“That’s not much better.” The need to take her hand in his was torture. Hell, everything right now was torture.
She was still pale as rice paper. He beat back the memory of how she’d looked after he’d taken her. Rosy with satisfaction. Brilliant with happiness. He couldn’t endure the contrast with this sad woman beside him now.
“So your plan came to fruition. You saw me, and lured me in, and had your way with me.” Vinegar crept into her voice. “I should have guessed a man like you wouldn’t pursue a woman like me without some underlying motive.”
“Amy, no,” he protested, and this time he couldn’t resist seizing her fretful hand. “One of the reasons I delayed telling you is that I knew this is what you’d think. But you’re wrong.”
She wrenched free, and he had to let her go. “No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
The hard-eyed gaze she settled on him penetrated his deceptively appealing exterior to the shameful sins beneath. “Prove it.”
He should be grateful she gave him a chance to explain, although he was all too conscious that words were inadequate to heal the injury he’d done her. But words were all that were left to him. He’d have to do his best. He owed her any recompense he could make. Even if none of it was enough.
Drawing a shaky breath, Pascal faced up to the disaster he’d made of the most important relationship in his useless life.
He’d always skated by on charm and looks. It had been enough for everyone else he knew. It wasn’t good enough for Amy.
“I liked you from the first. You must believe that. You were clever and interesting, and you didn’t make cow eyes at me or giggle.”
“I should hope not.”
“And you were so lovely—and unaware of your attractions, which made you even more appealing.”
“Because I was ripe for duping?”
Hell, she was a million miles from forgiving him. He reached a point where her forgiveness was all he hoped for—with no great optimism that he’d receive it. His machinations had put anything more forever out of reach. Knowing it was his own fault that he reached this impasse made him want to smash his fist through a window.
“No. Because I live in a world of appearances and lies, and you’re so rare and true. How in Hades could I resist you?”
He waited for Amy to challenge that statement, but she remained silent. He forced himself to go on. “In my conceit, I thought you were drawn to me, the way I was drawn to you.”
“Well, I kissed you when we weren’t much beyond strangers.” The shame in her voice made him flinch. “What else would you think?”
“What I thought was that I was in trouble. Even that first night, my self-serving plan was under threat. You made me feel things I’d never felt before. I should have taken to my heels then and there. But already I was enchanted.”
“With my fortune.”
“No, with you. With your quirky humor, and lovely face, and quick passion.” He paused. “And your lonely, steadfast heart.”
It was her turn to flinch. For the first time, she looked away from him. “I refuse to discuss my lonely, steadfast heart.”
“But don’t you see?” He jerked to his feet. He couldn’t sit beside her any longer without hauling her into his arms. “I’ve been lonely, too.”
“You?” She stared up at him with blatant disbelief.
Good God, she stripped his black soul bare. “London’s handsomest man doesn’t have friends. He has admirers.”
“Oh, Gervaise…”
Pascal recoiled from the pity in her eyes and ran a shaking hand through his hair. “But you didn’t tumble into my arms like every other woman I’ve ever wanted.” He drew himself up to his full height, as if he faced an executioner. In terms of his future happiness, he supposed he did. “You made me work for my victory. You made me prove myself. I learned to respect you.”
“Then I tumbled anyway. So much for respect.”
“Don’t be a fool, Amy,” he said shortly. “I’ve never been so happy in my life as I’ve been this last fortnight with you.”
She still studied him as if she weighed every word. She weighed his soul, too. He suffered the wretched certainty that his soul came up lacking. “You almost sound as if you mean that.”
He made a frustrated gesture. “Of course I bloody mean it.”
“So what are you saying?” She stood up too, more circumspectly than he had. “That you started this pursuit to gain my fortune, but you’ve since developed a genuine affection for me?”
His grunt of laughter held no amusement. “Oh, my darling, it’s much, much worse than that.”
He watched her prepare for another blow. “You’ve told me most of it. You may as well tell me everything.”
Sheer terror cramped his gut. His skin itched. Right now, he’d give every penny of his depleted fortune to avoid the last, most painful confession. This situation called for a man of character—and he’d never been that.
But he had to go on, whatever happened next.
His voice emerged as a growl. “I don’t just like and respect and desire you. I don’t just want to be your friend and your lover.”
“No, you want to be my banker,” she retorted.
He ignored her astringent interjection, too busy summoning every ragtag shred of courage to make the last, humiliating revelation. “I’ve fallen head over heels with you, Amy. My life without you will be a barren waste.” Then he spoke words he’d never said before, words he never thought he’d say to anyone. “I love you.”
* * *
Aghast, Amy retreated until her legs bumped the couch. Her knees felt weak and shaky. To stay upright, she fumbled for the back of the couch. She felt so horridly lost and confused. Tonight she’d been through a storm to rival the hurricane that destroyed Gervaise’s fortune. She’d jolted from ecstasy to betrayal and anguish.
And now this, the ultimate shock.
In all their time together, she’d never imagined him saying such a thing to her.
Did he mean it? Could she trust him? Her gaze clung to that austere, perfect face. He looked desperately unhappy, and a muscle flickered in his cheek. He gave every appearance of a man on the emotional edge.
Was that because he was about to lose Amy Mowbray? Or Amy Mowbray’s substantial fortune?
“That’s easy to say,” she said sharply.
His smile was sour. “No, it isn’t. And the devil of it is I mean it to my soul, yet you’ll never believe it’s true.”
Still she studied him, her vision at last free of the deceiving veils of glamour and girlhood fantasy. For the first time, his extraordinary looks weren’t what captured her attention. Instead she finally saw the fallible man beneath his superb shell.
So where did that leave her? Did fallible mean irredeemable? Or was there a whisper of goodness skulking under his spectacular hide?
For the last few weeks, desire had steered her usually reliable brain. But now, she started to think. She needed to winnow the truth from the lies. If there was any truth there at all. “Why didn’t you tell me about your estate?”
He sighed. “Because you doubted yourself so completely, you’d immediately assume the only reason I pursued you was for your money. And that’s exactly what’s happened, damn it.”
To her surprise, as she witnessed what looked like genuine distress, part of her suspected he wasn’t entirely false. At least not all the time. “After tonight, I think a tiny corner of you holds some honest regard for me.”
He cast her an astonished glance. “Really?”
She shrugged and dared to take a step toward him. “Apparently my affair with the much sought-after Lord Pascal has done wonders for my confidence.”
He frowned, as if seeking some hidden attack in her words. “But how the devil can I ever convince you I don’t want your money?”
“I thought you did want it.”
His smile was grim. “I do. But not as much as I want you.”
She almost—a
lmost—believed him. “We could put it in trust for our children.”
He looked brighter. “We could. That’s an excellent idea. We might have to live quietly in the country for a couple of years. Watch our pennies. Do the urgent tasks first, and leave the rest until we can afford it. I’m sure if we make some economies on the estate, we’ll manage.”
“We could work something out, that’s certain.”
“Amy?” Gervaise regarded her as if he still didn’t trust what she said. He’d been so sunk in self-hatred and misery, she couldn’t blame him.
“And you’re marrying a woman famous for her scientific approach to farming. Once I get my hands on it, your estate will be a showplace in no time.”
The flare of hope in his eyes set her heart racing and skipping and jumping. She sent up a tiny, urgent prayer. Dear Lord, don’t let this be another trick.
He’d lied to her. That was irrefutable. But did that mean everything was lies?
Her brain had come to her rescue, thank heaven. And reminded her of what she and Gervaise had shared.
While his motives had undeniably been murky, Amy couldn’t dismiss all his actions as callous self-interest. She remembered how desperate he’d been for her, and how careful when he’d taken her. And how desolate he’d looked when he thought he’d lost her.
She remembered, too, how amiably he’d devoted a day to tramping around Sir Godfrey Yelland’s muddy farm, just because she wanted to look at cattle. She remembered his kindness and his humor. And how he’d entrusted her with the sad story of his childhood, when it was clear the humiliating details left his pride in tatters.
She remembered the times—until tonight when he’d been mad for her—he’d protected her from conceiving. When a pregnancy was the quickest, surest way to gain her consent to a wedding.
She remembered how mad he’d been for her tonight.
Gervaise’s stare was unwavering, as if he was a condemned man, and only she could save him from a hanging.
“The tragic truth is that’s why I want to marry you—all that free advice.” He struggled to achieve his usual sardonic note. It was a little too threadbare to be convincing. But the small, dry joke hinted that he crawled out of his despair.
She prayed that he really was in despair, and this wasn’t more deception. But some bone-deep instinct insisted that he wouldn’t betray her again. That he might have started out after her fortune, but against all the odds, now he really did love her.
He loved her.
Was she prepared to take the greatest risk of her life? By now, she should be used to this giddy mixture of dread and excitement. She’d felt this way since the day she met him again.
“You know, if you’d offered me the chance to bring an ailing estate back to prosperity, I’d have married you when you first proposed.”
“I’ll remember that for the next time I find a woman I want to make my wife.”
Although it was cursed difficult to look stern when a chorus of larks trilled in her soul, she summoned a frown. “You’d better not, or there will be trouble.”
“Why?”
Amy decided that in the end, all she could do was trust her heart. Her brain would take her so far, but it wouldn’t give her the courage to seize the future she wanted. A future with Gervaise at her side.
She stood straight and tall and met his eyes. “Because the only woman you’re going to marry is right in front of you.”
Incredulity flooded his face, then swift, overwhelming relief that filled her with thankfulness. They might just pull through this crisis and find their way back to one another.
In breathless suspense, she waited for him to sweep her up and tell her how happy he was, but he folded his arms and studied her down his aristocratic nose. “Why?”
Her lips twitched, when not long ago, she thought she’d never smile again. “Because after you’ve played reckless games with my heart and honor, you deserve to suffer.”
“Amy,” he said implacably. The glittering brightness of his eyes spoiled the effect a tad. She read hope in his expression, but he wasn’t yet ready to trust that he’d won.
“Because I want to devote my fortune to restoring yours.”
He shook his head in disapproval. “I told you—I don’t want your blasted money. If I take it, you’ll never trust me. I’d rather have you.”
“You’ll have me.”
Still he didn’t relent. “Then let me put it another way. I’d rather have your love. Do you love me?”
She caught a glimpse of the aching vulnerability beneath his masterful pose, and all impulse to tease faded. Because of course she loved him. She’d loved him since she was a silly fourteen-year-old at Woodley Park.
There had been enough secrets between them. Secrets had nearly torn them apart.
Amy squared her shoulders and sucked in a deep breath. “Yes.”
Joy flared in his eyes, but still he didn’t kiss her. What the devil was wrong with him? “I didn’t hear you.”
She stepped closer. “Yes,” she said more loudly.
“Yes, what?”
“Oh, you’re a scoundrel.”
He tilted one eyebrow.
She sighed and gave in. “Very well. I love you, too.”
He didn’t smile, but the taut line of his shoulders relaxed, and the deep lines running between his nose and mouth eased. “God, I hope so.”
She spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “How could I do anything but love you? Nobody else makes me feel the way you do.”
The unabashed longing in his face made her tremble. “And you’ll marry me?”
“I will.” She raised her chin and glared. “Although I’ll change my mind, if you don’t kiss me this very minute.”
At last, a spark of genuine amusement lit his expression. “Well, we can’t have that.”
Before she could respond, he dragged her into his arms and kissed her with a passion beyond anything she’d ever known. Perhaps because they’d come so close to losing one another. He was trembling, too, she was moved to discover. And realizing that, the last of her doubts melted into the air. She clung to him and gave herself up to the miraculous truth that they were in love, and they were going to share a life together.
When much later she returned to the real world, they were sitting on the sofa, and she was twined around him, breathless and happy. Gervaise brought her head down to rest on his shoulder and pressed a kiss to her rumpled hair. His tenderness carved a rift in her heart. From the first, that tenderness had hinted that he wasn’t quite the selfish rogue he liked to believe.
“Did I tell you I love you?” he murmured.
She cuddled closer to his radiant heat. “You can definitely tell me again.”
“I love you.” The sweetness in his kiss turned her bones to syrup.
“And I love you.” She raised her head and stared into his face. She saw a strength that would sustain her for the rest of her life. “Forever.”
With a brilliant smile, he untangled himself. He stood and stretched out his hand. “Then, my lovely Amy, come away with me now, and let’s enjoy a purely private celebration. Tomorrow, we’ll tell the world, but tonight is for us alone.”
“Won’t that cause talk?” she asked, even as anticipation ripped through her.
He shrugged. “Let them gossip. I need to have you in my arms.”
How marvelously scandalous. She loved it. But not as much as she loved him.
Amy’s fingers curled around Gervaise’s, and she let him draw her to her feet. “That’s an invitation I can’t resist, my darling Lord Pascal.”
THE END
Continue reading for an excerpt from:
The Seduction of Lord Stone
Book 1 in the Dashing Widows series
* * *
For this reckless widow, love is the most dangerous game of all.
Caroline, Lady Beaumont, arrives in London seeking excitement after ten dreary years of marriage and an even drearier year of mourning. That me
ans conquering society, dancing like there’s no tomorrow, and taking a lover to provide passion without promises. Promises, in this dashing widow’s dictionary, equal prison. So what is an adventurous lady to do when she loses her heart to a notorious rake who, for the first time in his life, wants forever?
Devilish Silas Nash, Viscount Stone is in love at last—with a beautiful, headstrong widow bent on playing the field. Worse, she’s enlisted his help to set her up with his disreputable best friend. No red-blooded man takes such a challenge lying down, and Silas schemes to seduce his darling into his arms, warm, willing and besotted. But will his passionate plots come undone against a woman determined to act the mistress, but never the wife?
Prologue
Grosvenor Square, London, February 1820
The world expected a widow to be sad.
The world expected a widow to be lonely.
The world didn’t expect a widow to be bored to the point of throwing a brick through a window, just to shatter the endless monotony of her prescribed year of mourning.
Outside the opulent drawing room, fashionable Grosvenor Square presented a bleak view. Leafless trees, gray skies, people scurrying past wrapped up beyond recognition as they rushed to be indoors again. Even inside, the winter air kept its edge. The bitter weather reflected the chill inside Caroline, Lady Beaumont; the endless fear that she sacrificed her youth to stultifying convention. She sighed heavily and flattened one palm on the cold glass, wondering if there would always be a barrier between her and freedom.
“You’re out of sorts today, Caro,” Fenella, Lady Deerham, said softly from where she presided over the tea table. While Caroline was this afternoon’s hostess, habit—and good sense—saw Fenella dispensing refreshments. She was neat and efficient in her movements, unlike Caroline who tended to gesticulate when something caught her attention. Fenella would never spill tea over the priceless Aubusson carpet.
“It’s so blasted miserable out there.” Caroline still stared discontentedly at the deserted square. “I don’t think I’ve seen the sun in three months.”
Pursuing Lord Pascal Page 14
