Page 45 of A Story of Love

“I’ll admit that your attention adds a sort of zest to my days. And nights.”

She snorted, clearly uninterested in flirtation, no matter how mild. “Why does Parker hate you so much?”

“What, you don’t know the story?”

“Would I ask if I did?”

Fast sighed. “He wrote a story about my grandfather years ago—this is when I was still a lad—and, as usual, he got a great deal of it wrong. My grandfather sued Parker’s employer and won. I dare say it was not pleasant for him, even though the money came out of somebody else’s pocket. So, I suppose the answer to your question is revenge. Which makes me suspicious as to why he has suddenly stopped haunting my every move.”

“You aren’t the only source of news in the city, my lord.”

“I’m glad to hear that he finally realized that.”

“Oh, he still wants stories about you, but I have my own fish to fry.”

“Indeed? What lucky fish they are to have your attention.”

She tilted her head. “Is that the best the King of the Rakes can manage?”

“You want my best?”

“Of course.”

“I save my best for the bedchamber, darling.”

She rolled her eyes.

Fast laughed. “I deserve that.”

“You do,” she agreed. “Tell me, why aren’t you asking Miss Pascoe for the supper dance?”

“What makes you think I haven’t and she turned me down?”

“I suspect she has been sternly instructed to reserve that set for the heir to a marquessate.”

He clucked his tongue. “That does not speak highly of my personal charm.”

“It wouldn’t matter if you had the charm of a chamber pot; Bryok Pascoe is determined to have you for a son-in-law.”

Fast laughed. “Thank you, Miss Fontenot.”

She shrugged. “It wasn’t meant to be an insult; it is merely the truth.”

“So young and yet so cynical.”

“I prefer the word pragmatic.”

“For your information, Miss Pragmatist, you are the first woman I have asked for the supper dance.”

She stared at him appraisingly, and Fast could almost hear the gears churning away in that clever mind of hers. “May I ask you something, my lord?”

“I am shaking in my dancing slippers, Miss Fontenot. You have never asked permission before; it must be a truly offensive question.”

“What if I promise not to include anything you say for the duration of this dance in any article? What if I promise you confidentiality? Will you answer my questions honestly?”

“Why, Miss Fontenot! Are you feeling ill?”

She gave him an exasperated huff. “Why don’t we just talk? I’ve heard that normal people do that on occasion.”