The Rake (Boston Belles 4)

“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.

“They also say that your personal life is in shambles. That you spend your nights gambling at that heathen Sam Brennan’s joint, drinking, and keeping company with ditzy women half your age.”

The first accusation was spot-on. The last one, however, was a plain lie. I had a strict five-year maximum in place. I’d take lovers five years younger or older. In fact, I had only broken the rule once, with the delightfully infuriating Emmabelle Penrose. For all my faults, I was not a sleazeball. There was nothing quite as pathetic as walking around with a woman who could be mistaken for your daughter. Thankfully, no one in their right mind would have thought I’d let my daughter dress like Emmabelle Penrose.

“I understand that you’re upset, Mummy, but I am not going to be talked into marriage.”

Through the vast glass door, I could see Cillian, Hunter, and the rest of Royal Pipelines’ board trickling out of the conference room. Hunter flipped me the bird on his way out while Cillian offered me a curt, speak-later nod.

This phone call had put me an hour behind schedule. It was more time than I’d given my father in three decades. I was going to send him a hefty bill straight to hell. Meanwhile, Mum continued to drone on.

“…out of touch with your roots, with your lineage. I suspect a lot of things will resurface once you make it back home. I could send in the private jet if you like.”

The private jet belonged to the Butcharts, not the Whitehalls, and I knew better than to take favors from people I had no intention of being indebted to.

“No need. I’ll fly commercial, with the other peasants.”

“First class is so common, unless it’s Singapore Airlines.” If there was something that could distract my mother from the fact she just became a widow, it was discussing wealth.

“I fly business,” I said sardonically. “Brushing shoulders with honest-to-god average people.”

I knew that for my mother, flying business class was akin to making the journey on a paper boat while surviving exclusively on raw ocean fish and sunrays.

“Oh, Devvie, I do hate that for you.” I could practically envision her clutching her pearls. “When shall we expect you?”

“I’ll be in touch in the next few days.”

“Please hurry up. We miss you so.”

“I miss you too.”

When we hung up, it felt like my flesh had been ripped open.

I might have missed my mother and sister.