Pursuing Lord Pascal

by Anna Campbell

  But of course, thanks to Sally’s efforts, she wasn’t that ramshackle bumpkin anymore. At least on the outside. On the inside, she was still her plain, outspoken self. The knowledge that if Pascal had encountered her a month ago, he wouldn’t have spared her a glance increased the feeling of unreality.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “In any true sense, we met last night. You know nothing about me.”

  “The best part of marriage is all the things you discover after the vows are spoken.”

  She shook her head and clasped her gloved hands in her lap. “You can’t possibly mean that.”

  “Why not?” He seemed content to let the horses amble along through the dappled sunshine under the trees. “Anyway, I know more about you than you think.”

  “Oh?” She waited for some flippant reply. But his expression was serious as he studied her.

  “You love your family, and you’re loyal to your friends. You’re very clever. You have a romantic streak, but you do your best to repress it. You consider yourself a sensible woman—and most of the time, that’s true. You have a dry sense of humor, and the ability to mock yourself and the pomposity of others. How am I going?”

  Some women might find it flattering that an attractive man paid such minute attention. Amy was uneasy. The woman he described was better than she was, but the resemblance was unmistakable. It wasn’t her. But it was certainly a version of her.

  “You make me sound as if I have no faults,” she said gruffly.

  His smile conveyed too much affection for a man who had only met her last night. “I make you sound like you’re perfect for me. I saw immediately that you were something special. And I, my dear Lady Mowbray, am a connoisseur.”

  She stared back, both fascinated and appalled. “This is some sort of game.”

  “On my honor, it isn’t.” He flicked the reins at the horses to urge them to a trot. “I begin to suspect something else about you—you pretend to more confidence than you possess.”

  She cringed. Sally and Morwenna had both said the same thing. “What on earth makes you say that?”

  “Your reaction to my proposal, for one thing.”

  “I’m very good at running my estate.”

  “Oh, I’m not saying you underestimate your brains or competence. But I’m beginning to wonder whether you realize how brilliantly you sparkled last night. Everyone admired you.”

  She sighed, as the carriage bumped across the grass. “That was because you made such a fuss about dancing with me. Every woman in that ballroom envied me.”

  “And every gentleman envied me. You may as well accept we make a fine pair.”

  She bit back a laugh, even as what he said seeped down through chronic self-doubt to settle in her bones. Perhaps Sally had performed a miracle, transforming the hardy thistle Amy Mowbray into a fragrant rose. “Which is no reason to seek a more permanent arrangement.”

  He shrugged, not shifting his gaze from the bays. The carriage emerged from the trees onto the lawns where the ton gathered to see and be seen. “I’m thirty years old. I’ve been out in society for more than ten years. I’ve pursued women, and women have pursued me. I’ve learned to tell the genuine jewels from the paste, literally and figuratively. You, Lady Mowbray, are a diamond. A man would be a fool to sit back while some other damned oaf picked you up and put you in his pocket.”

  With the presence of other people, the intensity between them receded to a bearable level. Even if Pascal was still talking tosh. On that secluded path, every word had wrapped around Amy like rope, until she feared she’d never escape.

  Now she burst out laughing. “Lord Pascal, I appreciate your kindness. I wonder what you’d say if I took you at your word and had the banns called.”

  His wicked smile deflated her returning ease. “My dear Lady Mowbray, I’d say you’ve made me the happiest man in England.”

  Before she could protest, he was bowing to a handsome lady and her daughter who drew their carriage to a halt beside them. The ladies looked vaguely familiar. Amy’s life in Leicestershire involved meeting the same people over and over. The onslaught of new faces last night had left her floundering.

  What a bizarre world London was. Populous and bustling. Yet strangely intimate, so one encountered the next day the people one had met the night before. While she murmured polite responses to the lady’s questions, her eyes roamed the stylish crowd. So many familiar faces, some she could even put a name to.

  In the distance, she saw Sally driving a phaeton with Meg and Brandon beside her. She forced her attention back to Lady Compton-Browne and was shocked to catch flaring dislike in Miss Compton-Browne’s eyes.

  Amy summoned a smile, but the girl no longer looked at her, but at Lord Pascal. Her expression betrayed the misery of a dog drooling after a juicy bone placed high out of reach.

  Ah.

  Pascal made his excuses and rolled the carriage forward to greet more of his friends. That set the pattern for the next hour, and to Amy’s surprise, she enjoyed herself. Nobody treated her like an interloper, or questioned her right to be with this superb man. She even found the confidence to face down the ladies’ envious stares.

  “You’ve made me a social success,” she said wryly, when Pascal pulled the carriage up with a flourish before Sally’s front steps.

  “Nonsense. You did that yourself.”

  “Having you as my escort didn’t hurt.”

  “It certainly didn’t hurt your escort. He’s had a thoroughly delightful couple of hours.”

  “So have I.” To her relief, the heavy traffic on the way home had given him no opportunity to revive that troubling conversation about marriage. His boldness left her scared and unsettled and puzzled—and stupidly, dangerously tempted. For more kisses, above all. Some hitherto unrecognized feminine instinct insisted that if Pascal bent his mind to it, he could kiss her to heaven and back. “Thank you.”

  Sally’s gleaming black door opened, and a footman ran down the stairs to hold the horses. Another appeared to assist Amy to alight, but retreated to stare stalwartly into space when Pascal shook his head.

  “My pleasure. I’m glad the drive wasn’t nearly the ordeal you expected.”

  She released a startled gasp of laughter. Perhaps he did know her better than she thought, after all. “Oh, dear, Sally would be disappointed. She tried so hard to teach me to pretend all of this is a mere doddle to my sophisticated self.”

  “You acquitted yourself beautifully, Lady Mowbray. I told you—I’m paying special attention.”

  Just like that, her earlier tumult returned. Her stomach knotted, and the moisture dried from her mouth. “Lord Pascal…”

  He jumped down from the carriage to come around to offer one gloved hand. “Don’t fret.”

  “Don’t fret?” she whispered with sudden temper, but too conscious of the servants to give this arrogant, disturbing—gorgeous—man the set-down he deserved. “Of course I’m going to fret.”

  “Good,” he said, still smiling as if she wasn’t telling him off. His teeth were as perfect as the rest of him. Straight. White. And somehow predatory.

  “What the devil do you mean by that?” She placed her hand in his and made a creditable descent from the carriage. Heat curled up from his fingers and settled in the pit of her stomach in a most unsettling fashion. Except a woman would have to be dead not to find Pascal attractive. And however quiet Amy’s life might have been in recent years, she was far from dead.

  “When you fret, you’ll be thinking of me.”

  “Not necessarily with fondness,” she said grimly. The groom in his bright blue livery ran up the stairs from the kitchen, bowed to his employer, and settled in the seat at the back of the carriage.

  Pascal laughed again. “Well, I’ll be thinking of you—and fondly.”

  For a searing moment, his gaze focused on her lips, and she was transported back to those dazzling seconds when he’d kissed her. She hadn’t scolded him nearly as severely as she should for t
hat piece of daring. In fact, she had a horrid feeling she hadn’t scolded him at all.

  “You’re engaged for Lady Bartlett’s ball tonight?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, and realized he still held her hand. She had to stop doing this.

  She pulled away, struggling to ignore a pang at the separation. She couldn’t stand out in the street, holding hands with Lord Pascal as if they were sweethearts. The innocent description seemed incongruous for such a worldly man.

  “Will you save me both waltzes?”

  Her lips twitched. It was devilish difficult to cling to anger. Dear Lord, he was a master at these flirtatious games, while she was a mere novice. “No, I will not.”

  When he placed one of those elegant hands on his heart in a tragic gesture, she giggled. And Amy couldn’t remember giggling since she’d been a silly chit under this very man’s spell.

  “Cruel beauty.” His blue eyes—that was such an impossible color—sharpened. “One waltz.”

  “Very well.”

  “And the supper dance?”

  “My lord—”

  “Excellent.” Another flashing smile as he caught her hand and bent over it. She braced for his lips on her glove, the way she’d await a blow. But the contact never came, although the way he squeezed her fingers set her giddy heart racing. “Until tonight.”

  He jumped into the curricle and waited as Amy went inside. Only her conscience knew how difficult it was not to look back and watch him drive away.

  Chapter Four

  When Amy walked into the house, Morwenna was writing a letter in the drawing room. “Amy, come and talk to me.”

  Amy took off her hat and coat and passed them to another of the ubiquitous footmen. Smoothing her fly-away hair, she went to join her sister-in-law, who had already put aside her pen and poured her a cup of tea. The room still looked like it held every flower in London, apart from one bouquet of pink roses which had escaped to take pride of place in her bedroom.

  “Oh, you’re an angel,” she said gratefully, taking the cup.

  “How was your drive with the notorious Lord Pascal? I do think he’s the most heavenly looking man.”

  Amy found herself smiling, although she’d felt troubled and harried when she’d first come in. “Isn’t he just? One itches to immortalize him in marble.”

  “His name was linked with Fenella’s and Helena’s, I gather. He clearly has an eye for a pretty girl. Watch yourself. He has a terrible reputation. One glance from those blue, blue eyes, and ladies go quite silly.”

  “I can imagine.” Amy sipped the tea, considering what Morwenna said.

  All her life, she’d heard gossip about Pascal. He’d not only flirted with Fenella and Helena, but with Caro, too. He seemed to have a penchant for widows. Was Amy Mowbray merely another in a long list?

  “So did you?”

  “Did I what?” Amy found a seat near the fire. The day had been warm for March, but as night drew in, a chill tinged the air.

  “Did you go silly?”

  For a long moment, she stared into the flames. When she answered, her tone was thoughtful. “You know, I think I might have.”

  Morwenna laughed in delight and rushed over to hug her, threatening to spill the tea. “I’m so glad.”

  “What are you glad about?” Sally asked, sweeping in and stripping off her driving gloves. Amy had been impressed with her friend’s talent as a whip. Even from yards away, she’d seen that Sally handled a team of horses with aplomb.

  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.”