Pursuing Lord Pascal (18 page)

He looked up and met her eyes. The bright
hazel turned a dull, muddy brown. He loathed that he’d made this
vivid creature so wretched.

“You speak of honor?”

His mouth curved down in corrosive
self-hatred. “You have every right to despise me.”

“Gervaise, I can take it. Whatever the full
story is.” She still spoke in that calm voice. He’d feel better if
she shouted and wept. “Just tell me. And don’t lie.”

Sucking in a shuddering breath, he went back
to studying the carpet. He couldn’t endure seeing her regard turn
to contempt. In recent days he’d imagined—hoped—he looked into her
eyes and saw love.

“The Compton-Browne chit is right.” His flat
voice masked the acrid desolation eating at him. “I badly need
money to repair the damage to my estate. We had a hurricane through
last winter. I believe the place will recover and become profitable
again. It’s good land, and the tenants are hardworking.”

“But right now it’s a mess,” she said, and he
recalled that she’d been a farmer most of her life. At least he
didn’t need to describe the toll on life and property the storm had
taken. “I understand.”

He tensed his fists against rising despair.
He could sink into the mire of his sins once she’d left him. Now he
needed to concentrate on giving her an explanation, however badly
he emerged from the tale. “So I came to Town, seeking a rich wife.
I’m thirty. It was time to set up my nursery anyway.”

“Very pragmatic.”

He ignored her acerbic response. “I’m not
saying I wanted to marry. You know I’ve been a libertine.”

“I know,” she said, in a hollow tone that
crushed his heart to the size of a walnut. He ached to offer her
comfort, but what comfort could she accept from the man who’d hurt
her so unforgivably?

He forced himself to continue, although every
word of his confession made his skin crawl. “I started my hunt with
the current crop of debutantes, but, Lord above, they’re a
henwitted bunch. Silliest gaggle of chits to arrive on the marriage
mart in ten years. The night I met you, I was trying to choose
between offering for Cissie Veivers, or going home and cutting my
throat. When I saw you across that ballroom, you were the answer to
a prayer.”

“Plump in the pocket, and too naïve to
question your sudden unlikely interest?”

His self-loathing sharpened to agony. She’d
be better off if he had cut his throat after the Raynor ball. Over
the last weeks, he’d loved watching as her confidence blossomed.
Now he’d destroyed it. What a bastard he was.

And still he had to finish this deuced
excruciating account. “I remember saying to myself, after yet
another soporific conversation with Miss Veivers, that I’d sell my
soul for a sensible woman past first youth who had the money to
restore my lands.”

“And your prayers were answered,” she said
bitterly. “Although I wouldn’t describe my recent behavior as
sensible.”

He sighed. “It’s my damned selfishness. All
my life, what I’ve wanted has dropped into my lap. Often I haven’t
even taken the trouble to ask for it. When I saw you, and you were
so exactly the right wife for me, I assumed ever-reliable fate
operated once more to my advantage.”

“Lucky you.”

He winced at her sarcasm. “No. All that good
fortune made me shallow.”

Her restive hands pleated her skirts. Part of
him wished she’d just hit him. She’d feel better if she unleashed
the turmoil roiling beneath her unnatural composure.

“Not…shallow,” she said slowly. “Thoughtless
perhaps.”

“That’s not much better.” The need to take
her hand in his was torture. Hell, everything right now was
torture.

She was still pale as rice paper. He beat
back the memory of how she’d looked after he’d taken her. Rosy with
satisfaction. Brilliant with happiness. He couldn’t endure the
contrast with this sad woman beside him now.

“So your plan came to fruition. You saw me,
and lured me in, and had your way with me.” Vinegar crept into her
voice. “I should have guessed a man like you wouldn’t pursue a
woman like me without some underlying motive.”

“Amy, no,” he protested, and this time he
couldn’t resist seizing her fretful hand. “One of the reasons I
delayed telling you is that I knew this is what you’d think. But
you’re wrong.”

She wrenched free, and he had to let her go.
“No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

The hard-eyed gaze she settled on him
penetrated his deceptively appealing exterior to the shameful sins
beneath. “Prove it.”

He should be grateful she gave him a chance
to explain, although he was all too conscious that words were
inadequate to heal the injury he’d done her. But words were all
that were left to him. He’d have to do his best. He owed her any
recompense he could make. Even if none of it was enough.

Drawing a shaky breath, Pascal faced up to
the disaster he’d made of the most important relationship in his
useless life.

He’d always skated by on charm and looks. It
had been enough for everyone else he knew. It wasn’t good enough
for Amy.

“I liked you from the first. You must believe
that. You were clever and interesting, and you didn’t make cow eyes
at me or giggle.”

“I should hope not.”

“And you were so lovely—and unaware of your
attractions, which made you even more appealing.”

“Because I was ripe for duping?”

Hell, she was a million miles from forgiving
him. He reached a point where her forgiveness was all he hoped
for—with no great optimism that he’d receive it. His machinations
had put anything more forever out of reach. Knowing it was his own
fault that he reached this impasse made him want to smash his fist
through a window.

“No. Because I live in a world of appearances
and lies, and you’re so rare and true. How in Hades could I resist
you?”

He waited for Amy to challenge that
statement, but she remained silent. He forced himself to go on. “In
my conceit, I thought you were drawn to me, the way I was drawn to
you.”

“Well, I kissed you when we weren’t much
beyond strangers.” The shame in her voice made him flinch. “What
else would you think?”

“What I thought was that I was in trouble.
Even that first night, my self-serving plan was under threat. You
made me feel things I’d never felt before. I should have taken to
my heels then and there. But already I was enchanted.”

“With my fortune.”

“No, with you. With your quirky humor, and
lovely face, and quick passion.” He paused. “And your lonely,
steadfast heart.”

It was her turn to flinch. For the first
time, she looked away from him. “I refuse to discuss my lonely,
steadfast heart.”

“But don’t you see?” He jerked to his feet.
He couldn’t sit beside her any longer without hauling her into his
arms. “I’ve been lonely, too.”

“You?” She stared up at him with blatant
disbelief.

Good God, she stripped his black soul bare.
“London’s handsomest man doesn’t have friends. He has
admirers.”

“Oh, Gervaise…”

Pascal recoiled from the pity in her eyes and
ran a shaking hand through his hair. “But you didn’t tumble into my
arms like every other woman I’ve ever wanted.” He drew himself up
to his full height, as if he faced an executioner. In terms of his
future happiness, he supposed he did. “You made me work for my
victory. You made me prove myself. I learned to respect you.”

“Then I tumbled anyway. So much for
respect.”

“Don’t be a fool, Amy,” he said shortly.
“I’ve never been so happy in my life as I’ve been this last
fortnight with you.”

She still studied him as if she weighed every
word. She weighed his soul, too. He suffered the wretched certainty
that his soul came up lacking. “You almost sound as if you mean
that.”

He made a frustrated gesture. “Of course I
bloody mean it.”

“So what are you saying?” She stood up too,
more circumspectly than he had. “That you started this pursuit to
gain my fortune, but you’ve since developed a genuine affection for
me?”

His grunt of laughter held no amusement. “Oh,
my darling, it’s much, much worse than that.”

He watched her prepare for another blow.
“You’ve told me most of it. You may as well tell me
everything.”

Sheer terror cramped his gut. His skin
itched. Right now, he’d give every penny of his depleted fortune to
avoid the last, most painful confession. This situation called for
a man of character—and he’d never been that.

But he had to go on, whatever happened
next.

His voice emerged as a growl. “I don’t just
like and respect and desire you. I don’t just want to be your
friend and your lover.”

“No, you want to be my banker,” she
retorted.

He ignored her astringent interjection, too
busy summoning every ragtag shred of courage to make the last,
humiliating revelation. “I’ve fallen head over heels with you, Amy.
My life without you will be a barren waste.” Then he spoke words
he’d never said before, words he never thought he’d say to anyone.
“I love you.”

* * *

Aghast, Amy retreated until her legs bumped
the couch. Her knees felt weak and shaky. To stay upright, she
fumbled for the back of the couch. She felt so horridly lost and
confused. Tonight she’d been through a storm to rival the hurricane
that destroyed Gervaise’s fortune. She’d jolted from ecstasy to
betrayal and anguish.

And now this, the ultimate shock.

In all their time together, she’d never
imagined him saying such a thing to her.

Did he mean it? Could she trust him? Her gaze
clung to that austere, perfect face. He looked desperately unhappy,
and a muscle flickered in his cheek. He gave every appearance of a
man on the emotional edge.

Was that because he was about to lose Amy
Mowbray? Or Amy Mowbray’s substantial fortune?

“That’s easy to say,” she said sharply.

His smile was sour. “No, it isn’t. And the
devil of it is I mean it to my soul, yet you’ll never believe it’s
true.”

Still she studied him, her vision at last
free of the deceiving veils of glamour and girlhood fantasy. For
the first time, his extraordinary looks weren’t what captured her
attention. Instead she finally saw the fallible man beneath his
superb shell.

So where did that leave her? Did fallible
mean irredeemable? Or was there a whisper of goodness skulking
under his spectacular hide?

For the last few weeks, desire had steered
her usually reliable brain. But now, she started to think. She
needed to winnow the truth from the lies. If there was any truth
there at all. “Why didn’t you tell me about your estate?”

He sighed. “Because you doubted yourself so
completely, you’d immediately assume the only reason I pursued you
was for your money. And that’s exactly what’s happened, damn
it.”

To her surprise, as she witnessed what looked
like genuine distress, part of her suspected he wasn’t entirely
false. At least not all the time. “After tonight, I think a tiny
corner of you holds some honest regard for me.”

He cast her an astonished glance.
“Really?”

She shrugged and dared to take a step toward
him. “Apparently my affair with the much sought-after Lord Pascal
has done wonders for my confidence.”

He frowned, as if seeking some hidden attack
in her words. “But how the devil can I ever convince you I don’t
want your money?”

“I thought you did want it.”

His smile was grim. “I do. But not as much as
I want you.”

She almost—
almost
—believed him. “We
could put it in trust for our children.”

He looked brighter. “We could. That’s an
excellent idea. We might have to live quietly in the country for a
couple of years. Watch our pennies. Do the urgent tasks first, and
leave the rest until we can afford it. I’m sure if we make some
economies on the estate, we’ll manage.”

“We could work something out, that’s
certain.”

“Amy?” Gervaise regarded her as if he still
didn’t trust what she said. He’d been so sunk in self-hatred and
misery, she couldn’t blame him.

“And you’re marrying a woman famous for her
scientific approach to farming. Once I get my hands on it, your
estate will be a showplace in no time.”

The flare of hope in his eyes set her heart
racing and skipping and jumping. She sent up a tiny, urgent prayer.
Dear Lord, don’t let this be another trick.

He’d lied to her. That was irrefutable. But
did that mean everything was lies?

Her brain had come to her rescue, thank
heaven. And reminded her of what she and Gervaise had shared.

While his motives had undeniably been murky,
Amy couldn’t dismiss all his actions as callous self-interest. She
remembered how desperate he’d been for her, and how careful when
he’d taken her. And how desolate he’d looked when he thought he’d
lost her.

She remembered, too, how amiably he’d devoted
a day to tramping around Sir Godfrey Yelland’s muddy farm, just
because she wanted to look at cattle. She remembered his kindness
and his humor. And how he’d entrusted her with the sad story of his
childhood, when it was clear the humiliating details left his pride
in tatters.

She remembered the times—until tonight when
he’d been mad for her—he’d protected her from conceiving. When a
pregnancy was the quickest, surest way to gain her consent to a
wedding.

She remembered how mad he’d been for her
tonight.

Gervaise’s stare was unwavering, as if he was
a condemned man, and only she could save him from a hanging.

“The tragic truth is that’s why I want to
marry you—all that free advice.” He struggled to achieve his usual
sardonic note. It was a little too threadbare to be convincing. But
the small, dry joke hinted that he crawled out of his despair.

She prayed that he really was in despair, and
this wasn’t more deception. But some bone-deep instinct insisted
that he wouldn’t betray her again. That he might have started out
after her fortune, but against all the odds, now he really did love
her.