Page 2 of A Story of Love

His jaw dropped when he recognized her. It was bloody Lorelei Fontenot! What in the name of God was she doing at this ball?

It wasn’t common knowledge, but Fast knew that Miss Fontenot was an especially sharp-quilled gossip columnist who wrote under the bi-line of Miss Emily. He’d seen the blasted woman at dozens of parties and assemblies, but never at a function as exclusive as Avington’s betrothal ball.

Fast suspected that Miss Emily wasn’t the only nom de plume she wrote under because she followed him all over London—to places that were decidedly not good ton.

Miss Fontenot was just one of the dozens of newspaper journalists who shadowed his every move, harassed the crew of the Vixen, and pestered the servants at his grandfather’s house on Berkeley Square. The only reason Fast knew her name was because of her gender. As far as he knew, she was the only female scandalmonger in London.

Why in the hell was Avington dancing with her? Did he know who she really was? Fast had always assumed the woman crashed ton events. Was it possible that she had actually been invited to Avington’s betrothal ball?

Forget about the blasted woman. You’ll be leaving in less than a week. Besides, the last thing you want to do tonight is cause a stir. There will be plenty written about you in the newspapers tomorrow without you adding to it.

That was true enough. Fast thrust Miss Fontenot from his thoughts; let somebody else deal with the pestilential newspaperwoman.

He turned his back on the dance floor only to be confronted by his youthful group of male admirers, all eagerly waiting to see what Fast might do next.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. He couldn’t bear another minute of this idiocy. He’d made an appearance, given his best wishes to Avington—an old friend and the sole reason for coming to this blasted ball—and there really wasn’t any need for him to stay.

You could begin looking for your wife-to-be. Several of the women on your grandfather’s list are in this very room…

Fast ignored the snide suggestion. Instead, he headed toward the door.

He could not stay on his ship tonight—not with all the excitement planned for later—but he could go to Grandon House—his family home on Berkeley Square—and have an early evening for once.

***

Lorelei Fontenot watched in dismay as Viscount Severn strode toward the door. She’d been waiting for the perfect moment to approach him all night, and now he was leaving!

Lori shoved through the crowd, making liberal use of her elbows and earning more than a few irritated glances in the process. She nudged aside the clutch of young men immediately behind the viscount and tapped him on the shoulder.

He whirled around and stared down at her, his eyes a stunning frosty blue that appeared even lighter close up.

Lori had been spying on him for weeks and knew he was an enormous man, but she had never been so close to him before. Seeing him across a dance floor was one thing; standing six inches away from him was another experience entirely. Although his prominent cheekbones, chiseled jaw, and jutting blade of a nose were far too severe for him to ever be called classically handsome there was no denying that he was ruggedly masculine and attractive.

In addition to his massive person and striking features were his eyes, which were a startlingly pale blue. But it wasn’t just their icy color that seized a person’s attention, but the keen, predatory intelligence that blazed out of them.

Right now, those cold orbs exhibited a surprising recognition in their frigid depths.

“You,” he hissed, the single word pulsing with loathing and menace.

Lori tried to step back, but there were bodies all around her. She swallowed and licked her lips, which were sticking to her teeth. “Er, you know who I am?”

“How are you even at this ball?” An unpleasant smile spread across his lips. “I’ll wager our hostess would be surprised to learn she’s allowed an ink-stained wretch into her house.”

Three of the young lords who slavishly tailed after Viscount Severn snickered and murmured encouragement to their idol.

Lori’s face heated under his contemptuous gaze. “Perhaps we might go somewhere private to discuss this matter, my lord.”

He crossed his arms, the action drawing attention to his large biceps and massive chest. “I like it right here. Go ahead, Miss, er—” he broke off, his pale eyes narrowing. “I’m afraid I don’t know your real name as it doesn’t appear on the gossipy rubbish your employer—David Parker—publishes in that rag he calls a newspaper.”

His words stung because Lori happened to agree with his assessment—or at least partly. The truth was that many of the stories David, her editor, chose to publish were rubbish. And Lori hated that she was reduced to haunting ton functions to collect society gossip to print under her Miss Emily byline. Unfortunately, she needed to earn a living, just like everyone else. Or at least everyone who wasn’t a wealthy peer like the man in front of her.

Lori opened her mouth to tell him as much, but he was not finished.

“Never mind—I don’t care what your real name is. I’ll just call you Miss Emily.” He sneered. “Perhaps I should investigate you, Miss Emily? Do you just provide brainless drivel for Parker’s shameless rag or are you also his doxy?” His eyes glinted with malicious humor at her stunned gasp. “I’ll wager I could concoct a truly salacious tale about the two of you and sell it to one of Parker’s crack-brained competitors. How would you like that?”

Her foot twitched with the urge to kick him and Lori had to strenuously remind herself that she was a professional journalist. She crossed her arms, her hostile pose a mirror of his. “My name is Miss Fontenot, but I suspect you already know that. I want—”

“I don’t give a tinker’s damn what you want!” he snarled. “You people hound me day and night wherever I go. My servants say that you have even rooted through my rubbish. And now you have the audacity to follow me to the betrothal ball of one of my friends to trawl for salacious gossip?”