“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.”