I drained my whiskey. “You wanted to see me?”
“I never want to see you. Unfortunately, it is a necessity that comes with siring you.” Papa did not mince words. “Something quite disturbing was brought to my attention this morning. Lady Louisa told her parents what happened yesterday, and her father relayed to me the situation.” My father—tall, lean, and striking with sandy-blond hair and a neatly pressed suit—drawled with accusation in his voice, inviting me to explain myself.
We both knew he disliked me on a personal level. That he would sire new successors, if it wasn’t for the fact that I remained the eldest and therefore the heir to his title. I was too graceful, too much of a bookworm, too much like my mum. I’d allowed other boys to dominate me, to make me defile an animal.
“I don’t want to marry her.”
I expected a slap or a thrashing. Neither would come as a surprise. But what I got was a light chuckle and a shake of his head.
“I understand,” he said.
“Do I not have to?” I perked up.
“Oh, you will marry the girl. Your wishes have no significance. Neither do your thoughts, for that matter. Marriages of love are for the great unwashed masses. People born to follow society’s thankless rules. You shall not desire your wife, Devon. Her purpose is to serve you, sire children, and look lovely. Word to the wise—keep your desire for those of whom you can dispose. It’s smarter and cleaner. Commoner rules do not apply to the upper class.”
The need to violently smash his head against the wall was so urgent, my fingers twitched in my lap. When I remained silent for several minutes, he rolled his eyes, looking skyward, like I was the one being unreasonable.
“You think I wanted to marry your mother?”
“What’s wrong with Mum?” She was pretty and reasonably nice.
“What’s not?” He took a cigar out of a box and lit it up. “If she ran as much as her mouth, she’d be in good shape. She was a package deal, though. She had the money. I had the title. We made it work.”
I stared into the bottom of my empty whiskey glass. That sounded like a tagline for the most depressing romantic comedy in the world. “We don’t need more money, and I’ll already have a title.”
“It’s not just the money, you eejit.” He slammed his palm against his desk between us, roaring, “All that stands between us and the commoners that serve us is pedigree and power!”
“Power corrupts,” I said curtly.
“The world is corrupt.” His lip curled in disgust. I knew bloody well I was close to being thrown into the dumbwaiter. “I’m trying to explain to you in simple English that the matter of your nuptials to Miss Butchart is not up for debate. At any rate, it is hardly going to happen tomorrow.”
“No. Not tomorrow and not at all,” I heard myself say. “I won’t marry her. Mum won’t stand for it.”
“Your mother has no say in things.”
His azure eyes darkened into a marbled mirror. I could see myself in their reflection. I looked small and sunken. Not myself. Not the boy who rode horses with the wind dancing in his face. Who pushed his hand under a servant girl’s dress and made her giggle breathlessly. The boy with the explosive speed and dazzling footwork who made some of Europe’s best fencers weep. That boy could pierce his father’s black heart with a pointy sword and eat his heart while it was still beating. This boy could not.
“You’ll marry her, and you will give me a male grandchild, preferably one superior to yourself.” My father finished his cigar, stubbing it in a nearby ashtray. “This matter is settled. Now go apologize to Louisa. You will marry her after you finish Oxford University—and not a moment later, or you will lose your entire inheritance, your family name, and the relatives who, for a reason unbeknownst to me, still tolerate you. Because make no mistake, Devon—when I tell your mother she is to disown you, she won’t think twice before turning her back on her child. Am I understood?”
My cunningness overtook me just then, as it had the tendency to do, washing over my skin like acid. Making me turn inside out and become someone else. There was no point fighting him. I had no leverage. I could get thrashed, locked, mocked, and tortured … or I could play my cards right.
Do what he and Mr. Butchart did so often. Play the system.
“Yes, sir.”
My father narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “I’m telling you to marry Louisa.”
“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.