Pascal wondered if it waited in vain. Which added to the comedy, given that for the last ten years, he’d had his choice of bride. Now he wanted to marry a lady, yet he couldn’t pin her down for a definite answer.
In the beginning, he’d assumed Amy was all but his, and this game they played moved toward a fixed end. But as day followed discouraging day, his prize edged further out of reach.
Tonight, he waltzed with Amy at the Oldhams’ ball. The music was lovely. The crowd was elegant. He had the woman he wanted in his arms. He should be in alt.
He wasn’t.
She smiled up at him. But she’d also smiled up at every other partner with exactly the same delight and interest. Damn it, couldn’t she see that he was special?
“Thank you for those beautiful red roses.”
He hid a wince at her tone. Amy sounded polite, rather than enthusiastic.
Every day since he’d met her, he’d sent her a bouquet. “Too many flowers?”
“There’s no such thing.”
“And you’ve enjoyed the bonbons?”
“Delicious.”
He sensed he was missing something. “You returned the diamond bracelet I gave you last week.”
Her glance was disapproving. “That was a totally inappropriate gift for this stage of our acquaintance.”
He still had the bracelet tucked away in the drawer of his desk. He hoped the day would soon arrive when it was no longer inappropriate—because Amy had stooped to some inappropriateness of her own. But that day wasn’t now. Sometimes he gloomily wondered whether the day would ever arrive.
“It’s a highly respectable gift. The bracelet belonged to my grandmother.”
How he’d love to shower Amy with jewelry. Emeralds set in gold to match her changeable eyes. Pearls to shine white against her creamy skin. Rubies to symbolize this passion that never gave him a moment’s rest.
But when he’d set out to buy her something sparkly from Rundell, Bridge & Rundell, his usually cooperative conscience had shrieked. The amount he spent on a pretty bauble would pay to reroof half the cottages on his estate.
“It was lovely.” He caught a momentary softening at the mention of his grandmother, before she firmed that delicate jaw in a regrettably familiar fashion. “But you know I couldn’t accept it.”
“You can’t blame a man for trying,” he said ruefully. “That’s why I went back to flowers and bonbons.”
“And lovely they’ve been.”
He frowned. “You don’t sound as if you like them.”
Her expression thoughtful, she stared over his shoulder as he twirled her around the floor in time to the lilting music. “I said I do.”
“But?”
She gave a heavy sigh that he felt as much as heard. “It’s just…”
When he didn’t fill the silence, she reluctantly went on. “It’s just I can’t help feeling that I’m in receipt of your standard mistress-catching set.”
What the devil? He was torn between offense and laughter. “My standard mistress-catching set?”
“Oh, you know what I mean.”
Unfortunately he had a fair idea, and he had to admit her accusation was justified. A little. “Tell me.”
Another of those heavy sighs. “You decide to seduce a woman, so you bombard her with flowers and delicacies and gewgaws, the way you always do.”
“But I mean it when I give you presents,” he said, cringing at how weak that sounded.
She looked unimpressed. “I’m sure you meant it with the others—or at least you intended them to think so. Tell me, Pascal, have you ever offered anything except flowers and delicacies and gewgaws to a woman you want?”
He frowned, loathing how right she was. “Not since I came to London. There was a milkmaid I fell madly in love with when I was twelve. I gave her my best fishing rod.”
She smiled dutifully, and he loathed that, too. “I hope she caught a trout or two, and you shared a romantic outdoor dinner.”
“No, the faithless chit kept the fishing rod, while throwing me over for the plowboy. Since then, I’ve stuck to the usual tributes.” He struggled to maintain his light tone. “Although if the battle looks lost, I’ve been known to produce a puppy or two. You’d be astonished how much sin a puppy can inspire.”
Amy gave a short laugh, half-shocked. “You’re a terrible man.”
He whirled her around to avoid bumping into Sir Charles Kinglake and Sally. “You know that.”
“I do.” She paused. “I like puppies, but I really can’t take one on, when Sally’s putting me up.”
“Pity.” He’d already considered and dismissed including a kitten or a dog in the avalanche of pretty gifts. “So no more flowers?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you’d like me to put a little more imagination into my wooing?”
“I’d like to feel that you’re trying to win Amy Mowbray, not some generic woman lined up to become your hundredth mistress.”
Even as secretly he squirmed, he shot her a straight look. It was hell being in thrall to a clever woman. “I’m not quite up to three figures.”
Something that might have been jealousy flashed in her eyes. That pleased him, even as he wondered what the deuce would convince her that she was unique in his existence. “Mind you, I have high hopes that a certain widow from Leicestershire will bring my total up.”
Her lips flattened, and her tone turned arid. “You’ll have to work a little harder, then.”
This discussion had been dashed uncomfortable, partly because she was right about his laziness, much as he didn’t want to admit it. Now amusement won out over hurt pride.
“There’s my schoolmistress again.” To his regret, the waltz ended. Pascal held onto her until the last possible second. This damned vexatious courtship offered few enough opportunities to touch her. “It seems my arithmetic may need improvement after all.”
Without shifting from his grasp, Amy narrowed her eyes on him. “It does, if you want one and one to make two, my lord.”
* * *
Amy sat beside Pascal as his curricle negotiated the narrow country lanes. On this cloudy, but dry day, they were well into Surrey. They’d passed through Epsom half an hour ago. “This seems a long way to go for a picnic, my lord.”
He didn’t shift his attention from the horses, but the corners of the firm mouth deepened, as if her remark aroused some secret amusement. “I’m very fussy about where I eat.”
They’d left London before ten, and he’d told Sally that they’d be back late. Amy might suspect some nefarious purpose—she hadn’t missed his increasing frustration with her rules—if a groom hadn’t accompanied them.
Usually when they went driving, Pascal left the boy at Sally’s. This adherence to propriety hinted that something unusual lay ahead.
Amy just wished she knew what the devil it was.
They hit a deep hole among all the other ruts, and she clutched his arm for balance. Then she made herself let go, much as she’d rather cling to him.
This decorous courtship tested her patience, too, and several times she’d wondered if she pushed him too far, and he’d look elsewhere for a mistress. But she had to give him credit. For more than two weeks, he’d been the perfect suitor.
“Are you still there, George?” Pascal asked, checking with the boy at the rear of the carriage.
“Aye, your lordship,” the young groom said breathlessly. “These roads are a bit rum.”
“They are indeed, my lad.”
Amy had already noticed Pascal’s easy manner with George. She liked that he wasn’t highhanded with his servants. The problem was that she liked far too much about Gervaise Dacre, Earl Pascal. Her resistance grew ever more threadbare, yet she still wasn’t sure she wanted to risk an affair.
It was an effort to maintain her sardonic tone. “You should have told me you planned dinner rather than luncheon, and I’d have had an extra sausage for breakfast.”
This time he d
id look at her, the blue eyes suspiciously innocent. “If there’s one thing our delightful acquaintance has taught me, Lady Mowbray, it’s that patience is a virtue.”
She gritted her teeth, as the curricle turned between two stone gateposts and bowled along a drive considerably smoother than the roads they’d taken to get here. “Where are we?”
A beautiful park extended on either side, with artfully placed follies and bridges. In the distance, she saw a lake, with just beyond, a magnificent Portland stone country house, built in last century’s style.
“Didn’t I say we were visiting a friend of mine? I’m sure I did.”
Dear heaven, he could be irritating. “I’m sure you didn’t.”
“Oh, well, we’re here now.” With a flourish, he pulled up on the circular drive in front of the impressive double staircase. As a groom darted out to hold the horses, a familiar figure emerged from the house and ran down the steps with a vigor belied by his sixty-odd years.
“Welcome, welcome, Pascal and Lady Mowbray.” Sir Godfrey Yelland smiled broadly and strode toward the curricle, where Pascal had leaped down and now helped Amy to descend. “My lady, I’ve been so looking forward to showing you my herd and hearing your opinions on my methods to increase milk yield. Ever since we danced together at the Bartletts’, I’ve been thinking of what you said about changing my stock feed.”
“Sir Godfrey.” Goodness gracious, he wasn’t who she’d expected to see.
“Yelland, so kind of you to allow us to visit,” Pascal said.
“Not at all. Not at all. Was glad you asked to come. Privilege to have the famous Lady Mowbray here. I’m sure you’re famished after the drive from London. I thought we’d have a meal, while I describe some of my experiments. Then we can spend the afternoon outside. The weather looks like it will hold.”
“That sounds…that sounds delightful,” she stammered, releasing Pascal’s hand. “Although my expertise is in beef cattle, not dairying.”
“When Pascal said you wanted to see my place, I was in alt. I’ll take note of anything you say.” Ignoring Pascal, he took her arm and marched her toward the steps.
“You’re too kind, Sir Godfrey,” she said unsteadily.
Before Yelland whisked her inside, Amy hung back at the top of the stairs to cast Pascal a grateful smile. An afternoon of tramping around Sir Godfrey’s muddy fields was the best present anyone could give her, better by far than a wagonload of hothouse flowers.
Before she could put her thanks into words, Sir Godfrey bustled her through the imposing doors. “Now, you were saying you know about this new turnip from Zeeland.”
Chapter Nine
Pascal had hoped that the hugely successful visit to Sir Godfrey Yelland would soften Amy’s attitude. Perhaps even win the war. Although her transparent pleasure in wandering around the baronet’s lush fields and discussing the finer points of cattle management had almost been reward enough.
Perhaps Pascal wasn’t quite the selfish sod he’d always considered himself. Or perhaps Amy made him a better man.
Which wouldn’t stop him taking her to bed and proving himself very bad indeed, when she at last decided he’d done his time in purgatory.
He was still in purgatory. All those damned dairy cows hadn’t worked their obscure magic. However fulsomely grateful Amy had been in the week since then, she still wouldn’t let him kiss her. Let alone do anything more.
She was a stalwart opponent, his Amy. If he wasn’t in such a lather to have her, he’d admire her determination. As it was, he wasn’t far off banging his head against a brick wall, so he had something else to think about, apart from this endless sexual craving.
Tonight, they were in his box at the Theatre Royal, watching a comedy that was all the rage, some asinine nonsense about bandits in the Apennines. Pascal had paid attention to the first five minutes, then lapsed into his usual pastime these days, brooding over the woman who proved his torment and his delight. The lovely creature with a heart of ice, who sat beside him, giving every sign of enjoying the inanities on the stage.
Except she didn’t have a heart of ice. She just didn’t feel any particular warmth toward one Gervaise Dacre.
When they’d first met, he’d have bet his hope of heaven on the fact that she found him irresistibly attractive. Now he wasn’t even sure of that anymore, devil take her.
What if, after all his restraint, she wouldn’t have him? He reached a point where no other woman would do, but romantic yearnings couldn’t restore his estates. He’d manage without marrying money, he supposed, but it meant economies, not only for him, but for the tenants. He was dashed reluctant to take that path. Over the years, he’d done bugger all to make his late father proud, but he’d always tried his best to be a good landlord.
Before the last scene of the play, there was a short break. A backdrop descended, and the orchestra played popular tunes in a futile attempt to cover the thumps and bumps coming from the stage. Meg and Sally and Meg’s new suitor, Sir Charles Kinglake, retreated to the rear of the box for a chat. Pascal waited for Amy to rise and join them, but she remained where she was.
“You’re quiet tonight, my lord,” she murmured. “Aren’t you enjoying the play?”
Blast the play. He’d happily consign the play to Hades, and this buffle-headed audience with it. But he’d promised to act the perfect gentleman, so he battened down his frustration and responded evenly, if not politely. “I’ve never seen such twaddle in my life.”
She laughed. He loved her laugh. His wayward heart always skipped a beat when he heard the husky catch in that low chuckle. Even now when he was utterly wretched. “It’s silly, but funny. I thought you might like it. You didn’t much take to ‘Othello’ last week.”
He didn’t much remember “Othello.” As he had tonight, he’d spent most of the evening ruminating on his lack of success with a pretty widow. “That was twaddle, too.”
“Would you like to go home?”
He brightened. That sounded like an offer to join him in his carriage. She joined him in his carriage most days, but right now it was dark, and who knew what liberties he could take between Drury Lane and Half Moon Street? Especially if they detoured via Edinburgh. “Would you?”
The shake of her head sent his cheerfulness plummeting. One of the worst parts of his plight was the way she sent his emotions flying to the sky or sinking to the depths.
“No, I’m enjoying the play. But I’m sure Sir Charles can take me home.”
Over his dead body. “It’s nearly finished anyway,” Pascal said in a sulky voice, before he remembered he meant to be gracious and charming, so she allowed him into her bed.
During these last weeks of pretending he wasn’t starving for her, he’d become a dab hand at dissembling. In fact, his acting was a damned sight better than anything he saw tonight.
“Are you going to the Lewis musicale tomorrow?” she asked.
“Are you?” Another chance for her to keep him at arm’s length. How could he bear it? Blindly he stared at the insipid painting hiding the stage.
“Yes. Cavallini is singing, and everyone says she’s marvelous.”
More blasted twaddle. “Then I’m going, too.”
“Sally’s holding a small dinner at Half Moon Street before it starts. She’d love you to come.”
He focused burning eyes on Amy. “And what about you? Would you love me to be there?”
When they’d first met, he’d had little trouble interpreting her expressions, but with every day, she became more of a mystery. He’d decided long ago that love turned a man’s brains to porridge. “Of course.”
“Of course,” he muttered and turned back to watch as the painting rose to reveal more damned mountains. The whole bloody play had been about mountains. What was the point of moving the scenery at all?
The orchestra finished scratching away, and the noisy nitwits reappeared to play out this tosh. Pascal was vaguely aware of Sally, Meg, and Sir Charles taking their seats.
He could go home. Amy probably wouldn’t mind if he left. But what was the point of retreating? The devil of it was that he was as miserable away from her as he was with her.
About ten minutes later, Amy leaned closer. “Stop sighing. You sound like an overridden horse.”
Despite his morose mood, he couldn’t contain a smile. “It’s worse than ‘Othello.’”
To his astonishment, she reached across and squeezed his arm. The gesture was friendly rather than seductive, but it still went a long way toward calming his roiling unhappiness. “It will soon be over.”
If only she meant his wait for her. “I hope so.”
He waited in suspense for her to pull away. She hadn’t touched him in weeks, apart from sanctioned contact when she stepped into a carriage or danced with him.
“Thank you,” she whispered, after a reverberant pause.
What a surprise. Pleased astonishment flooded him. He didn’t need to ask what she thanked him for. It seemed that she’d noticed his efforts to woo her and appreciated them.
Even after she withdrew her hand, warmth lingered. Unexpectedly a few of the silly jokes on the stage turned out to be funny enough to raise a laugh.
* * *
“Goodnight, Aunt Sally,” Meg said. Amy watched the girl bend to kiss her aunt’s cheek. “It’s been a lovely evening.”
They were in Sally’s sitting room, and it was late, well past midnight. After the play, Sir Charles had arranged supper at his fine house on Berkeley Square.
“Yes, it has,” Sally said. “Sleep tight, and dream of handsome gentlemen.”
Amy caught a hint of slyness in Meg’s glance. What was the chit up to? So far this season, she’d behaved perfectly. But there was no mistaking the mischief in those dancing blue eyes.
Pursuing Lord Pascal Page 8
