“Oh,” she said, wishing she could come up with something more coherent. Tenderness softened his features, and she closed her eyes to delay the inevitable yielding.
“May I kiss you?”
She opened her eyes and pulled away, needing to think. And stupidly missed the contact, the moment it was broken. “You don’t usually ask.”
“I’m not taking anything for granted.”
She liked that. But then, he knew she would. “No, you may not kiss me.”
Disappointment dulled his eyes. “Amy, are you saying no to my proposal?”
She hesitated. Was she ready to marry again? If she was, Gervaise would be her choice. But would his interest in her last beyond the illicit excitement of their affair? She couldn’t imagine him finding her so fascinating when she went back to being a hardworking farmer. “No.”
To her surprise, she watched the jaded mask descend over his features. Even more surprising, she realized she now knew him well enough to recognize that cynicism as a facade. “Then I beg your pardon for troubling you.”
A rusty laugh escaped her. “Gervaise, you nitwit. I mean I’m not saying no.”
He regarded her uncertainly. “You did.”
She shook her head. When they touched, she and Gervaise communicated perfectly. Not so much when they talked, to her regret. “Words are tangling me up.”
“Then be clear, for God’s sake,” he said roughly. “Will you marry me?”
She hesitated, even as she saw her havering tormented him. “I…I’ll think about it.”
He gave a soft growl of frustration and gestured toward the desk. “After that, you must know how good we are together.”
“We desire each other.” She swallowed to moisten a dry mouth. “That on its own isn’t enough.”
“We share more than passion, and you know it. I’ve never enjoyed a woman’s company as I have yours. Don’t you like talking to me, too?”
“You know I do.” She made a helpless gesture, and decided to take a chance with the prosaic truth. “But London isn’t my real life. When the season’s over, I’ll go back to being eccentric, practical Amy Mowbray, who spends her time tramping her fields and working on improvements to her land and stock.”
Gervaise looked offended. “You think I’m too frivolous to hold your attention?”
Her sigh carried the weight of all her years of insecurity. “No, I think I’m too dull to amuse you.”
He took her hand again. “What would you say if I told you a life in the country with you at my side sounds like a great adventure?”
Amy frowned, although this time she didn’t break free. “I’d say I still need to think.” When he loomed closer, she placed her hand on his chest to keep him at bay. “And don’t kiss me. You turn my brains to scrambled eggs when you do.”
“That’s a good thing, when people contemplate marriage,” he said, looking happier. Of course he did. He knew now how close she teetered to agreement.
“Not when I need to be sensible.” She cringed at the word. It sounded so cramped and mean after this marvelous fortnight of generosity and abundance and passion since she’d gone to his bed.
“You’ve been sensible your whole life. I’ll wager you were born sensible.” He placed his hand over hers where it lay above his heart. “Take a chance.”
Her laugh was wry. “I was sensible until the day I met you. Now I need a clear head.”
He studied her and must have seen that she was adamant. With a sigh, he released her and leaned back against the desk. She tried not to let the dejected slump of his shoulders sway her decision.
“Do you want me to woo you again?”
She found a smile. He sounded like she asked him to sign up for ten years’ hard labor in the colonies. “No.”
He regarded her under lowered golden brows. “Then for pity’s sake, what do you want?”
She wanted him, but that wasn’t necessarily a reason to accept him. “I want a couple of days to reflect upon my answer. Surely that’s not too much to ask, when we’re talking about the rest of our lives.”
He straightened, and his expression turned austere. “I’ll call tomorrow for your answer,” he said in an uncompromising tone.
His sudden ruthlessness startled her. “Gervaise…”
He regarded her impatiently. “You can’t pretend my offer comes out of the blue. If you don’t know now that we’re perfect together, you’ll never know. Say yes tomorrow, or send me away forever.”
She folded her arms and regarded him with displeasure. “You’re very highhanded.”
“Get used to it.”
The awful truth was that Amy found his arrogance exciting. She didn’t want a man who rode roughshod over her. But she respected Gervaise’s willingness to stand up to her and demand an answer. Once she’d settled into Warrington Grange, she’d become the stronger half of the partnership. Wilfred had followed her every directive. As a result, she’d spent most of her marriage feeling very lonely.
She realized with a shock that when she was with Gervaise, she never felt lonely.
Now she had to deal with this new masterful version of her lover. Heat swirled in her veins, and a familiar sinful longing weighted the base of her belly. What a wanton he made her. She liked this new, daring version of Amy Mowbray.
It was as much to deny that stirring interest as to bring the difficult conversation to a close that she spoke. “We should go. I can hear music. Supper must be over.”
He studied her with an unreadable expression before giving her a brief bow as if they returned to the formality of their early meetings. “As you wish.”
Actually it wasn’t in any way as she wished. Wicked girl she was, she wanted to stay here with Gervaise and lose herself in mindless pleasure.
More. She wanted him to hustle her away and persuade her with kisses, until she forgot what an important decision marriage was. She had a horrible feeling that if she thought too hard, she’d turn into a coward and scuttle back to obscurity—and safety—in Leicestershire.
Suddenly that seemed a sad outcome to these recent, exciting weeks.
“Am I…am I tidy?” she asked in a reedy voice, as he shrugged on his coat and smoothed his hair. The efficiency of his movements reminded her, as if she needed reminding, that here was a man used to managing amorous intrigues.
His forbidding air softened at her hesitant question, and she sucked in her first full breath since he’d proposed. “Come here,” he said gently.
She stood in front of him. He tucked away a couple of stray tendrils of hair and straightened her pretty new dress.
“Will I do?”
“You’ll dazzle them all.” He leaned forward to give her another of those devastating kisses. He didn’t seem angry anymore, but she couldn’t forget his ultimatum.
Through the closed door, she heard a quadrille. “I won’t dazzle Mr. Harslett. I promised him this dance.”
Gervaise’s finger traced a burning trail along her jaw. “I wish you could dance with nobody but me.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Are you likely to become one of those odiously possessive husbands who snaps like a grumpy dog if his wife flirts with another man?”
His expression turned wry. “You know, I think I am. Does that mean you won’t have me?”
“I’m better off knowing,” she said lightly. The urge to say yes struggled against the bonds of her prudence. A lifetime with Gervaise? It sounded like heaven. But it seemed despite tonight’s rashness, she remained by nature cautious. “Shall we go?”
“Let me check if the corridor is empty.” He unlocked the door and edged it open.
She’d started forward when he hauled her back into his arms. They both heard the nearby voices. Amy’s heart slammed to a stop, then raced like a runaway horse. She buried her face in Gervaise’s chest, as he edged deeper into the shadows behind the open door.
“I can’t believe he’d choose her rather than you. You’re accounted a diamond of the first w
ater,” an affected, very young female voice said in the hallway. Amy didn’t recognize the speaker, but she immediately identified the girl who answered.
“He wants her fortune. Mamma says I’ve had a lucky escape,” Lucy Compton-Browne stated with her usual self-satisfaction. Meg had invited the Compton-Browne girl to tea several times. Amy had never much liked her. Or her pushy mother.
“Do you think so? He’s so very, very handsome, and everyone says he’s a great catch. Are you sure he has no money?”
Amy felt Gervaise’s body turn rigid with tension, and his grip on her tightened.
“Mamma heard it from one of his neighbours, an old school friend who regularly corresponds with her. It’s not in general circulation, but it soon will be. People can never keep a story like that secret. A storm last January laid waste to his estates, and apparently he was already up to his ears in debt after a couple of bad harvests. He needs a rich wife, and he needs her quickly.”
“Oh, that’s a pity when he’s such a gorgeous man. If he proposed to me, I don’t think I’d care that he’s a fortune hunter.”
“Have some pride, Arabella. Anyway, Lord Pascal has set his sights on Lady Mowbray—he must have decided a lonely widow without a watchful mamma would be easier prey. I almost feel sorry for her.”
“Did you hear something?” the unknown Arabella asked.
Amy bit her lip and cursed her betraying gasp. Through her numbed shock, she was desperate to disentangle herself from Lord Pascal’s grasp. Only to find he’d already released her.
“Don’t be such a henwit. There’s nobody else here. Let’s go back to the dancing. Sir Brandon Deerham has requested the next waltz—and he’s both handsome and plump in the pocket.”
Over the slow death knell playing in her ears, Amy didn’t hear anything more. Her stomach knotted into agonizing tangles as she struggled to come to terms with what she’d learned. Blindly she stared at the mahogany door and fumbled for courage, when all she wanted to do was run away and bawl her eyes out.
What an idiot she’d been. A vain, brainless, needy idiot. She knew who she was. She knew who Lord Pascal was. She should immediately have seen that he was out to make a fool of her.
But hindsight provided no comfort and pride couldn’t come to her rescue, when her heart was engaged and threatening to break. She made herself look up into that gorgeous, deceiving face. Lord Pascal appeared sick with devastation.
Well, that was what happened when a fortune slipped through your greedy, grasping fingers.
“Is it true?” she asked in a dead voice.
She waited for him to lie. How ironic that not long ago, she’d been convinced that he’d always been honest with her.
He squared his shoulders and met her eyes without flinching. “Yes.”
Chapter Fifteen
Silently, Pascal reached behind him to close the door. The click of the latch sounded loud in the reverberant silence.
He went across to fill two glasses of brandy. He passed one to Amy who had followed him, then drained his, before returning it to the sideboard. He performed every action with exaggerated care, as if somehow close attention now could make up for his wrongs against her.
Beneath his surface calm writhed lacerating regret. Regret that he’d hurt her. Regret that he was sure to lose her. Regret that she’d never believe him now, when he told her how he treasured her. The pain was so sharp, it was like rats gnawing at his guts.
He deserved it, he supposed. But Amy didn’t. That was the hell of it.
The liquor burned a path down his throat, but didn’t banish his stark memory of her frozen horror when she learned the truth. He braced for her to speak, to storm at him, to accuse him of being a fortune hunter. But she stood silent in the middle of the room.
Her expression was hard to read. He’d seen her immediate, stabbing hurt. Now she’d drawn her formidable defenses tight around her. She was proud and pale, back straight as a ruler and head held high. And as beautiful as he’d ever seen her.
After she sent him away, as she surely must, this was how he’d remember her.
Instead of drinking the brandy, she set her glass on the desk with an unsteady hand. Her accusing gaze leveled on him. “Tell me, Gervaise.”
Pascal found no encouragement in her use of his Christian name. He made a despairing gesture as guilt lashed at him. “It will all sound so hellishly bad.”
Her lips twisted. “Did you ever intend to admit you were after my money?”
He bit back a furious protest. Because of course, that was how it had all started, wasn’t it? “Yes.”
“When?” For the first time, outrage edged her voice. But he wasn’t fooled about what she felt. Any anger stemmed from her anguish at his betrayal. “After we were married, and the settlements were signed, and you had your hands on my fortune?”
He shook his head in bleak denial, although in truth he’d never decided when to reveal his financial embarrassment. He should have told her from the first. She’d have marched away with that damned purposeful strut he loved, but at least she wouldn’t condemn him as a liar.
Pascal swallowed to push down the remorse crammed in his throat. “Please, sit down.”
She didn’t move. “Do you think you can charm me into ignoring this?”
Again he shook his head. “No. But I’d at least like you to understand, before you consign me to the devil.”
He didn’t exaggerate. Life without her was going to be the closest thing to hell he’d experience this side of the grave. But now she was convinced he’d lied from the first, she’d never believe his feelings were sincere.
The curse of all liars.
“If you insist.” Without shifting her gaze from him, she sank down onto the couch.
Resisting the urge to have another brandy, he crossed to sit beside her. No amount of brandy was going to soothe this pain. She shot him a warning glance, but he didn’t need any reminder that his touch was no longer welcome.
A heavy silence crashed down. Pascal stared sightlessly at the carpet and fisted his hands on his thighs. There was a clock on the mantel, and its heavy ticking threatened to send him mad. The lilting music from the ballroom seemed to come from another world.
“Please put me out of my misery,” Amy said, in a low voice that would have broken his heart, if it wasn’t broken already. “Was it all a pretense? Every bit of it? Right from the very beginning?”
There was little he could say to defend himself, but he couldn’t bear to let her go, believing that his seduction had been cold and calculated. “No. No, it wasn’t like that. On my honor, I swear it wasn’t.”
He looked up and met her eyes. The bright hazel turned a dull, muddy brown. He loathed that he’d made this vivid creature so wretched.
“You speak of honor?”
His mouth curved down in corrosive self-hatred. “You have every right to despise me.”
“Gervaise, I can take it. Whatever the full story is.” She still spoke in that calm voice. He’d feel better if she shouted and wept. “Just tell me. And don’t lie.”
Sucking in a shuddering breath, he went back to studying the carpet. He couldn’t endure seeing her regard turn to contempt. In recent days he’d imagined—hoped—he looked into her eyes and saw love.
“The Compton-Browne chit is right.” His flat voice masked the acrid desolation eating at him. “I badly need money to repair the damage to my estate. We had a hurricane through last winter. I believe the place will recover and become profitable again. It’s good land, and the tenants are hardworking.”
“But right now it’s a mess,” she said, and he recalled that she’d been a farmer most of her life. At least he didn’t need to describe the toll on life and property the storm had taken. “I understand.”
He tensed his fists against rising despair. He could sink into the mire of his sins once she’d left him. Now he needed to concentrate on giving her an explanation, however badly he emerged from the tale. “So I came to Town, se
eking a rich wife. I’m thirty. It was time to set up my nursery anyway.”
“Very pragmatic.”
He ignored her acerbic response. “I’m not saying I wanted to marry. You know I’ve been a libertine.”
“I know,” she said, in a hollow tone that crushed his heart to the size of a walnut. He ached to offer her comfort, but what comfort could she accept from the man who’d hurt her so unforgivably?
He forced himself to continue, although every word of his confession made his skin crawl. “I started my hunt with the current crop of debutantes, but, Lord above, they’re a henwitted bunch. Silliest gaggle of chits to arrive on the marriage mart in ten years. The night I met you, I was trying to choose between offering for Cissie Veivers, or going home and cutting my throat. When I saw you across that ballroom, you were the answer to a prayer.”
“Plump in the pocket, and too naïve to question your sudden unlikely interest?”
His self-loathing sharpened to agony. She’d be better off if he had cut his throat after the Raynor ball. Over the last weeks, he’d loved watching as her confidence blossomed. Now he’d destroyed it. What a bastard he was.
And still he had to finish this deuced excruciating account. “I remember saying to myself, after yet another soporific conversation with Miss Veivers, that I’d sell my soul for a sensible woman past first youth who had the money to restore my lands.”
“And your prayers were answered,” she said bitterly. “Although I wouldn’t describe my recent behavior as sensible.”
He sighed. “It’s my damned selfishness. All my life, what I’ve wanted has dropped into my lap. Often I haven’t even taken the trouble to ask for it. When I saw you, and you were so exactly the right wife for me, I assumed ever-reliable fate operated once more to my advantage.”
“Lucky you.”
He winced at her sarcasm. “No. All that good fortune made me shallow.”
Her restive hands pleated her skirts. Part of him wished she’d just hit him. She’d feel better if she unleashed the turmoil roiling beneath her unnatural composure.
“Not…shallow,” she said slowly. “Thoughtless perhaps.”
Pursuing Lord Pascal Page 13
