Pursuing Lord Pascal (6 page)

Morwenna straightened and briefly Amy forgot
her confusion about Pascal, and said a silent prayer of gratitude.
Her sister-in-law looked pretty and happy and vital in a way she
hadn’t since the news of Robert’s drowning. “Amy’s made a
conquest.”

Sally strolled across to the tea tray.
“Pascal? Good for you, Amy.”

“I didn’t say that,” Amy said.

“He was very quick to call. And he was most
attentive in the park. I thought poor little Miss Compton-Browne
might burst into tears.”

“I’m not up to his standard,” Amy said, in no
hurry to tell her friends of Pascal’s marital intentions. She could
hardly believe them, let alone expect anyone else to.

“Nonsense,” Sally said, settling on the
green-striped sofa and taking a bite of the delicate sugar biscuit
she’d chosen to accompany her tea. “You need to accept that while
you’ve hidden away like a little country mouse for most of your
life, you’re now a beautiful peacock, and all London knows it.
Having Pascal, who is so generally admired, in pursuit only
confirms your triumph.”

“He’s a dreadful flirt.”

Sally’s eyes sparkled. “Not so—he’s a highly
accomplished flirt. And there’s absolutely no reason not to flirt
back. When we came to London, it was on the clear understanding
that we were to have fun.”

“Are you suggesting an affair?” Morwenna
asked. “How wicked.”

Sally shrugged. “If Amy likes him, why not?
She’s a widow, and a few discreet adventures won’t spoil her
chances of remarrying.”

“I haven’t thought about remarrying,” she
said slowly. Odd that marriage popped up in two conversations
today.

“No reason you should. Except that you’re
young and pretty, and you might fall in love again.”

Grimness tinged Amy’s laugh. “There’s no
‘again’ involved. I didn’t love Wilfred. I married him to get my
hands on his herd of prize shorthorns.”

Sally gaped at her, then let out a peal of
laughter. “Amy, you’re priceless. I think in that case, it’s well
and truly time to seek a handsome lover.”

“Who knows?” Morwenna sent Amy a sly glance.
“Perhaps you’ll find Lord Pascal more entertaining than a field
full of fat Herefords.”

“He’s definitely prettier than a Hereford,”
Sally said.

“Sally, you have no idea how beautiful a fine
cow can be,” Amy said with perfect sincerity.

Morwenna threw up her hands. “Amy, you’re
utterly hopeless.”

* * *

The Bartletts’ ball was even more of a crush
than the Raynors’. But Amy started to find her feet in this
glamorous new world. Dancing twice with Lord Pascal last night and
appearing in his company in Hyde Park had branded her, however
unlikely, as a success. Within minutes of arrival, her dances were
all claimed. Sally and Morwenna were equally in demand. It seemed
the Dashing Widows lived up to their motto. Meg, too, was the
center of a laughing, happy group of young people.

Amy danced with a string of handsome, elegant
gentlemen who appeared to enjoy her company. She even managed an
interesting discussion with Sir Godfrey Yelland about her recent
article on cattle feed.

All was going as well as it possibly could.
So why did the evening feel flat? Had she already moved from stark
terror at the prospect of entering society to a disgust at the
ostentation and overcrowding? With no period in between when she
could bask in her unexpected popularity and admire this extravagant
world. That seemed cursed unfair.

She’d saved Pascal two dances as he’d
requested. Well, insisted. But so far, he was yet to make an
appearance.

There were plenty of other candidates to
dance with her, but she muffled a sigh as her latest partner
returned her to Sally’s side. She should have known Pascal’s
interest would fade. After all, London’s handsomest man would
hardly waste his time on a dressed-up rustic like Amy Mowbray.

But that didn’t prevent a heavy lump of
disappointment from settling in her stomach. The supper dance
Pascal had asked her to keep came next.

“Don’t look so downhearted, sweeting,” a deep
voice murmured beside her. “Clearly it’s time for the champagne
cure.”

The joy that gripped her was frightening.
Still, Amy had the sense to compose her expression before she
turned and curtsied. “Lord Pascal, good evening.”

Her cool response amused him. “And good
evening to you, Lady Mowbray.” He bowed and passed her a glass of
champagne. “Did you imagine I’d forgotten you?”

She put on an airy tone. “I wouldn’t have
lacked for a partner.”

“I’m sure.” He raised his glass in a silent
toast. “Would you like to join the set, or take a walk outside? The
Bartletts have put braziers on the terrace so their guests don’t
turn into icicles.”

Wisdom dictated that after Pascal’s
declaration this afternoon, she’d be safer in a crowd. But the
number of people crammed into the ballroom made Amy feel confined
and suffocated.

And some small, untamed part of her wanted to
be alone with Pascal. She thought his plan to marry her was
ludicrous, but he was still the most exciting man she’d ever met.
Even a brilliant occasion like the Bartletts’ ball lost all flavor
if he wasn’t there.

When Sally had reminded her this afternoon of
their pledge to become Dashing Widows, something inside Amy had
broken free. She mightn’t want to marry Lord Pascal. But by heaven,
she meant to enjoy his attention while she had it.

She raised her chin and met those worldly
blue eyes. “I would love a stroll, my lord.”

The pleasure in his expression made her
shiver. Mostly with anticipation, although enough of the old Amy
persisted to add a dash of nervousness.

“Excellent.” He presented his arm. “Shall we
go?”

She caught Sally’s eye as she headed toward
the French doors. Her friend’s smile brimmed with approval, before
she turned to greet Mr. Harslett for the next dance.

“Are you enjoying the ball?” Pascal asked, as
they stepped onto a terrace lit by torches and warmed, as promised,
with braziers full of coals.

“Yes.” Surprised, she realized it was true.
Now that Pascal was here. Which made for a terrifying admission.
“I’m sure you’re so accustomed to London’s whirl that one event
becomes much like another. But since my marriage, I’ve led a very
quiet life.”

Pascal gave one of those mocking laughs that
became familiar. “I’d be more convinced that your bucolic isolation
chafed, if I didn’t know how much you love it.”

She cast him a quick smile and sipped her
champagne. This was her second glass this evening. The first had
been sour and flat. This glass, courtesy of Pascal, was just right.
“You’ve discovered my shameful secret.”

They wandered down the steps into the
gardens. She caught glimpses of other couples snatching some air,
away from the ballroom’s stuffy heat, so she assumed this was
perfectly acceptable behavior.

“It wasn’t difficult once I worked out you
were Stone’s sister. You’re the clever woman who wrote all those
articles on animal husbandry. I should have known from the first,
but then I never imagined I’d want to dance with an expert on hoof
disease in beef cattle.”

“You’ve read my pieces?” Amy asked,
disconcerted.

“With interest. I’m trying the new farming
methods on my estates, and my bailiff is a long-term admirer of
your methods.”

“Th-thank you,” she said, flustered.

There was enough light to reveal the fond
smile he sent in her direction. “I do believe my appreciation of
your work has thrown you into more of a spin than all the times
I’ve told you you’re beautiful.”

Ridiculously, it was true. Perhaps because
her agricultural experiments belonged to the real Amy Mowbray,
whereas compliments he paid her looks were a tribute to Sally and
her skilled modiste.

“I’d be glad to advise you,” she said, then
was grateful that the shadows hid her blush. What a nitwit she was.
As if this sophisticated man wanted to talk agriculture at one of
the biggest social events of the year. To hide her mortification,
she gulped a mouthful of wine.

“I’d like that,” he said with what sounded
like enthusiasm. “Perhaps you’ll come to Northumberland and see for
yourself what needs to be done.”

Her self-castigation melted away. Astonishing
as it might be, he didn’t dismiss her as hopelessly
unsophisticated. She curled her hand around his arm more firmly. In
thin evening gloves, her fingers were cold. More, she wanted to
touch him.

The path he chose led away from the light.
She noticed but didn’t protest. The sinful hope arose that he might
kiss her again. Properly this time. Wilfred hadn’t been much for
kissing, but she’d caught Silas and Helena in enough passionate
embraces with their spouses to know that she had lots to
discover.

Perhaps she’d discover it with Lord
Pascal.

She edged nearer to him, partly because it
was cold away from the braziers. In the distance, she could hear
laughter and the sweet, silly tune for the dance. Closer, a woman
murmured something in a husky voice, then fell silent.

Amy sipped her champagne, wondering if she
could blame her uncharacteristic rashness on the wine. Her heart
thumped like a drum, and her blood pumped slow and heavy like
syrup. She’d never felt this way before. Such a giddy mixture of
suspense and anticipation.

Desire.

Suddenly that seemed a sad confession. She’d
been married for two years. She should have known desire.

Their steps slowed, came to a stop. They
stood alone in a small glade with a sundial in the center. The moon
was three-quarters full, illuminating shapes without detail. Very
gently, Pascal set down his empty glass on the sundial. Then he
took hers and set it beside his.

Amy swayed forward as with breathtaking
assurance, his hand curved around her waist. He leaned in, blocking
the moonlight, turning everything to dark mystery.

When his lips met hers, she sighed in
wordless surrender.

Pascal raised his hand to cradle Amy’s cheek
as their lips clung. Hers were soft and trembling like a young
girl’s, and her sigh expressed surprise as much as enjoyment.

Shock shuddered through him, pierced building
pleasure. This lovely woman might have been married, but she kissed
like a virgin.

Tenderness cut him, sharp as a sword. It was
the most powerful emotion he’d ever known in a life devoted to
selfish gratification. The pursuit of Lady Mowbray changed from an
intriguing challenge and a pleasant way to answer his self-interest
to something…else. Something outside the range of his experience.
Or even his vocabulary to describe.

Slowly he pulled away, until the moonlight
illuminated her lovely face. Her eyes were closed, and she looked
transported to some higher realm.

After a kiss so chaste, he could almost have
given it to an aunt.

Except that wasn’t quite true. However sweet
that kiss, it held the promise of sensual exploration to come. That
kiss was a beginning, not an end in itself.

Amy opened her eyes, the hazel shadowy in the
silvery darkness. Astonishing that such an innocent kiss set his
heart racing with an excitement he hadn’t felt in years. As if her
innocence revived echoes of his, lost too long ago in a world that
offered a presentable, aristocratic young man everything he wanted
merely for the asking. Sometimes not even for that.

“That was…nice,” she murmured.

He smiled, seeing her as so precious and
fragile, for all her strength and cleverness. Some hitherto
unrecognized chivalry in his soul made him want to cherish rather
than conquer, coax rather than demand. “It was. Shall we do it
again?”

“Yes, please,” she said, like a child asking
for another piece of birthday cake.

Pascal liked her lack of coyness. He was
bored with the tired games where he was cast as the ruthless
seducer, and the lady the helpless quarry. When the stark fact was
on most occasions, women sought him out.

He’d become disgracefully lazy about his
affairs. One lover became much like another.

Except this lover. Amy Mowbray wasn’t like
anyone else.

Hesitantly, she placed one hand on his
shoulder, taking the initiative for the first time. His heart
slammed against his ribs, and his breath jammed in his throat.

He tilted her face up, and this time he
lingered over the kiss. Her scent mixed with the moonlit night and
flooded his senses. Fresh. Female. Crushed flowers and a trace of
musk. The air was cold, but her lips were warm. So warm.

Instead of enjoying an entertaining, but
essentially forgettable interlude with an attractive woman, he let
strategy sink to oblivion under a wave of unprecedented need. He
leaned in, increasing the pressure, and her lips fluttered against
his.

When his tongue swept along the closed seam,
a tremor of response rippled through her. Unbelievably it seemed he
needed to teach her how to kiss. Innocence had never held any
particular appeal, but something about Amy’s uncertainty touched
him. When he nipped her full lower lip, she gave a soft cry.

He took immediate advantage, slipping his
tongue inside to taste her. She was delicious. Hot, salty
honey.

She recoiled at the invasion. “My lord…”

“Hush. Trust me,” he whispered, and strangely
he meant it. Tonight he wouldn’t go beyond a few kisses. He played
a longer game with Amy Mowbray than a mere night’s pleasure,
however incendiary. With every moment in her company, he was more
satisfied with his choice of bride.

“What you did, it was odd.”

“You’ll come to like it.”

She frowned, more in puzzlement than
displeasure, he thought. “I’m not saying I didn’t like it.”

He laughed softly, enchanted anew. “Then let
me show you more.”

He brushed his lips across hers, and when she
immediately parted, excitement sizzled through him. One hand
splayed against the soft thickness of her hair. His other hand
caught her waist and hauled her close, until those luscious breasts
pressed into his chest.