Pursuing Lord Pascal

by Anna Campbell

  He glowered. “You think this is all a joke.”

  The teasing light left her eyes, and her expression turned austere. “Not at all. I just want to make sure you don’t think it’s a joke. I know it’s hopelessly provincial of me, but if I give myself to a man, I want him to value my surrender.”

  Pascal could hardly blame her for mistrusting him. The irony was that he was more sincere than he’d ever been with a woman he wanted. Any promises he made to Amy, he meant.

  He realized with a shock that while he’d launched this pursuit to marry her money, now he’d willingly take her in her petticoat and beg on the high roads to keep her in fripperies.

  After two damnable days.

  The Good God knew what a wreck he’d be by the time he’d wooed her into taking him seriously. He’d be babbling nonsense and howling at the moon.

  “You’re enjoying this,” he accused.

  She nodded. “Most definitely. I came down from Leicestershire, afraid that society would laugh me back home again. Now I’ve got London’s handsomest man begging for a moment of my time. Frankly, I’m ecstatic.”

  “I’m more than just a pretty face,” he said resentfully, although his looks had brought him more benefits than disadvantages, so he had no right to quibble.

  Until now, when the first woman he really wanted dismissed him as a lightweight.

  The problem was he remained unconvinced he was anything else. Why demonstrate character, when a smile brought him everything he wanted?

  But as he registered Amy’s expression, he knew he’d have to dig deep and produce something more substantial than easy charm if he meant to win her.

  “Prove it,” she said implacably.

  Fleetingly he contemplated giving up the chase. He could stroll away now and take on one of the little henwits he’d so dreaded marrying. Lucy Compton-Browne or Cissie Veivers. Dash it, a proposal to either chit tomorrow, and his worries were over.

  No mess. No fuss.

  No joy.

  It was too late. He was lost. Caught by a lovely face, and a brilliant mind, and a heart too fine for a careless brute like him. Which didn’t mean he planned to retreat.

  He faced the inescapable fact that he didn’t want some ingénue with a fat dowry. He wanted Amy Mowbray, who might come with a fat dowry, but who also proved herself more complicated by the minute.

  He sighed, resistance flowing away. She wanted to be courted. Then dash it all, he’d court her.

  He bowed as if they were in a drawing room, instead of in the corner of a garden where he’d just been kissing her. “Lady Mowbray, it would give me the greatest pleasure if you’ll come driving with me tomorrow afternoon.”

  She eyed him as if unsure of his candor. Then she curtsied briefly. “I’d be delighted, my lord.”

  “I’ll call at three.” It seemed an eon until then, but he could already see that a swift victory had been likely only in his fevered brain.

  “Perfect.”

  “And I have a box for the opera that evening. Perhaps you, Lady Norwood and her niece would care to join me.”

  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.”

  Chapter Six

  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.”

  “It shouldn’t be. And you passed with high marks. You haven’t even tried to kiss me.”

  His smile was rueful. “I’ve thought about it.”

  So had she. Last night’s kisses had been so delightful, she could barely resist asking for more. And that way lay madness and ruin.

  He shot her a sideways look. “Are you going to let me escort you to the opera?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps in a dark opera box, I can persuade you to break a rule or two.”

  “Sally and Meg are coming, too. And I believe Meg has invited Sir Brandon Deerham.”

  Pascal’s sigh was theatrical in its glumness. “You have a cruel streak.”

  Surreptitiously she studied him as they strolled along the path. He looked more resigned than angry. She knew she tested him, which was the whole point, really. “You must think I’m unhinged when it’s perfectly clear we’re…attracted.”

  Talking about his childhood, a pall had fallen over his brightness. She could see he felt much more comfortable with flirtatious nonsense. “We are?”

  “Of course we are.”

  His eyes glinted. “That gives me hope.”

  She snorted. “As if you don’t know how dazzling you are.”