Pursuing Lord Pascal (Dashing Widows #4)

Chapter Six

T he 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 rampant 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.”

The brief cheerfulness faded. “Oh.”

Curse it. She’d been doing such a fine job of restoring his spirits, but now she put her foot in it. When she’d promised not to.

“Not just because of your blasted looks,” she said with a hint of impatience. “I like you. Or haven’t you realized that yet?”

He stopped so abruptly that her hand slipped free. “You do?”

“If I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t consider your proposal,” she said, puzzled that this seemed to be news.

“So you are considering it?”

“Yes,” she admitted, then wondered if she confessed too much.

His gaze intensified. “Then let me take you to bed.”

When she burst out laughing, he looked offended. “What’s so funny?”

“You are. You need to court me for more than an afternoon.”

“Why?” He spread his hands, the picture of masculine bewilderment. “You like me. I like you—very much. There’s enough heat between us to melt Greenland. We owe nobody allegiance. Stop teasing me.”

His indignant outburst frightened the ducks off the water once again. They took off in a flurry of quacking and splashing and flapping wings.

Amy shook her head, as some foolhardy part of her longed to say yes. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is simple. It’s the inescapable imperative of desire.”

“Which promises to become very complicated indeed.”

He exhaled with frustration. “You want me. I want you. What else do we need to worry about?”

Her lips tightened. He was a clever man. He understood her qualms, even if he claimed he didn’t. “For a start, I’m not sure I want to marry again. I came to London to keep Morwenna company, not to find a new husband.”

He sliced the air with his hand. “Then be my lover.”

She shook her head again. “I’ve never taken a lover.”

“How long have you been widowed?”

“Five years.”

“And no glimmer of temptation?”

After his honesty with her, when it was obvious he’d rather have his liver dug out with a pitchfork, she could hardly tell him it was none of his business. She dared to share the embarrassing truth. “I’ve never been tempted.”

“To take a lover?”

“To want to do…that.”

He looked shocked. She could hardly blame him. “But you said you once had a penchant for me.”

She made a dismissive sound. “That was childish stuff. I doubt I thought much beyond dancing with you. You’re…talking about a different world.”

He looked thoughtful. “But what about your husband?”

“Wilfred was forty years older than me.”

Good God, that was a whole lifetime. “He wasn’t capable?” He sucked in an audible breath. “You’re not saying you’re a virgin?”

She was blushing. “No, I’m not a virgin.”

“But you’ve never felt desire.” Pascal spoke slowly, as if coming to terms with her confession.

“Don’t you dare feel sorry for me.” Which was ironic, considering how she’d wanted to smother him in compassion not long ago.

Anger lit Pascal’s eyes to blue flame. “Did he hurt you?”

“No,” she said, appalled that he should think that. “Of course not.”

“There’s no of course about it,” Pascal said grimly, taking her hand. When she jumped, he gave an unamused laugh. “Don’t worry. I won’t try my luck. But this is important, and I don’t want to be driving back to London and juggling horses and traffic while you tell me the whole story.”

“I’m not sure I want to tell you the whole story,” she said grumpily, resisting as he drew her toward a wooden bench beside the path.

“Too bad. If you can listen to me whine about my parents, you can give me chapter and verse on your disastrous marriage.”

“You didn’t whine. And my marriage wasn’t disastrous.”

“Convince me,” he said in a mild tone. He placed his hands on her shoulders, pushing until she sat.

“Why should I?” she said in a sulky voice.

He sat beside her, stretching his powerful legs in front of him. “Because you insisted we get to know one another.” His tone softened. “Tell me, Amy.”