Pursuing Lord Pascal (Dashing Widows #4)

Chapter Four

W hen 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.”

They wandered down the steps into the gardens. She caught glimpses of other couples snatching some air, away from the ballroom’s stuffy heat, so she assumed this was perfectly acceptable behavior.

“It wasn’t difficult once I worked out you were Stone’s sister. You’re the clever woman who wrote all those articles on animal husbandry. I should have known from the first, but then I never imagined I’d want to dance with an expert on hoof disease in beef cattle.”

“You’ve read my pieces?” Amy asked, disconcerted.

“With interest. I’m trying the new farming methods on my estates, and my bailiff is a long-term admirer of your ideas.”

“Th-thank you,” she said, flustered.

There was enough light to reveal the fond smile he sent in her direction. “I do believe my appreciation of your work has thrown you into more of a spin than all the times I’ve told you you’re beautiful.”

Ridiculously, it was true. Perhaps because her agricultural experiments belonged to the real Amy Mowbray, whereas compliments he paid her looks were a tribute to Sally and her skilled modiste.

“I’d be glad to advise you,” she said, then was grateful that the shadows hid her blush. What a nitwit she was. As if this sophisticated man wanted to talk agriculture at one of the biggest social events of the year. To hide her mortification, she gulped a mouthful of wine.

“I’d like that,” he said with what sounded like enthusiasm. “Perhaps you’ll come to Northumberland and see for yourself what needs to be done.”

Her self-castigation melted away. Astonishing as it might be, he didn’t dismiss her as hopelessly unsophisticated. She curled her hand around his arm more firmly. In thin evening gloves, her fingers were cold. More, she wanted to touch him.

The path he chose led away from the light. She noticed but didn’t protest. The sinful hope arose that he might kiss her again. Properly this time. Wilfred hadn’t been much for kissing, but she’d caught Silas and Helena in enough passionate embraces with their spouses to know that she had lots to discover.

Perhaps she’d discover it with Lord Pascal.

She edged nearer to him, partly because it was cold away from the braziers. In the distance, she could hear laughter and the sweet, silly tune for the dance. Closer, a woman murmured something in a husky voice, then fell silent.

Amy sipped her champagne, wondering if she could blame her uncharacteristic rashness on the wine. Her heart thumped like a drum, and her blood pumped slow and heavy like syrup. She’d never felt this way before. Such a giddy mixture of suspense and anticipation.

Desire.

Suddenly that seemed a sad confession. She’d been married for two years. She should have known desire.

Their steps slowed, came to a stop. They stood alone in a small glade with a sundial in the center. The moon was three-quarters full, illuminating shapes without detail. Very gently, Pascal set down his empty glass on the sundial. Then he took hers and set it beside his.

Amy swayed forward as with breathtaking assurance, his hand curved around her waist. He leaned in, blocking the moonlight, turning everything to dark mystery.

When his lips met hers, she sighed in wordless surrender.