Prologue

I’d been betrothed shortly before I was conceived.

My future written, sealed, and agreed upon before my mother had her first ultrasound appointment.

Before I had a heart, a pulse, lungs, and a spine. Ideas, wishes, and preferences. When I was no more than an abstract idea.

A future plan.

A box to be ticked off.

Her name was Louisa Butchart.

Lou, really, to those who knew her.

Though I would not be aware of the arrangement until I turned fourteen. Told right before the traditional pre-Christmas hunting trip the Whitehalls had with the Butcharts.

There was nothing wrong with Louisa Butchart. Nothing that I could find, at any rate.

She was lovely, well-mannered, of excellent pedigree.

Nothing wrong with her at all, except for one thing—she wasn’t my choice.

I suppose this was how it all started.

How I became who I am today.

A fun-loving, whiskey-drinking, fencing, skiing hedonist who answered to no one and tumbled into bed with everyone.

All the numbers and variables were there to create the perfect equation.

Great expectations.

Multiplied by crushing demands.

Morally divided by more money than I could ever burn.

I’d been blessed with the right physique, right bank account, right smirk, and right amount of charm. With only one invisible thing missing—a soul.

The thing about not having a soul was that I wasn’t even aware of it.

It took someone special to show me what I’d been missing.

Someone like Emmabelle Penrose.

She cut me open and tar spilled out.

Sticky, dark, and never-ending.

This is the true royal rake’s secret.

My blood never ran blue.

It was like my heart, pure black.

Fourteen Years Old.

We rode at sunset.

The hounds led the way. My father and his comrade, Byron Butchart Sr., followed closely. Their horses cantered in perfect rhythm. Byron Jr., Benedict, and I trailed behind.

They gave the young lads the mares. They were unruly and harder to break. Taming young, spirited females was an exercise men of my class had been given from a young age. After all, we were born into a life that required a well-trained wife, pudgy babies, croquet, and alluring mistresses.

Chin and heels down, back ramrod straight, I was the picture of a royal equestrian. Not that it helped me avoid being thrown into the sweat box, curling into myself like a snail.

Papa loved throwing me in there for the sake of watching me squirm, no matter how hard, how diligently, how desperately I tried to please him.

The sweat box, also known as the isolation bin, was a seventeenth-century dumbwaiter. It had a coffin-like shape and offered the same experience. Since I was notoriously claustrophobic, this was my father’s go-to punishment whenever I misbehaved.

Misbehaving, however, wasn’t something I did often, or even at all. That was the sad part. I wanted badly to be accepted. I was a straight A student and a gifted fencer. I’d even made it to the England Youth Championship in sabre, but was still thrown into the dumbwaiter when I lost to George Stanfield.

Perhaps my father always knew what I tried to keep concealed from view.

On the outside, I was perfect.

On the inside, however, I was rotten to the bone.

At fourteen, I’d already slept with two of the servants’ daughters, managed to ride my father’s favorite horse to its untimely death, and flirted with cocaine and Special K (not the cereal).

Now, we were going foxhunting.

I quite hated foxhunting. And by quite, I meant a bloody lot. I detested it as a sport, a concept, and a hobby. I drew no pleasure from killing helpless animals.

Father said blood sport was a great English tradition, much like cheese rolling and Morris dancing. Personally, I thought some traditions did not, in fact, age as well as others. Burning heretics at the stake was one example, foxhunting another.

Noteworthy to distinguish foxhunting was—or shall I say is—illegal in the United Kingdom. But men of power, I’d come to learn, had a complex and oftentimes tempestuous relationship with the law. They enforced and determined it, yet disregarded it almost completely. My father and Byron Sr. enjoyed foxhunting all the more because it was forbidden to the lower classes. It gave the sport an added shine. An eternal reminder that they were born different. Better.

We were heading into the woods, passing the cobbled path to the grand iron-wrought gate of Whitehall Court Castle, my family’s estate in Kent. My stomach churned as I thought about what I was about to do. Kill innocent animals to mollify my father.

The soft tapping of Mary Janes clunked behind us, hitting the pebbles.

“Devvie, wait!”

The voice was breathless, needy.

I leaned back on Duchess, pushing my feet forward, pulling at the reins. The mare gaited back. Louisa appeared at my side, clutching something wrapped haphazardly. She was in her pink pajamas. Her teeth were covered in colorful, horrendous braces.

“I got you thomthing.” She slapped away pieces of the brown hair sticking to her forehead. Lou was two years my junior. I was at the unfortunate stage of adolescence where I found anything, including sharp objects and certain fruits, sexually appealing. But Lou was still a child. Loose-jointed and pocket-sized. Her eyes were big and inquisitive, drinking in the world in gulps. She was not exactly a looker, with her average features and boyish frame. And her braces gave her a speech impediment she was self-conscious about.

“Lou,” I drawled, quirking a brow. “Your mum’s going to have a fit if she finds you snuck out.”

“Don’t care.” She rose on her toes, handing me something wrapped in one of her sensible cardigan sweaters. I tossed her jumper, delighted to find my father’s engraved flask inside, heavy with bourbon.

“I know you dislike foxhunting, so I brought you thomthing to … how does Daddy say it? Thake the edge off.”

The others moved along, entering the thick, mossy woods bracketing Whitehall Court Castle, either unaware or disinterested in my absence.

“You little nutter.” I took a swig from the flask, feeling the sharp burn of the liquid rolling down my throat. “How’d you get your hands on this?”

Lou beamed with pride, cupping her mouth to cover all the metal. “I snuck into your papa’s study. No one ever notices me, so I can get away with loads of stuff!” The despondence in her voice made me sad for her. Lou dreamed of going to Australia and becoming a wildlife rescuer, surrounded by kangaroos and koalas. I hoped for her sake that she would. Wild animals, no matter how aggressive, were still superior to humans.

“I notice you.”

“Do you really?” Her eyes grew bigger, browner.

“Cross my heart.” I scratched behind Duchess’ ear. Females, I’d come to realize, were ridiculously easy to please. “You’ll never get rid of me.”

“I don’t want to be rid of you!” she said hotly. “I’ll do anything for you.”

“Oh, anything, now?” I chuckled. Lou and I had the relationship of an older brother and younger sister. She did things to try and win my affection, and I, in return, assured her she was nice and caring.

She nodded eagerly. “I’ll always have your back.”

“Right then.” I was ready to move along.

“Do you think you’ll ever tell your parents you’re vegetarian?” she blurted out. How did she know this?

“I noticed you shy away from meat and even fish when we dine.” She buried one of her Mary Janes in the pebbles, digging her toes in, looking down in embarrassment.

“No.” I shook my head, my tone cold. “There are some things my parents don’t need to know.”

And then, because we had nothing more to say, and maybe because I was afraid Papa would throw me in the dumbwaiter if he saw me loitering behind, I said, “Well, cheers for the drink.”

I raised the flask in salute, squeezed Duchess’ belly with my riding boots, and joined the others.

“Oh, look, if it isn’t Posh Spice.” Benedict, Lou’s middle brother, poked a finger to loosen the strap of his helmet. “What was the holdback?”

“Lou gave us a good luck charm, Baby Spice.” I tipped the flask in his direction. Unlike Louisa, who was a bit eager but overall agreeable, her brothers—for lack of better description—were complete and utter twats. Super-sized bullies who liked to pinch the maids on the arse and make an unnecessary mess just to watch others tidy after them.

“Bloody hell,” Byron snorted. “She’s pathetic.”

“You mean considerate. Spending time with my father requires some level of intoxication,” I drawled sarcastically.

“It’s not about that. She’s obsessed with your sorry arse,” Benedict supplied.

“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?”

“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.”

I took a swig of the poison, wincing as it scorched its way to my gut. I’d had a sleepless night on the hay in the barn. I kept waking up in a cold sweat, dreaming about tiny Louisa-like babies running after me. The taste of the dead fox’s kiss didn’t exactly soften the blow either.

The scent of black tea and fresh scones wafted through the hallways of Whitehall Court Castle. Breakfast wasn’t quite over. My stomach roiled, reminding me that appetite was a luxury for men who weren’t newly and unwittingly betrothed.

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.

But the truth was, the day I completed secondary education and was shipped to Boston was the last time I set foot on British soil.

The last time my father saw me.

It was the perfect betrayal, really.

I used his wealth and connections until I didn’t need them anymore.

An advanced law degree from an Ivy League school was sufficient capital to bag a 400k a year partnership at one of the biggest law firms in Boston. By my third year, I tripled that amount including bonuses.

And now? Now I was a self-made millionaire.

My life was mine. To lead, to rule, and to cock up.

And the only dumbwaiter I was stuck in was deep in my head.

The voices from my past still echoed inside it, reminding me that love was nothing but a middle-class affliction.