Pursuing Lord Pascal (8 page)

Her lips twitched. She’d guess how
reluctantly he included Sally and Meg in the invitation. “I’m not
sure about tomorrow evening.”

He sucked air through his teeth. “Damn it,
Amy,” he protested. “I’m trying.”

To his surprise and gratification, she
touched his cheek in silent reproof. Although the contact felt more
like a caress than chiding. “I know you are, and I appreciate it.
But I’ll have to check what Sally has planned.”

“Oh,” he said sheepishly. He should have
known that.

“Now, please take me back to the ballroom
before they send out a search party.”

The music had started again. He’d been too
focused on Amy to notice. Luckily nobody had interrupted them. He
made one last attempt to claim the masculine high ground. “Don’t
imagine you’ve got me on a string.”

“Never,” she said, too quickly to be
convincing.

His voice hardened. “I’ll make you pay for
every day of frustration, once you’ve admitted I’m the only man for
you.”

“I’m quite terrified.”

“Amy,” he said warningly.

“Shaking in my dancing slippers.”

“And one last thing. You’re never to refer to
me as the handsomest man in London again.”

Her eyebrows rose with genuine puzzlement.
“Don’t you like it?”

“Not when you use that stupid nickname as an
excuse to disparage my sincerity.”

Her regard was thoughtful, but not
censorious. “You know, I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve
underestimated you, Lord Pascal.”

He took her arm in a firm grip and cursed the
fact that he couldn’t kiss the insolence from her before he
returned her to the crowded party. “I most ardently hope so, Lady
Mowbray.”

The next afternoon, Amy still couldn’t
believe that she’d had the temerity to lay down conditions to
Pascal. He‘d seemed even more incredulous. Clearly he wasn’t used
to his seductions meeting more than token resistance.

Given how astonishingly well he kissed, she
couldn’t blame him. She closed her eyes and relived those
unforgettable moments in the moonlight. The heat. The pleasure. The
hunger. The way everything outside the magical circle of his
embrace ceased to matter.

“Are you all right?” he asked from beside
her. As promised, he’d called to collect her in his carriage.
Today, he’d taken her further afield, for a drive through Richmond
Park nine miles outside London.

“Yes, perfectly,” she lied. Telling him she
already regretted the ban on kisses would only make trouble.

Trouble looked like a beautiful,
golden-haired man. A man she had difficulty keeping at a distance,
although she still retained enough common sense to recognize that
she needed to know him better before risking heartbreak.

Because heartbreak was a definite
possibility. As a girl, she’d longed for Pascal, the way a child
dreamed of catching a falling star. But she had a nasty feeling
that right now, she was on the verge of a painfully adult
infatuation.

Pascal looked wonderful. When didn’t he? The
beaver hat was angled precisely right on his gilt hair, and his
dark blue coat fit him to perfection and deepened the color of
those beautiful eyes.

She tilted her bonneted head up to the pale
spring sunshine. It was a glorious day, and now they were out of
town, the burgeoning greenery mirrored the sensuality burgeoning
inside her. The constant rub of Pascal’s hip against hers was a
reminder that last night she’d been lost in his arms.

“I love that you do that.”

When she glanced at him, the lazy curve of
his lips spurred her foolish heart into a headlong gallop.
“What?”

“Turn your face to the sun. Most ladies are
afraid of darkening their skin.”

She laughed. “On my estate in the summer,
you’d call me horribly weather-beaten. Sally’s ordered me inside
for the last few weeks to turn me pale and interesting.”

“You’re interesting anyway.” Before the
compliment had a chance to sink in, he went on. “Did Sally or
Morwenna say anything about last night?”

Her lips twitched. “They enjoyed the ball and
didn’t lack for partners. Meg has a string of eligible admirers,
which is excellent news.”

“It is,” he said. “Now stop teasing, and tell
me what you three gossiped about over breakfast.”

“They wanted to know where I’d disappeared
to. I said a scandalous reprobate waylaid me.”

“Do they approve?”

“Sally likes you. She’s all in favor of a
flirtation.”

Satisfaction warmed his expression. “She’s a
good sort, Sally. And clearly full of wise advice. What about
Morwenna?”

“Morwenna counseled caution.”

“Sally’s the one who knows London—and
me.”

“But Morwenna knows me.”

“Sally gets my vote.”

“There’s a surprise.”

Her sarcasm earned her a quelling glance.
“Who got your vote?”

“Ah, that would be telling.”

He gave a longsuffering sigh. “Did you tell
them I kissed you?”

“No. I said we went for a walk in the garden
and forgot the time.”

She knew Sally hadn’t believed her, and there
had been sly amusement in her eyes when she’d waved them off on
today’s drive. Sally probably imagined they were kissing now.

Unfortunately, Pascal had been the complete
gentleman. Amy hadn’t been sure he’d stick to her rules, but so
far, he’d only touched her to help her into the carriage. His
obedience to her strictures should please her. Instead, it left her
restless and longing.

And sharing this blasted narrow seat wasn’t
helping matters.

“If she swallowed that, she’s not as sharp as
I think she is. Did you tell her I want to marry you?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Now, that was an excellent question, and one
Amy wasn’t able to answer. Was she still unconvinced that Lord
Pascal wanted her? Were her feelings too turbulent and confused for
mere words to express?

She didn’t know. And tossing and turning for
hours last night hadn’t clarified matters. “Can we talk about
something else? Tell me about your life.”

A grunt of laughter escaped him. “I want you
to stay awake.”

“I did have a very late night.” The
embarrassing truth was that she was avid to find out about him.
“Come, Pascal. I’m all ears.”

He stared at the horses. “I was born.”

“A good start.”

He ignored her interjection. “The family
estates are in Northumberland, up near the Scottish border.”

“Brrr. So cold.”

Again he ignored her. “I grew up. I scraped
through a university degree. I entered society. I’d categorize my
role since then as decorative but useless, although it’s hard to
regret much when I’ve so thoroughly enjoyed myself.”

“And a host of women,” she muttered.

He cast her a sideways glance, the brim of
his hat shadowing his eyes. “Your jealousy only encourages my
ambitions.”

“Is that it?” she asked, when for a long
while, the only sounds were the creak of the carriage and the
rhythmic clop of the bays’ hooves.

He turned the curricle off the road toward a
string of ponds sparkling in the bright sunlight. The carriage
bounced and jolted across the grass, and Amy fought the urge to
cling to Pascal to keep her balance. Instead, she curled her gloved
hand over the brass rail beside the seat. And wished it was a firm
male arm.

“I’m what you see. Healthy. Unmarried. No
unusual vices, if too many of the usual ones. Now tell me about
you.”

Her lips lengthened in disapproval. “Not yet.
Do you have brothers and sisters?”

He pulled his team up on a grassy bank, set
the brake, and leaped down. At their arrival, ducks and geese on
the pond took noisy flight. “You really want to know?”

“I really want to know.”

He came around the horses’ heads and helped
her down. “Very well.”

“Go on,” she said, and because he’d behaved
all afternoon—something she had no right to resent—she let him tuck
her hand into the crook of his arm. His warmth seeped into her,
inevitably reminding her of kissing him last night. How contrary
was she to want that again, when she was the one who forbade
physical contact?

“No brothers and sisters.” He started along
the earthen path beside the water, matching his long stride to her
shorter one. The fine weather meant the ground underfoot was
mercifully dry. “My mother was a great beauty, but an inconstant
wife. She soon decided Northumberland was too dull to be borne and
fled back to London, while my father, who was a countryman at
heart, stayed at home with his sheep.”

“Sheep can be wonderful company,” Amy said,
as she sifted what he said.

She was curious. His mother’s desertion
didn’t seem to anger him. Instead, he spoke with fond tolerance, as
if he knew she couldn’t help herself. Very mature, but Amy couldn’t
imagine he’d felt that way as a child.

“So I discovered. I rattled around the chilly
manor house with Papa, until I went to Harrow at eight, forsaking
my ovine chums.”

He spoke wryly, but this time, she wasn’t
fooled. “It must have been lonely.”

Self-derision flattened his lips. “School was
full of decent chaps. I was fine, once I got there.”

She frowned. Did this mean that he loathed
country life? If he did, he’d never be content with her. “What
about your mother? What happened to her?”

“When she realized her son was almost as
pretty as she was, she allowed me to come to London a few weeks a
year. That was always great fun. But Papa didn’t want his heir
exposed to the feckless crowd my mother ran with.”

Still moving at his side, Amy stared blindly
across the pond to the trees beyond. Silly to grieve over that
bleak, loveless childhood. Pascal had been torn between parents who
were clearly a poor match.

Amy had already noted his complex
relationship with his extraordinary looks. That ambivalence must
have started when his mother used her son as a prop to her vanity.
“What was your father like?”

“A good man. Much older than my mother.
You’ve probably gathered it wasn’t a harmonious union. They had
little in common.”

“Except you.” Their quiet conversation had
persuaded the birds it was safe to return to the ponds.

“Except me. He was kind in his fashion,
although he had no real idea how to manage a child. I think we were
both relieved when I went away to school. He died when I was
twelve.” The soft thud of Pascal’s boots created a gentle
counterpoint to this sad history.

“I can guess Harrow wasn’t altogether easy.”
In wordless comfort, Amy squeezed his arm. Two brothers and
numerous Nash cousins gave her an idea of what little savages boys
could be. “You’ve forbidden any mention of your appearance, but I
imagine a beautiful blond boy had trouble with bullies.”

When he slowed to a stop, she slid her hand
free and turned to face him. They stood near a reed bed where a
warbler sang for a mate. The sweet music rang out across the cool
spring air.

Pascal sent her an unreadable look. “I had
the odd fight. I needed toughening up.”

Amy didn’t comment on what she knew must be a
rank understatement. She was too busy trying to hide her appalled
reaction to the revelations about his barren family life. He’d
loathe her pity.

He looked like he had everything the world
could give. Yet he’d lacked something as basic as a mother’s love.
He might still be a stranger, but his pain tore a jagged crack in
her heart.

“Is your mother still alive?” It was an
effort to steady her voice.

“She died fifteen years ago when her lover’s
yacht went down off the Isle of Wight.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “She wasn’t made for old
age.”

Not for the first time, the perfection of his
features operated as a mask concealing the real man. “That
seems…cold.”

His lips turned down, as he took her arm
again and walked on. “When I was a child, I adored her and clamored
for her attention. After I came home from London, I’d cry for a
week. But she lost interest in me, once I stopped being small and
appealing. Gangly, pimply adolescents tried her patience—and she
abhorred people knowing she had a son approaching manhood. By the
end, we were strangers.”

He spoke carelessly, but by now, Amy knew
better than to trust his pretended indifference. The vibrating
tension in the arm under her fingers indicated that the hurt still
cut deep.

For his sake, she made herself smile, even as
she wanted to fling her arms around him and apologize on behalf of
fate for that desolate upbringing. “I refuse to believe you were
ever pimply or gangly. I’ll wager you always looked like a prince.
No wonder you devoted yourself to pleasure when you hit London. The
ladies must have gone into a frenzy for you.”

His laugh held a sour note. “You describe a
dashed shallow cove.”

“That’s what you want me to believe, isn’t
it?”

He leveled that deep blue gaze upon her.
“What I want you to believe is that I’ll make an excellent lover
and an even better husband.”

The abrupt change struck a jarring note. She
knew how reluctantly he’d spoken of his past, but now he had, she
couldn’t help seeing beyond this magnificent creature to the bereft
little boy.

Although if she told him that, he’d run a
hundred miles. Just when she started to think that she might like
him to stay.

It was clear she’d wring no more confidences
from him today. The uncompromising line of his jaw told her that
he’d unveiled as much of his soul as he intended. “We’ve made an
excellent start.”

His face creased with familiar humor. “You
sound like a schoolmistress marking my arithmetic.”

“Arithmetic isn’t the subject here, my lord.
You are.”

The path petered out at a weir, so they
turned to retrace their steps. “That’s a damned uncomfortable
thought.”