Pursuing Lord Pascal (4 page)

He’d swear the bewilderment in her eyes was
real—he’d seen enough false modesty in his time to know the
difference. “That’s not until five o’clock.”

“I hoped you’d give me a chance for some
private conversation first. There’s so much I want to know about
you.”

“Pascal, good afternoon.” Sally appeared in
the doorway and held out her hand.

He bowed over it politely, without any
particular urge to lengthen the contact. “Sally, you’re looking
lovely as ever.”

“Thank you.” Her perceptive green gaze
shifted between him and Lady Mowbray. “You’ve not long missed the
crowd. We’ve had callers all afternoon. Amy has caught society’s
eye.”

“Twaddle.” Another of those damnably charming
blushes. “Most of the callers were for Meg.”

Sally leveled a stern glance on her. “No,
most of them were for you.” She paused. “Although I’m delighted
that my niece has her admirers, too.”

“I’ve invited Lady Mowbray for a run in my
curricle.” He’d deliberately left his call late to avoid tripping
over every fop in London.

Sally subjected him to another of those
assessing stares. He’d known her for years. They were the same age,
and he’d danced with her at her first ball the year she married the
fabulously wealthy Lord Norwood. “That would be an excellent idea.
The approval of society’s darling will do wonders for Amy’s
cachet.”

While Amy looked daunted, Pascal gave an
amused snort. “I’m not escorting the lady for the benefit of those
other blockheads. I want to find out more about her.”

Sally’s eyes narrowed. She would know, even
if Amy Mowbray didn’t, that those words constituted a declaration
of intent. He waited for her to comment, but she merely turned to
Lady Mowbray. “I’ll keep Lord Pascal company while you run upstairs
and fetch your bonnet and pelisse.”

When they were alone, Sally crossed to fill
two glasses of brandy. She passed him one, took a sip from hers,
then fixed an uncompromising stare upon him. “Amy is my
friend.”

He arched his eyebrows, enjoying the
unconventional sight of a woman drinking spirits. “Are you warning
me away from her?”

Sally shrugged and wandered over to look out
the window to where his groom held his fine bay horses. “No. But
I’m saying if you hurt her, I’ll feed your liver to my
foxhounds.”

“Ouch,” he said mildly. “I’m inviting her for
a drive. We’re joining the fashionable throng in the park. She’ll
enjoy that.”

“I’m sure she will. Didn’t I hear a rumor
that you were about to offer for the Veivers chit?”

“You know how inaccurate gossip can be,” he
said lightly, hiding a shudder.

“She’s rich and pretty.”

And as stupid as a bale of hay. In fact, in
an intellectual contest, he’d back any bale of hay over Cissie
Veivers. “So is Lady Mowbray.”

“Just don’t turn Amy’s head.”

He smiled. “Sally, you make a fine bulldog,
protecting your charges. Your niece is only eighteen and needs you.
Lady Mowbray is old enough to look after herself.”

To his surprise, Sally didn’t look convinced.
In fact, this whole conversation was surprising. He was considered
a catch. The estates might suffer a temporary cash flow problem,
but the land was good, and his title was old and distinguished. And
while he’d long ago become bored with praise for his looks, he knew
he still set the ladies’ hearts aflutter.

“Remember—foxhounds,” she said darkly, as
Lady Mowbray returned in a devilish stylish dark green pelisse and
a military-style hat to match. His heart performed that strange
somersault again. She wasn’t pretty in the classic style, but by
God, she was as bright and vivid as a sunrise.

“You and Sally looked very serious,” Lady
Mowbray said, as they rolled away from the front of the house. His
groom was waiting for him back in Sally’s kitchen—Pascal didn’t
want anyone overhearing this conversation.

“She was warning me to be careful with you.”
Deftly he angled the light carriage between two heavy drays
threatening to block the road.

Annoyance flashed in her hazel eyes, turned
them a rich gold-green. “Did she indeed? I’ll have a word with her
when I get home.”

“She has a point. I have a reputation as a
rake, and I’m famous for trifling with ladies’ affections, then
dropping them cold.”

“I know about your reputation.” She studied
him with that direct, inquiring gaze he recalled from their dances
last night. “All Silas’s society friends are naughty men.”

“Your brother isn’t naughty anymore.” Eight
years ago, Lord Stone had married a lovely widow, and he’d been
blissfully happy ever since. Something about Amy Mowbray’s company
on this fine day made Pascal wonder if emulating him mightn’t be a
bad idea.

“Not in public, anyway.”

“So you’re not afraid of my intentions?”

Still she inspected him, as if she saw
beneath his spectacular hide to the less than spectacular soul
beneath. With most of his flirts, problems invariably arose once
the lady discovered an average man lurked beneath his apollonian
looks. They expected a prince, and instead got Gervaise Dacre, with
all his faults.

Under Amy Mowbray’s regard, he shifted
uncomfortably. He had an awful suspicion she already guessed he
wasn’t a perfect knight.

The pause lengthened. “Lady Mowbray?”

A faint smile lifted one corner of her mouth.
He bit back the impulse to kiss her. One day, he would. Not today.
And not when he had to devote at least half his attention to
negotiating London’s bustling streets.

“You know, I’m not sure I am.” Her smile
lengthened. “Although I’m hurt you don’t remember that we’ve
already met.”

The carriage’s gentle rocking bumped her hip
against his in a pleasing way. “You’ve been to London before?”

“I had a season before I married. But before
that, you came to Woodley Park for the hunting. I had a horribly
painful case of calf love for you when I was fourteen, my
lord.”

He racked his brains. He remembered visiting
Lord Stone’s beautiful Leicestershire estate on several occasions.
He remembered Helena, Stone’s dashing dark-haired sister, and
Robert, tragically lost at sea a couple of years ago. “I should
have noticed you.”

She made a dismissive sound. “No, you
shouldn’t. Not really.”

A glimmer of memory sparked. “You were the
girl who talked farming at dinner.”

Another blush. “I was an awful bore.”

He laughed and shook his head. “You terrified
the life out of me. I already didn’t feel clever enough to be a
guest in that house. Helena and Robert discussed mathematics. Silas
was busy with his botanical specimens. And most intimidating of
all, there was this young Minerva who knew all about new strains of
wheat. I felt hopelessly shallow.”

“We can be a bit overwhelming when we’re
together.”

Pascal frowned, struggling to summon the
details of those long ago house parties. “We danced together,
didn’t we?”

She looked sheepish. “Now I am surprised
you’ve forgotten that. I bruised your toes most egregiously.”

He gave a low laugh. “You didn’t last night.
You’ve been practicing.”

A mysterious smile curved her lips. “I
have.”

It was his turn to study her and try to
winkle out her secrets. Luckily they’d turned into the park so he
was no longer at risk of killing someone, if he didn’t pay
attention to driving. “Make me a happy man, and tell me you’re
still carrying the willow for me.”

“Don’t be absurd.” The blush intensified, and
she looked away. “I’ve been married and widowed since then. My
passing fancy for you ended nearly ten years ago.”

“Pity,” he said shortly. “Are you still
interested in modern farming?”

Her expression turned wry. “If I say yes,
does that mean you’ll drop me from your list of dance
partners?”

“No, I don’t think it does,” he said slowly.
“I could listen to you talk about anything, even marrows and
parsnips.”

A dry laugh greeted what had been a sincere
statement, damn it. “My lord, you’d better watch out. I might put
that flummery to the test. There’s a new variety of turnip coming
out of the Low Countries that has me in alt. I can talk about it
for hours.”

He shook his head, enjoying her humor. Her
crackling intelligence was devilish appealing. Especially after a
month of Miss Veivers and her ilk. “I look forward to hearing about
it.”

“No, you don’t.”

Actually recent bad harvests had turned his
mind to crop yields, if only out of self-interest. “So you were
madly in love with me,” he said in a considering tone.

“Quite madly.” With exaggerated ardor, she
batted her eyes at him.

“So who was the cad who stole you away from
me?” He set the horses to a gentle amble, so he could concentrate
on the woman beside him.

Regret shadowed her eyes to the color of
light through a forest glade. He’d never met a woman with such an
expressive face. “You’re asking about my husband.”

“Yes.” He drew the carriage to a stop under a
chestnut, coming back to life after a long winter. Pascal had an
idea how that felt.

Admiration and social success had spoiled
him. The ennui of the last few years was the inevitable result of
never needing to strive for anything. In Amy Mowbray’s company,
ennui was the last thing he felt. Marrying this widow for her money
promised to be a complete and undeserved delight.

She avoided his eyes and smoothed her dark
green skirts over her knees. “How odd. We’re already progressing
beyond small talk.”

“We are.”

“I think…I think I’d rather talk about the
weather.”

“Really?”

He let the silence extend, until she turned
troubled eyes up to meet his steady gaze. “We’re strangers, my
lord.”

They were concealed from sight, unless
someone followed the winding path behind them. He placed his hand
on hers where it twisted the material of her skirts. Over the
years, he’d explored every sensual pleasure, so touching Amy’s hand
should have no great significance. But when she didn’t pull away,
he felt a surge of anticipation completely out of kilter with the
action’s innocence.

“Nonsense. I’ve known you since you were
fourteen.”

“Even if you don’t remember.” She cast him an
unimpressed glance under her thick fan of eyelashes. “And should we
be holding hands in public?”

He smiled, unexpectedly enchanted. Last
night, he’d liked her, and he’d found her attractive—what
red-blooded man wouldn’t? But today, every second changed the
performance of duty into the pursuit of pleasure.

The world considered him a lucky sod. Right
now, when fate offered him the chance to bed Amy Mowbray and at the
same time, solve his financial woes, he was inclined to agree. He
knew enough about women to recognize that, while she was far from
won, she was intrigued. There was a catch to her breath, and the
heaviness in those bright eyes betrayed sensual interest.

“There’s nobody here but us.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

He looked around, as if checking for
observers. “A man must seize his opportunity.”

“Lord Pascal…” she said repressively,
although the throb of excitement in her voice ruined the
effect.

“Lady Mowbray.” He tightened his hold on her
hand, although she hadn’t tried to pull away. On the narrow seat,
her hip nestled warm against him.

Good intentions could go to blazes.

He leaned in and brushed his lips across
hers. There was a fleeting sweetness, a huff of feminine outrage,
the impression of softness. Then he drew back, astonished at how
difficult it was to resist returning for a longer taste.

“Nice,” he whispered.

The air shimmered with awareness, before she
broke the thread twining between them with a soft laugh. “My
goodness, you really are a rake. How exciting.”

Curiosity lit her eyes, and her lush lips
were still parted. Then and there, he decided that this pursuit was
serious. Probably the most serious thing he’d ever attempt in his
hedonistic, purposeless life. “Reformed rakes make the best
husbands, I’ve been told.”

Shock widened her eyes, banished the
amusement. More shock than she’d demonstrated when he kissed her.
Which was interesting.

“Husbands?”

He smiled self-confidently and turned his
attention to the horses, flicking the reins to get them moving
again. “I warned you I had intentions, Lady Mowbray.”

As the carriage rolled into motion, Amy was
breathless, caught up in a dream, rushed along from event to event
with no logic to link them. Her lips tingled after that brief kiss
in a way they’d never tingled after her husband’s rare kisses. Now
the man she’d mooned after as a girl said he wanted to marry
her.

She resisted the urge to pinch herself. When
she was a dizzy adolescent, head over heels with her brother’s
picturesque friend, she’d imagined Pascal declaring his love. In
her innocence, that had usually involved a rose garden, and a white
horse, and endless yearning looks.

By the time she turned sixteen, she’d
recognized those fantasies as mawkish and unrealistic. Heavens, if
she’d thrown in a couple of unicorns and a troupe of dancing
fairies, her dreams couldn’t have been more unlikely to come
true.

Since then, she hadn’t entertained a single
romantic thought. Until Lord Pascal had danced with her and revived
the remnants of foolish girlhood that lingered under her practical
manner.

She was too flustered to be tactful. Not that
tact came naturally anyway. “We have nothing in common. The idea’s
ridiculous.”

Instead of taking umbrage, he laughed with
sardonic appreciation. “This is the first time I’ve discussed
marriage with a lady. You could be a little kinder.”

“I’m sorry.” She’d noticed last night that
for a man whose handsomeness was universally praised, he showed a
refreshing lack of vanity. “You caught me by surprise.”