Page 1 of A Story of Love

Chapter 1

London

1816

“I have heard the Lewisham chit is worth close to a quarter of a million pounds,” the Earl of Tynedale brayed in a voice loud enough to be heard over the din of the orchestra and three-hundred-and-fifty chattering voices.

“With a face like that I would need at least that much to do my duty to King and country,” a different voice retorted, causing the crowd of young bucks to guffaw.

“All cats are grey in the dark, Fulton.”

The men laughed uproariously at Tynedale’s comment.

Stand Fast Makepeace, Viscount Severn and heir to the Marquess of Grandon, tried to ignore the men’s blathering. He would have liked to ignore them entirely, but he couldn’t seem to evade the bloody pests.

Fast—as only his friends were allowed to call him—had scarcely been back in England a week when he’d attracted a group of admiring young fools who followed him like a clutch of besotted schoolgirls. The men—or boys, rather—were exhaustingly eager to learn the finer points of raking from a man who’d once been known as the King of the Rakes. It didn’t seem to matter to the brainless lads that Fast had absolutely no interest in repeating the exploits of his long-ago youth.

He firmly pushed his court of fawning, babbling admirers from his thoughts and stared out over the crowded dance floor. If a person had asked Fast a month ago if he would ever return to England, he would have laughed in their face. And he would have howled with disbelief if anyone had suggested that he would ever attend another ton function.

And yet here he was in a ballroom surrounded by the crème-de-la-crème of London society.

If you are so goddamned ashamed of me, I will leave England forever! Those were the last words Fast had flung at his grandfather—the Marquess of Grandon—the night he’d fled the family home. And Fast had adhered to his oath for more than a decade and a half. He had been twenty-three when he’d left behind the only home he’d ever known and plunged into the great unknown. In a few months he would be thirty-nine.

Looking back on his early years he could now accept that even if he’d not been guilty of all his grandfather’s accusations, he had been a wild, willful, and ungovernable youth.

As much as it pained him to admit it, he’d once been every bit as witless as the young Corinthians now trailing him about London. Fast had been up for all dares and wagers in his younger days, ready to engage in any foolishness no matter how dangerous.

Fast’s first years away from England had given him one shock after another. The sort of reckless behavior that he had engaged in with other young aristocrats would get a man killed at sea. He had grown up quickly and his life had been a constant struggle for survival. It had taken years before he had achieved a measure of success—and even a bit of contentment, if not actual happiness.

Fast would never have returned to England if not for the letter he’d received from his grandfather a few months ago. Claiming rapidly failing health, the old man had all but begged him to come home. Fast could hardly ignore his grandfather’s pleas, especially when the man had never issued anything except commands in all the years he’d known him.

So, he had hurried home, only to discover that the marquess had lied. He was not ill; he was alive and well, albeit very, very old.

As grateful as he’d been that his grandfather wasn’t at death’s door, Fast had been furious at the old man’s deception. But after his initial anger had faded, he’d felt almost grateful for his grandfather’s ruse. Surprisingly, coming home had made him realize how much he’d missed England. It also reminded him of his duty to his family.

The marquess had not apologized for accusing Fast of driving his twin brother—Perseverance, or Percy as his family and friends had always called him—to commit suicide all those years ago, but the old man made it clear by his actions that he regretted his angry words.

Slowly and tentatively Fast and the marquess had spent the last month getting reacquainted. The old man’s demands—which had seemed extreme when Fast was three-and-twenty—now appeared not only reasonable, but justifiable. The marquess wanted what he had always wanted: an heir to carry on the family name. He was desperate for Fast to settle down and marry.

At almost forty years of age Fast no longer rebelled against the prospect of marriage. Indeed, for the last few years he’d begun to not just consider a wife and children, but to yearn for both.

It was because of that yearning that Fast had, in a moment of weakness, capitulated to his grandfather’s plea that he marry.

But Fast had two requirements of his own.

First, he’d given his word to a friend that he would make one last run on his ship, the Vixen. The journey would take nine months. Only when that trip was over would he return to England and marry.

Second, while Fast accepted the value of family connections and good breeding, he refused to marry an aristocratic broodmare. He would choose a wife to suit himself, first and foremost. His wife’s social standing would be a secondary concern.

The marquess had unhappily accepted the first condition—he understood the sanctity of a gentleman’s word—but he had vigorously opposed the second.

The wily old man had already compiled a list of a dozen appropriate marital prospects and wanted Fast to promise that he would only select one of those women.

Arguments had ensued and tempers had flared. Finally, when matters were on the verge of becoming ugly, Fast had suggested tabling the discussion until he returned, at which time he promised to be guided by his grandfather’s wishes. He’d put heavy emphasis on the word guided.

Fast wasn’t looking forward to resuming that particular discussion, but he was looking forward to moving back to England and settling down, even though being home made him miss his long-dead twin fiercely. Indeed, the ache of the ancient wound was sharper than it had been in years. That is what his brother’s death had always felt like to Fast: a physical wound that had never completely healed. Clearly avoiding England hadn’t healed it; maybe taking up his family duties—responsibilities that Percy had taken very seriously when he had been the heir—might ease the pain.

Fast was pulled from his musing by the sight of the Earl of Avington—whose betrothal ball this was—waltzing with a striking dark-haired woman wearing an ill-fitting blue gown.