Page 38 of A Story of Love

Bevil gave Miss Fontenot a significant once over and then smirked, evidently unimpressed.

Good. The last thing Fast wanted was for Bevil to guess just how much he liked Miss Fontenot. The other man was not above adding something new to the betting book at White’s.

By dismissing Miss Fontenot so summarily Bevil had, yet again, proven what a shallow, unobservant man he was. While her gown was an unattractive shade of blue and fit her like a shapeless sack with long sleeves—something Fast had never seen on a ballgown—her vibrant beauty still shone through.

The woman didn’t need pretty clothing to be stunning, but Moreland was too much of a snob to look past an unflattering garment.

“I’ve heard you are in the lead in that particular race,” Miss Fontenot said, interrupting his thoughts.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know what race I’m talking about—the one for Miss Pascoe’s hand, as well as the rest of her, including her money.”

Fast laughed. “Do you just say whatever comes to mind, Miss Fontenot?”

“Do you always evade direct questions?”

“Oh, was that a question? Because it sounded like an observation. Or an accusation. What makes you think I’m even in the running for Miss Pascoe’s delectable person and heaps of money?”

“It is well-known you came back to marry.”

“Strange that I didn’t know it.”

“Are you denying it? I know your grandfather is soon coming to London for the first time in over a decade. What else could bring him to the city but to arrange the betrothal of his heir?”

She was right about that—or at least partly right. His grandfather was trying to use guilt to force Fast into doing his duty. But the last person in London he would confide any information in—not to mention personal information—was the woman across from him.

“What a fertile imagination you have, ma’am. You should be writing fiction rather than slaving away a David Parker’s dreadful rag.”

“Miss Pascoe will make a lovely bride.” she retorted smoothly, ignoring his dig.

Fast chuckled. “You are a treasure, Miss Fontenot. Indeed, I can’t recall when I’ve been so diverted. Or enjoyed a dance more than this one.”

For a moment she looked flustered, and her lovely cheeks misted with pink.

Interesting. The little gossip monger could be disarmed by a compliment, whereas threats and Runners failed to disturb her cool, calm façade.

But the moment of shyness passed in the flicker of an eyelid and the hard-nosed newspaperwoman returned with a vengeance. “Why do you think somebody would accuse you of giving aid to mutineers, my lord?”

Again, he laughed. “You are relentless.”

***

Even though Lord Severn had laughed, Lori thought it sounded a bit forced.

He shook his head. “Astounding.”

“What is astounding?”

“You are always the newspaperwoman, even on the dance floor.”

“Those of us who work for a living must spin hay into gold while they may.”

“Ah, work. Something I wouldn’t know anything about?”

“Are you saying you were forced to earn a living as a privateer, my lord?” she asked, not bothering to keep disbelief from her tone. “That’s not really the same, is it? After all, you could always come home to grandpapa if you tired of playing at hard labor.”

His eyes, which had become wary at her mutiny question, now glittered with genuine amusement. It appeared the man enjoyed being baited and insulted. How…odd.