

“You … you … you … perv!” she mewed.

“Lou,” I grunted. “I’m sorry.”

And I was, but not for not wanting to marry her. Only for how she found out about it.

Benedict and Byron were rolling on the hay, punching each other, laughing, and laughing, and laughing.

They’d set me up. They knew she was there, by the door, watching all along. I was never going to get out of this arrangement.

Lou whirled around and bolted. Her tears, like tiny diamonds, flew behind her shoulders.

The scream that tore from her mouth was feral. Like the one Frankenfox had made before I killed her.

I keeled over and threw up, collapsing into the remains of my dinner.

Darkness spun around me.

And I, in return, succumbed to it.




My father handed me a whiskey the morning after. We were in his big oak study with a golden bar trolley and burgundy drapes. One of the servants had hauled me into his office minutes earlier. No explanation was needed. He’d simply dragged me across the carpets and disposed of me at Papa’s feet.

“Here. For your hangover.”

Papa motioned for the tan leather recliner in front of his desk. I sat, accepting the drink.

“You’re giving me whiskey?” I sniffed it, my lips curling in distaste.

“Hair of the dog.” He sprawled in his executive chair, smoothing his moustache with his fingers. “Taking the hair of the dog that bit you eases up the withdrawal.”