Page 51 of A Story of Love

“Excellent. It is most propitious the gown arrived today. you can wear it and the jewels tonight.”

“Tonight?” Lori repeated. “I did not think we had any engagements?”

“I accepted two invitations for this evening. On both our behalf.”

“Two? But I hadn’t—” she broke off at Freddie’s narrow look. “Er, what are we attending tonight?”

“Lady Russell’s ball first, and then we shall stop in at the Countess of Rutland’s.”

“I can come to the first one, Freddie, but there really is something I need to do later.”

“There is something you need to do at midnight?” Freddie repeated.

“Er, yes.”

“Something dangerous?”

“Of course not,” she lied.

“Am I going to read about whatever you are doing in tomorrow’s newspaper, Lori?”

“It’s nothing like that, Freddie.” At least she certainly hoped not, although Lori knew that David would, without compunction—indeed, quite eagerly—publish a story that reported the arrest of the Countess of Sedgewick’s housemate at one of the most salacious and dangerous wharf front taverns in London.

“I will only be gone a few hours, Freddie. And it is completely harmless.”

Freddie stared for a long moment before nodding. “I hope so.”

So did Lori.

***

Miss Fontenot’s green eyes sparkled up at Fast, the glitter in them putting the emeralds around her neck to shame. “You look perturbed, Lord Severn. Should I not have asked you to dance tonight?”

Fast was angry—and disgusted—but at himself rather than Miss Fontenot.

First, for buying her the damned gown and jewels that he was currently imagining tearing from her body.

Second, for coming to this ball in the hope that she would be here.

Third, for saying yes to her cheeky request for a waltz.

It was time to face the truth: where Miss Fontenot was concerned, Fast was weakness itself.

He’d lied to himself and said that he needed to come tonight if he was to continue irritating Moreland by courting Miss Pascoe.

He’d told himself that Miss Fontenot would still be so angry with him about the last time they’d spoken that he would get to watch her from afar without risking another exchange between them.

He was an idiot.

“My lord?”

“Hmm?” he murmured, deftly guiding her around a pair of dancers whose enthusiasm for the waltz was greater than their skill.

“Are you perturbed that I asked you to dance?”

When he looked down, he saw a glint of something that looked like concern in her eyes.

“I wanted to dance with you,” he said.