Pursuing Lord Pascal

by Anna Campbell

  “Lord Pascal, how lovely of you to call.” The thick mane of leonine hair was caught up in a loose knot that made his fingers itch to undo it. She wore some floaty thing, embroidered with daisies and violets on white muslin.

  His pulse hadn’t raced at the sight of a woman since his first season, when he’d learned he was far more likely to be the pursued rather than the pursuer. But when he saw Lady Mowbray, his heart performed an unaccustomed skip. He felt a sudden urge to go on his knees and thank her for rescuing him from a miserable marriage with a silly, giggling chit straight out of the schoolroom.

  Pascal caught the hand she extended and bent over it. A less devious man might risk a kiss, but he played a subtle game. A game he’d started so often that it had begun to pall. London’s handsomest man rarely failed when he set out after a woman.

  Another surprise today. With Lady Mowbray, the game seemed intriguing and new.

  “I’m astonished you can see me amongst all these floral tributes.” It was an effort to keep the sourness from his tone.

  She glanced around with a smile. “They’re throughout the house.”

  “You made a triumph last night.”

  Pascal considered himself too jaded to find a woman’s blush charming. But the pink coloring Lady Mowbray’s creamy skin beguiled him.

  “They’re not all for me. Lady Norwood’s niece made a pleasing impression. And of course, Sally and Morwenna are lovely.”

  “They are. But the night belonged to you.”

  She tugged her hand free—he’d been in no hurry to release her—and fluttered her fingers in an unexpectedly dismissive gesture. One might imagine she wasn’t used to compliments. “You’re too kind. By the way, thank you for your lovely pink roses.”

  He dipped his head in a brief bow. “I’m glad you like them.” He searched the room without seeing them. Were they somewhere else or, God forbid, had she thrown them out? “I called to see if you’d like to come driving. A lady who has made such a splash should confirm her conquest by gracing Hyde Park at the fashionable hour.”

  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.”

  Chapter Three

  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.”<
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  “I hoped to avoid any misunderstandings about where my thoughts are leading.” He still looked amused. “You’re not an ingénue, Lady Mowbray.”

  The problem was that in most ways that counted, she was an ingénue. She realized that her hand still lay in his. The first time he’d touched her, her heart had turned cartwheels. It said something for how he’d distracted her today that she’d forgotten they held hands.

  She slid her hand free and clenched it in her lap. “You’re mocking me.”

  He frowned. “Not at all.”

  “Then why would you say such a nonsensical thing?”

  He cast her a wry glance. “Kinder, please, Lady Mowbray.”

  “You’ll have to forgive my manners.” She sucked in an annoyed breath. “I’m not used to strangers wanting to marry me. I wondered if it was some peculiar London joke.”

  “You’re a beautiful woman.” He studied her with a puzzled expression. “You must have men after you all the time.”

  “Hundreds,” she said drily and with perfect honesty. There was her farm manager, and her tenants, and her neighbors who, after initial reluctance to accept a woman’s advice on farm matters, now clamored for her help.

  She was startled when Lord Pascal accepted the answer at face value. “Exactly. So if I’m bowled over, why should you be surprised?”

  “You’re very direct.” She hadn’t expected that. His extraordinary looks deceived her into thinking this was a man who would woo a woman in rhyming couplets. “You’re not at all as I imagined when I was fourteen.”

  His laugh held a hint of self-derision. “I’m a fairly basic fellow. Does that disappoint you?”

  She thought back to the buffle-headed milksop her infatuation had constructed in her mind. “No.”

  He brightened. “So I’ve got a chance?”

  She stifled a laugh. “No.”

  This close, there was no avoiding his substantial physicality. The arms clasping her in the waltz had been impressively muscled, and the body next to hers on this cursed small seat was hard and lithe. And warm as a coal fire.

  His hands lay loose on his powerful thighs, the reins draped over them. Everything about him was perfect. The idea that he might want a harum-scarum ragamuffin like Amy Mowbray was outlandish.