Chapter Two

An hour earlier.

Iwas sitting in Whitehall & Baker LLP’s conference room, discussing my favorite subject in the entire world, provisions (other P’s, like pussy and poker, came at a close second), when my world exploded into miniscule particles.

“Mr. Whitehall? Sir?”

Joanne, my PA, burst through the door, her usually tamed gray curls wild, her reading glasses askew. I looked up from Cillian, Hunter, and the rest of the board of Royal Pipelines.

“As you can see, Jo, I’m in a meeting.” Americans were a notoriously uncouth and unnecessarily dramatic bunch, but this was unbecoming.

“It’s an emergency, sir.”

That, of course, was impossible. Emergencies belonged to other people, with things to lose. I had very little family and a handful of friends. Most of them were currently in the room with me, and if I were honest, I wouldn’t lose a limb to save one. Or even a night of full sleep, for that matter.

I lazed in my recliner, tossing my pen on the desk. “What’s the matter?”

Panting, Joanne put a hand to her chest, shaking her head.

“It’s a phone call,” she wheezed. “Personal.”

“Who from?”

“Your family.”

“Don’t have one. Try again.”

“Your mother begs to differ.”

Mum?

I spoke to my mother twice a week. Once on Saturday morning and then again on Tuesday. Our phone calls were planned by our respective PA’s, and we hardly steered away from that arrangement. Naturally, my interest was piqued.

Cillian and Hunter, who sat on either side of me, flashed me curious looks. I’d never whispered a peep to them about my family life. Partly because said family life was a massive shite show. Not that the Fitzpatricks were at risk of winning any Brady Bunch awards, but privacy was crucial to me.

“Tell her I’ll call her back.” I impaled Cillian with a glare that said, continue.

Joanne didn’t leave her spot by the door.

“Sorry, Mr. Whitehall, sir. I don’t think you understand. You need to take this call.”

Hunter cracked his neck loudly, rolling it left and right. “Just take the damn call so we can all move on with our daily plans. I have shit to do.”

“Daily plans?” I marveled. The man was about as productive as a grave robber in a crematorium. “You can wank in the loo. I have a private one in my office.” I frisbeed the key into his hands. The little prat was the best-looking man I’d ever seen outside of a Marvel movie. Fittingly, he also possessed the intellectual capabilities of a torn movie poster. Although it had to be said, marriage agreed with him. I still wouldn’t put him in charge of any nuclear research facility, but at the very least, he wasn’t a reckless sod anymore.

“Ha.” Hunter threw the key back at me. “Go tend to your business before my fist tends to your face.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Hunter’s right,” Cillian drawled, dripping boredom. “Get it over with. Some of us have responsibilities that stretch beyond choosing who to sleep with tonight.”

It was pointless to tell them I’d already chosen Allison Kosinki. She was expected at my flat at eight-thirty.

“Go!” they roared in unison.

With a healthy dose of irritation, I followed Joanne’s hurried footsteps to my office.

“How’re the kids, Jo?”

“Very well, thank you, Your Honor. I mean, Your Highness…” People always got flustered around a royal. Even if they worked with them on a daily basis. “Are you well?”

“Indeed I am.”

“Good. Just remember we’re here for you.”

Uh-huh. No good news was ever received after “we’re here for you.”

Joanne opened the door for me then scurried back to her station, avoiding eye contact.

I glared at the switchboard for a beat.

Someone had better be terribly injured, or even better—dead.

I grabbed the receiver but didn’t say anything. I waited for Mum to make the first move.

“Devvie? Are you there?”

“Mummy.” The term of endearment wasn’t my favorite—it made me sound like a four-year-old—but posh people, unfortunately, oftentimes spoke like they were still in diapers.

“Oh, Devvie. I am devastated! Are you sitting down?”

Still on my feet, I looked around my office, which was designed in an old-fashioned manner—coffered ceiling, built-in cabinetry, a large executive desk. “Yes.”

“Papa passed away tonight.”

I waited to feel something—anything—in light of the news that my father kicked the bucket. But for the life of me, I couldn’t.

Edwin Whitehall had spent the majority of my childhood reminding me that I wasn’t enough. He left me no choice but to run away from my homeland, my country, and denied me the most basic privilege of all—choosing my own wife.

No part of me mourned his death, and even if I’d kept a close relationship with Mum and Cecilia, he’d refused to see me until I married Louisa Butchart, to which I responded, don’t threaten me with a good time.

I’d been having a ball since.

“That’s terrible,” I said flatly. “Are you okay?”

“I’m…” she sniffed “…f-f-fine.”

She did not, in fact, sound fine.

“Was it sudden?” I leaned a hip against my desk, tucking a hand into the front pocket of my slacks. I knew it was. Mum made a point of telling me all about his golfing and hunting.

“Yes. Heart attack. I woke up this morning and he was next to me, unresponsive.”

“Why, yes, but when did you find out that he was dead?” I murmured under my breath. Thankfully, she didn’t hear me.

“I simply cannot wrap my head around it.” She broke into another bout of tears. “Papa—gone!”

“Terrible,” I repeated numbly, feeling quiet, unabashed glee. The world wasn’t big enough for both me and Edwin.

“He wanted to see you badly,” Mum whimpered. “Especially the last few years.”

I knew that to be true. Not because he had missed me, god forbid, but because I was the de facto heir to the properties, monies, and his marquess title. Everything the Whitehalls valued and stood for lay at my feet, and he wanted to make sure I wouldn’t kick it to the curb.

“My condolences, Mummy,” I said now, with all the sincerity of a used car salesman.

“Will you be attending the funeral?”

“When is it?” I asked.

“Next week.”

“Bloody hell.” I pretended to sound devastated. “Not sure I can make it. I have merger meetings back-to-back. But I’m certainly going to come there and support you as soon as I can.”

Mum and Cece had been visiting me twice a year since I’d moved to the States. I always showed them a good time, showered them with gifts, and made sure they were happy. But going back to England to show Edwin respect was one moral error I would not be able to live with.

“You’ll have to come here at some point, Devon.” Her tenor hardened. “Not only for the reading of the will, but as you well know, Whitehall Court Castle is now legally yours. Not to mention, now that Edwin is dead, you are officially a marquess. The most sought after bachelor in England.”

Most sought after bachelor in England, my foot. Marrying into a royal family was only marginally worse than marrying into the mafia. At least Carmella Soprano didn’t have to deal with The Daily Mail photographers taking pictures of her bin’s content.

“I’ll arrive to ensure the smooth transition of the estate and funds,” I said. “And, of course, to be there for you and Cece. How’s she handling it?”

“Not well.”

My mother lived in the Whitehall Court Castle and so did my sister Cecilia and her husband, Drew. I intended to hand over the castle to them—I was never going to live in the bloody thing, anyway—and allot them a monthly allowance to keep them comfortable.

“I’ll get there as soon as I can.” Which, for the record, would still be too soon.

The last time I’d seen my mother was a year ago. I wondered what she looked like these days. Was she still tragically beautiful, draped head-to-toe in black silks? Did she maintain the habit of an afternoon cuppa with her lady friends, where she allowed herself half a shortbread cookie she’d later burn off on the treadmill?

“It’s been over twenty years,” she said.

“I can count, Mummy.”

“And although we’ve seen each other often … it’s not the same when you’re not here.”

“I know that too. And I’m sorry I had to go away.” I wasn’t. Boston suited me fine. It was culturally diverse, inherently rough, and drenched in history, much like London. But without the paparazzi chasing after me or upper-class aunties throwing their daughters at my doorstep hoping I’d make one of them my lawful wife.

“Are you seeing anyone?” Mum sounded like a crushed widow like I sounded like Celine Dion. It must be the shock, I thought.

“Someones. Plural. I am, as you’re well-informed by your friends across the pond, a well-established rake.”

This part was true. I loved women. I loved them even more without their clothes. And I made it a point to go through them like they were the morning paper—one time was enough, and they needed to be exchanged daily.

“So was your father, until a certain point,” Mum mused.

I picked up a wooden humidor, turning it in my hand. “That point was not after he’d gotten married, so don’t mourn him too hard.”

She whimpered in protest but changed the subject, knowing it was too late to convince me my father was anything but a monster. “Louisa is single again. You must’ve heard.”

“I mustn’t have.” I put the humidor back on the desk, as the scent of aged tobacco leaves and amber musk filled my nostrils.

Louisa was my least favorite topic to talk about with Mum, even though she came up quite often. I was highly tempted to curl the cord of the switchboard around my neck and tug. “I don’t keep tabs on anyone from home.”

“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.

But I did not miss Whitehall Court Castle.

I took the rest of the day off. Contrary to general belief, I was not married to my work. In fact, I wasn’t even engaged to it. I had a casual relationship with the firm I’d incorporated and used every chance I could to spend time out of the office.

Losing a father, even if I’d forgotten what he looked like, was a brilliant excuse to take time off.

Clouds glided lazily overhead, curiously watching to see what my next move would be. Not one to keep nature waiting, I wandered into Temple Bar, an Irish pub down the street from my office. I was sitting at the bar when Emmabelle Penrose burst through the sticky wooden doors, tears streaming down her face, looking like a train wreck seconds after a colossal explosion.

Emmabelle was the most beautiful woman on planet Earth. It was not an exaggeration, but a plain fact. Her hair, long and luscious, looked like it drank in every sunray it had been exposed to, falling in strings of different shades of blond. Her feline eyes, the color of a blueberry slushie, were perpetually hooded. Her lips were bee-stung, puffy like she’d just been kissed savagely.

And that was without even talking about her body, which I was inclined to suspect might cause a Third World War one day.

She was young. Eleven years younger than me. The first time I’d seen her, three years ago, when I’d gone to serve her younger sister, Persy, with Cillian’s prenup papers, I caught a glimpse of her asleep and spent the next month fantasizing about conquering the fair-haired nymph’s bed.

What made Belle even more enticing was the fact that she, like me, rejected marriage as an institution and treated her romantic affairs with the same practicality she would her finances. I found her fire, intellect, and nonconformist ways refreshing. What I did not find refreshing was the way she’d kicked me out of her apartment in the middle of the night shortly after we started sleeping together.

Miss Penrose could be Aphrodite herself, rising from seafoam on the Cypress shore, but I was still a man of self-respect and social standing.

I forgave, but I did not forget.

Though now that I took a good long look at her, she looked a bit … frayed?

Like she was on the verge of bawling into her glass of chardonnay.

A man came on to her not even a second after she walked into the bar, and I sat in the corner, watching her nearly snap his arm in two, chuckling to myself.

But with the amusement came a rather exasperating sense of responsibility gnawing at my gut. No matter how unappealing I found the idea of helping out this bratty vixen, I knew Cillian’s wife and Belle’s sister, Persy, would put me through all of Dante’s nine circles of hell if she found out I’d simply ignored her.

Plus, Emmabelle was not the type to self-indulge in a full-fledged mental breakdown over a broken fingernail. As a lawyer, I’d always been anthropologically curious. What could make this tough-as-nails woman crumble?

I approached her, showered her with compliments and reassurance, and tried coaxing the information out of her. Belle refused to cooperate, like I knew she would. The girl was thornier than a rose garden—and just as beautiful.

I decided to loosen Belle’s tongue through the international, unofficial truth serum. Alcohol.

It was after the third cognac that she turned to look at me, her big turquoise eyes aglow, and said, “I have to get pregnant immediately if I want to have a biological child.”

“You’re thirty,” I said, still sipping the same Stinger I started the evening with. “You have plenty of time.”

“No.” Belle shook her head furiously, hiccupping. I suppose today was the day of hysterical females. I couldn’t seem to escape them. “I have a … medical condition. It needs to happen sooner rather than later. But I don’t have anyone to have it with. Or the financial stability.”

A practical, albeit sick idea began forming in my mind. A two-birds-one-stone situation.

“The father part is not a big deal.” Belle snuffled, about to take another sip of her drink. I pried it out of her hand and placed a tall glass of water there instead. If she had fertility issues, becoming an alcoholic was not a step in the right direction. “I could always get a sperm donor. But Madame Mayhem is just now starting to turn in a substantial profit after months of breaking even. I shouldn’t have bought out the other partners.”

Belle was the sole owner of a burlesque club downtown. From what her brother-in-law had explained to me, she was a shrewd businesswoman with killer instincts on the fast track to turn a seven-figure profit. Buying out the two other partners of the club put a dent in her bank account.

“Babies cost money,” I tsked regretfully, setting the groundwork for what I was about to propose.

“Oof.” She sipped on the water reluctantly, throwing her arms on the bar. “No wonder people usually stop at two.”

“Not to mention, you’ll need to go back to work at some point. You work nights, don’t you? Someone’ll have to take care of the babe. Either a costly babysitter or the father.”

I was going to hell, but at least I was going to head there in style.

“A father?” She looked at me incredulously, as though I suggested she leave it with a street gang. “I already said I’m going to use a sperm donor.”

Was she now?

Impregnating Emmabelle Penrose was the perfect solution for all my pressing problems.

I would not propose to her—no. Neither of us wanted a marriage, and I suspected Belle was harder to tame than a honey badger on crack. But I would come to an arrangement with her of sorts. I would provide for her. She, in return, would be my mark of Cain. My ticket out of royalty.

My mother would be off my case, Louisa would want nothing to do with me, and other women would have no false illusions about making me settle down. Not to mention, I genuinely wanted an heir. I did not want the marquess title to die along with me. Recently, the British Parliament, in an effort to be more progressive, introduced a bill to say that children born out of wedlock were now legitimate heirs. It was like the universe was sending me a message.

Emmabelle was a flawless candidate for my plan.

Detached. Ruthlessly protective of her independence. Owner of a womb.

Plus, it needed to be said—impregnating the woman wasn’t going to be the hardest chore I’d ever been tasked with.

As my mind began drafting the fine print of such agreement, Belle was four steps behind me, still mourning her insufficient bank account.

“…probably need to get a loan from my sister. I mean, do I want to? No. But I can’t operate from a place of pride here. I’ve never not paid a loan, Devon. It’s hard to sleep at night when you know you owe people money. Even if it’s your sister—”

I cut her off, swiveling on my stool to face her. “I’ll have a baby with you.”

The woman was so drunk, her initial response was squinting at me slowly, like she’d just realized I was there in the first place.

“You, um, what?”

“I’ll give you what you want. A child. Financial security. The whole nine yards. You need a baby, money, and a co-parent. I can give you all of those things, if you give me an heir.”

She coiled away from me.

“I don’t want to marry, Devon. I know it worked for Persephone, but the whole monogamy thing ain’t my jam.”

Ain’t. She said ain’t. Pick up your things and leave.

My cock compelled me to stay.

I picked up the glass of water in front of her and guided it to her lips.

“I’m not offering you marriage, darling. Unlike Cillian, I have no interest in conveying to the world that I’ve been tamed and declawed. All I want is someone to have a child with. Separate households. Separate lives. Think about it.”

“You must be high.” Rich, coming from a woman who currently could not count the number of fingers on her right hand.

“Your child may be His or Her Highness, if you say yes,” I hissed.

There was not one sodding soul in Boston who wasn’t aware of my royal titles. People treated me like I was next in line to the throne, when in practice, about thirty people in the monarchy would have to find their untimely—and unlikely—death before I’d be made king.

I put my glass down, flagging the bartender and ordering her something greasy in a bun to help with her impending hangover. Outside the pub, night descended on the streets of Boston. The clock was ticking. I knew Emmabelle spent her nights either working at Madame Mayhem or clubbing.

“And that child would be a marquess?” She chewed on a lock of her yellow hair, more amused than contemplative.

“Or a marchioness.”

“Would they be invited to royal functions in England? A baby christening? Would I have to wear silly hats and curtsy?”

“Perhaps, if you fancy punishing yourself by RSVPing.”

“I don’t own any funny hats.” She scrunched her nose.

“I’d gift you one if we reproduce,” I said roughly, growing more and more enamored with the idea each passing second. She was perfect. And by perfect, I meant a mess. No one would touch me with a ten-foot pole if I got her pregnant. Least of all Louisa Butchart. “Look, we’ve already had sex, so we know the conception part would be dynamite. I’m rich, local, and of good health and IQ. I would pay child support, put you in a nice place, and help raise the child. We could go the joint custody route, or you could let me have visitation over the weekends and holidays. Either way, I’d insist on spending regular time with the babe, since I’d leave it an astronomical inheritance and royal title.”

She slanted her head to the side, studying me as though I was the one being unreasonable between us two.

“Think about it. That way you get all the things you need—more than a sperm donor, a father to the child, and cash for your trouble—without all the things you don’t want, namely a husband, someone to tie you down, and a person to answer to.”

“Are you insane?” she rubbed her forehead. I gave it some genuine thought, in case we’d skipped into the DNA ancestry part without my notice.

“It’s a possibility, but mustn’t be hereditary.”

“I can’t do this with you!” She flung her arms skyward.

“Why not?”

“For one thing, I’m not a gold digger.”

“You’re not,” I agreed as the bartender slid a plate with a cheeseburger and crisps Belle’s way. “Which is a shame. Gold diggers are underrated. They’re go-getters with a plan.”

“Our families would go nuts,” she said around a healthy bite full of relish, beef, and ketchup, licking her fingers. There was nothing sexier than Belle Penrose enjoying meat. Other than, perhaps, Belle Penrose enjoying my meat.

It was going to be a pleasure to put a baby inside this woman.

“Not sure about yours, but mine is already not exactly sane,” I said impassively, removing lint from my peacoat. “Jokes aside, I’m in my early forties. You’re in your thirties. We’re both the most independently accomplished individuals out of our group of friends. Everyone else around us has inherited or married into their positions. No one could look down on this arrangement.”

“I’d look down on it.” Belle popped a crisp into her mouth and chewed on it thoughtfully. “It’d complicate things for me. A sperm donor would have no claim over my child. I wouldn’t have to ask them permission to do anything. What school to send them to, how to raise them, how to dress them. The control would be all mine. I don’t like relinquishing power.”

“Sweets.” I pulled out a rollie from the tin box in my pocket and pushed it between my lips, lighting it up. “Very little in your life is in your power. Pretending otherwise sets yourself up for heartbreak. If you truly don’t want to play by mortals’ rules, tie your destiny to mine.”

“You’re not supposed to smoke in here, ass face.” She dropped the half-eaten burger on her plate, turning to watch the bartender intently to see what he’d do.

“Reality dictates otherwise.” I could take a shite right there on the bar and no one would bat an eyelash. I turned to look at the bartender, puffing a plume of smoke directly in his face.

“Isn’t that right, Brian?” I hissed.

“Ay, my lord, and it’s Ryland.” He bowed his head.

Belle cocked her head, regarding me skeptically. “What’s the trick here?”

“There’s no trick. Respect is given to those born into it.”

“Is this your selling point, Einstein? Because no part of me wants a spawn as condescending and spoiled as you.”

Smirking cordially—we both saw past this rubbish—I said, “Name your price.”

“Stop calling her ‘it’ for starters.”

“How do you know you’d be having a girl?” I was highly amused. I did not think of Emmabelle as an emotional, dream-filled female. You live, you learn.

“I just do.”

“Well?” I asked curtly. “Are we going to make the most genetically gifted person on planet Earth or what?”

Belle stood up, grabbed her secondhand designer bag, and flipped me the bird. “Or what. Find another woman to be your womb for hire. I’m going out to drink until this conversation erases itself from my conscience. No way it deserves any room in my gray matter.”

She departed, leaving me with the bill, an idea I was becoming enamored with, and a cell phone with a dozen missed calls from England and one frustrated Allison Kosinki who’d been waiting outside my apartment for the better half of the evening in high heels, a coat, and nothing else … waiting to get fucked.

Bugger.