Pursuing Lord Pascal (Dashing Widows #4)

Chapter Eight

F or two weeks, Pascal kept to his word and wooed Amy as he’d promised. If courtship was a new experience for her, it was no less so for him. He soon realized quite how careless he’d been with his previous amours. On the rare occasions when a woman denied him, he might devote a day or two to the chase. Should the effort prove too taxing, he’d shift his focus to someone else.

Now he looked back on all those years of pleasurable, but meaningless encounters, and couldn’t help feeling they reflected poorly on him. A man shouldn’t find it easy to shrug his shoulders and replace one woman with another. Somewhere a lover or two should have touched his heart.

But they never had.

Until now. Until he met a clever, skittish widow with a cloud of tawny hair and eyes that flashed between green and gold. At thirty, he was late to his first true affair of the heart, and the experience left him floundering.

Not least because, instead of running into his arms, Amy became increasingly distant. The flirtation that started with kisses and confidences became less intimate each day. It was a damned backward way to win a bride.

There were no more passionate interludes in the moonlight, no more shared secrets. Several times, he’d tried to broach her defenses, but she proved adept at keeping him out. The irony was that when all his previous lovers had sought to build emotional closeness, he’d maintained his detachment.

Now Pascal was the one to want more than a woman was prepared to give.

He’d wager what little money he had that the gods were laughing their heads off at him.

Most days, he drove Amy in the park. At the balls they attended, she always granted him two dances, including a waltz. They went to the opera, the theatre, museums, picnics, musicales, breakfasts, balls. Society began to treat them as a couple, and the clodpolls he called friends snickered to see the former libertine under the widow’s spell. The world awaited news of a wedding for the elusive Lord Pascal and the charming Lady Mowbray.

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. 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 did 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.”