My Honourable Viscount - Lords of Reluctance Book 2

Chapter One

Honour - and the ultimate cost of said honour - was the furthest thought from the fashionably dressed gentleman's mind strolling down St James Street. Having just arrived in London for the Season, he was looking forward to reacquainting himself with various friends he had not seen for quite some time. His club was his first stop. The second would be to his mistress, having not sampled her practiced charms since he was last in Town. Although, the only reason he kept one was because every other gentleman did.

As far as he was concerned, there was only one drawback to this time of year and that was the dreaded Marriage Mart. The deplorable institution where debutantes and their hopeful mama's descend on the nation's capital in hope of making an advantageous match. The higher the title and the heavier the purse, the better. Unfortunately, Dukes and Marquesses were a little thin on the ground, so they considered Peter, Viscount Markham, the catch of the season. 

If being heir to the Earl of Ashington was not enough, his two estates he inherited from a maternal uncle with their independent income would cause Society matrons to pursue him relentlessly. Even his carefully cultivated reputation as a rake – false of course – would not curb their single-minded pursuit. Many of his misdeeds occurred when he came down from Oxford, but that did not stop the London tabbies from repeating them during innocuous drawing-room conversation. Thus his reputation as a lecherous rogue was secure, allowing him to pursue his other passions. Such as his charity he had founded, which no one but his family knew about. He was very much a silent partner. Not even his best friend, Nicholas, Marquess of Rutherford knew.

Lord Markham chuckled to himself as he sprang up the stairs to White's, ducking through the door that appeared to open by itself. He handed his black hat, dark grey greatcoat and amber handled cane to the porter and sauntered into the reading room. Oblivious to the ill-bred stares and whispers accompanying his entry, his emerald-green eyes scanned the room until they settled on the last person he wanted to see. Clarence Fulham. His usual good humour vanished into a puff of smoke.

Lord Markham's usually pleasant countenance twisted into a scowl, which only deepened when he noticed Mr Fulham mincing toward him.

Mr. Fulham was quite beyond Lord Markham’s considerable tolerance. Slender and of medium height, he had white blonde hair, pale blue eyes, and a long face, but few observers noticed those details, for his outlandish dress usually outshone all else. Pushing the bounds of even foppish attire, he wore a silver-blue tailcoat with lapels that extended well beyond his excessively padded shoulders, and buttons as large as his palm. Rose satin breeches clung to padded thighs. His waistcoat was embroidered with pink, blue, and yellow butterflies. A matching posy of hothouse flowers covered one lapel below shirt points so high and a foot-long cravat so stiff he could barely move his head.

Another explanation for Mr. Fulham's colourful appearance could be because he had an acid tongue, and took great delight in repeating every piece of gossip that happened to pass his notice. Whether it held a grain of truth or not. Perhaps he thought that by dressing to the extreme, it would detract from his less endearing qualities. One thing Lord Markham could not abide was the spreading of malicious gossip and judging by the expression on Mr Fulham's countenance, he had in his possession a juicy on-dit he wished to share. Just why he wished to share it with Lord Markham was quite beyond his understanding.

“Lord Markham, tho good to thee you back in London,” he lisped, his affectations causing Lord Markham to grind his teeth. “I must thay I am thurprithed it took tho long. Ith'nt your thithster making her bowth thith year?”

“Yes, she is, but I had some pressing matters to attend to at my estate,” Lord Markham explained. Although, he did not want to. Really, he did not want to speak to the man at all, but merely thinking the man annoying would not justify a cut. “Why do we not sit down. It would be more comfortable than conversing in the doorway.”