Pursuing Lord Pascal (Dashing Widows #4)

Chapter Nine

P ascal had hoped that the hugely successful visit to Sir Godfrey Yelland would soften Amy’s attitude. Possibly even win the war. Although her transparent pleasure in wandering around the baronet’s lush fields and discussing the finer points of cattle management had almost been reward enough.

Perhaps Pascal wasn’t quite the selfish sod he’d always considered himself. Or perhaps Amy made him a better man.

Which wouldn’t stop him taking her to bed and proving himself very bad indeed, when she at last decided he’d done his time in purgatory.

He was still in purgatory. All those damned dairy cows hadn’t worked their obscure magic. However fulsomely grateful Amy had been in the week since then, she still wouldn’t permit him to kiss her. Let alone do anything more.

She was a stalwart opponent, his Amy. If he wasn’t in such a lather to have her, he’d admire her determination. As it was, he wasn’t far off banging his head against a brick wall, so he had something else to think about, apart from this endless sexual craving.

Tonight, they were in his box at the Theatre Royal, watching a comedy that was all the rage, some asinine nonsense about bandits in the Apennines. Pascal had paid attention to the first five minutes, then lapsed into his usual pastime these days, brooding over the woman who proved his torment and his delight. The lovely creature with a heart of ice, who sat beside him, giving every sign of enjoying the inanities on the stage.

Except she didn’t have a heart of ice. She just didn’t feel any particular warmth toward one Gervaise Dacre.

When they’d first met, he’d have bet his hope of heaven on the fact that she found him irresistibly attractive. Now he wasn’t even sure of that anymore, devil take her.

What if, after all his restraint, she wouldn’t have him? He reached a point where no other woman would do, but romantic yearnings couldn’t restore his estates. He’d manage without marrying money, he supposed, but it meant economies, not only for him, but for the tenants. He was dashed reluctant to take that path. Over the years, he’d done bugger all to make his late father proud, but he’d always tried his best to be a good landlord.

Before the last scene of the play, there was a short break. A backdrop descended, and the orchestra played popular tunes in a futile attempt to cover the thumps and bumps coming from the stage. Meg and Sally and Meg’s new suitor, Sir Charles Kinglake, retreated to the rear of the box for a chat. Pascal waited for Amy to rise and join them, but she remained where she was.

“You’re quiet tonight, my lord,” she murmured. “Aren’t you enjoying the play?”

Blast the play. He’d happily consign the play to Hades, and this buffle-headed audience with it. But he’d promised to act the perfect gentleman, so he battened down his frustration and responded evenly, if not politely. “I’ve never seen such twaddle in my life.”

She laughed. He loved her laugh. His wayward heart always skipped a beat when he heard the husky catch in that low chuckle. Even now when he was utterly wretched. “It’s silly, but funny. I thought you might like it. You didn’t much take to ‘Othello’ last week.”

He didn’t much remember “Othello.” As he had tonight, he’d spent most of the evening ruminating on his lack of success with a pretty widow. “That was twaddle, too.”

“Would you like to go home?”

He brightened. That sounded like an offer to join him in his carriage. She joined him in his carriage most days, but right now it was dark, and who knew what liberties he could take between Drury Lane and Half Moon Street? Especially if they detoured via Edinburgh. “Would you?”

The shake of her head made his cheerfulness plummet. One of the worst parts of his plight was the way she sent his emotions flying to the sky or sinking to the depths.

“No, I’m enjoying the play. But I’m sure Sir Charles can take me home.”

Over his dead body. “It’s nearly finished anyway,” Pascal said in a sulky voice, before he remembered he meant to be gracious and charming, so she allowed him into her bed.

During these last weeks of pretending he wasn’t starving for her, he’d become a dab hand at dissembling. In fact, his acting was a damned sight better than anything he saw tonight.

“Are you going to the Lewis musicale tomorrow?” she asked.

“Are you?” Another chance for her to keep him at arm’s length. How could he bear it? Blindly he stared at the insipid painting hiding the stage.

“Yes. Cavallini is singing, and everyone says she’s marvelous.”

More blasted twaddle. “Then I’m going, too.”

“Sally’s holding a small dinner at Half Moon Street before it starts. She’d love you to come.”

He focused burning eyes on Amy. “And what about you? Would you love me to be there?”

When they’d first met, he’d had little trouble interpreting her expressions, but with every day, she became more of a mystery. He’d decided long ago that love turned a man’s brains to porridge. “Of course.”

“Of course,” he muttered and turned back to watch as the painting rose to reveal more damned mountains. The whole bloody play had been about mountains. What was the point of moving the scenery at all?

The orchestra finished scratching away, and the noisy nitwits reappeared to play out this tosh. Pascal was vaguely aware of Sally, Meg, and Sir Charles taking their seats.

He could go home. Amy probably wouldn’t mind if he left. But what was the point of retreating? The devil of it was that he was as miserable away from her as he was with her.

About ten minutes later, Amy leaned closer. “Stop sighing. You sound like an overridden horse.”

Despite his morose mood, he couldn’t contain a smile. “It’s worse than ‘Othello.’”

To his astonishment, she reached across and squeezed his arm. The gesture was friendly rather than seductive, but it still went a long way toward calming his roiling unhappiness. “It will soon be over.”

If only she meant his wait for her. “I hope so.”

He waited in suspense for her to pull away. She hadn’t touched him in weeks, apart from sanctioned contact when she stepped into a carriage or danced with him.

“Thank you,” she whispered, after a reverberant pause.

What a surprise. Pleased astonishment flooded him. He didn’t need to ask what she thanked him for. It seemed that she’d noticed his efforts to woo her and appreciated them.

Even after she withdrew her hand, warmth lingered. Unexpectedly a few of the silly jokes on the stage turned out to be funny enough to raise a laugh.

* * *

“Goodnight, Aunt Sally,” Meg said. Amy watched the girl bend to kiss her aunt’s cheek. “It’s been a lovely evening.”

They were in Sally’s sitting room, and it was late, well past midnight. After the play, Sir Charles had arranged supper at his fine house on Berkeley Square.

“Yes, it has,” Sally said. “Sleep tight, and dream of handsome gentlemen.”

Amy caught a hint of slyness in Meg’s glance. What was the chit up to? So far this season, she’d behaved perfectly. But there was no mistaking the mischief in those dancing blue eyes.

“Sir Charles is very handsome.”

Sally smiled at her. “He really is. Now away with you, you incorrigible girl.”

“You want to talk to Amy about Lord Pascal,” Meg said.

Amy blushed, although it was no secret in the household that Pascal had set his sights on the widowed Lady Mowbray.

“I do indeed,” Sally said. “Mind you go quietly upstairs. Morwenna’s asleep.”

“No, she’s not. I saw the light in her window when we came in.”

“Nonetheless, don’t you go disturbing her.”

“I won’t.” Meg made a pretty curtsy in Amy’s direction. “Goodnight, Amy. Honestly I don’t know how you resist Lord Pascal. I think he’s gorgeous.”

“That’s enough out of you, miss,” Sally said. “And you’re not to dream of Amy’s beau.”

Amy laughed. “Oh, let her, if she wants to. I dreamed of him myself, when I was a giddy girl.”

Meg’s grin hinted that the young lady gracing the season’s ballrooms hadn’t completely overtaken the impudent hoyden of a few months ago. “So you’re childhood sweethearts reunited?”

“Not at all. He didn’t know I was alive, but I had a romantical streak when I was fourteen.”

“Meg, it’s time you were in bed, instead of asking rude questions,” Sally said, although her attempts at sternness were never very convincing.

“Yes, Aunt.” She paused at the door, and the humor left her eyes. “And thank you. I know I’m a trial to you, but I’m grateful for everything you’re doing for me.”

“Not that much of a trial.” Sally’s expression softened. “Away with you, mousekin.”

Amy smiled after Meg as she left. “She’s a lovely girl.”

“She is. And I hope she finds happiness. I like Sir Charles, and he’s been most particular in his attentions since he arrived in London last week.”

“He has.” Although in Amy’s opinion, he was interested in Sally, rather than her pretty niece. She knew Sally well enough by now not to voice that opinion. Sally believed that at thirty, she was past the age of romance. “I like him, too.”

“He’s invited us to the Royal Academy tomorrow. I do hope Meg doesn’t betray her complete ignorance of painting. Sir Charles is quite the connoisseur. Did you notice the Titian in his drawing room?”

Amy hid a smile. “I did indeed. Luckily you can talk pictures, if Meg finds herself at sea.” Over supper, Sir Charles and Sally had enjoyed a lively discussion about Mr. Turner’s latest works. Meg had been busy, telling Amy and Pascal about her father’s stables. The chit mightn’t know much about art, but she could wax eloquent on equine bloodlines.

Sally rose from her chair near the fire. “Would you like a brandy?”

A small glass of brandy was the perfect accompaniment to these late night chats. “Yes, please.”

While Sally poured their drinks, a comfortable silence fell. It still astounded Amy how easily she and Sally had fallen into friendship. They were both lonely, and she’d learned to appreciate Sally’s worldly experience and sound common sense.

Sally passed Amy a brandy and carried hers back to her chair. “I’m worried about Morwenna.”

“I am, too.” Amy sipped her drink. “But to give her her due, she’s doing better than I thought she would.”

“Oh, I agree. She puts on a great pretense of enjoying herself. But under the gaiety, she’s still grieving.”

Amy settled back and let the liquor and the fire melt away the night’s tension. The strain of this prolonged torture of a courtship told on her. With every moment in Pascal’s company, her control became more frayed. Tonight, he’d looked so disheartened, she’d nearly flung herself into his arms and begged him to kiss her.

But she was painfully aware that his lovers were always cheaply won, and just as easily forsaken. She couldn’t bear to become another eager, forgettable woman in a long list of eager, forgettable women.

“Sally, she needed every ounce of courage she possessed to come to London and face the world again. She and Robert were deeply in love. Give her time. And don’t forget that she’s missing Kerenza.” Kerenza was at Woodley with Silas and Caroline and all her Nash cousins. Morwenna knew her daughter was fine, but that didn’t make the separation easier.

“I know she is. I just wish she was happy.”

“Especially after you’ve tried so hard to give us a memorable few weeks.”

Sally waved her glass in a dismissive gesture. “I’ve loved having you both to stay—and Meg, too.”

“Your niece is a great success, and her popularity hasn’t turned her head.”

“No, she’s a good child, if a little too inclined to mock the wisdom of her elders.”

Amy sent Sally a disgusted look. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“What?” Sally drained her brandy.

“Talk about yourself as if you’ve got one foot in the grave. You’re beautiful, and you’ve got more energy than Morwenna and me combined. If you think society’s gentlemen haven’t noticed, you need spectacles.”

Sally’s lips twitched. “Shortsightedness is a sign of old age.”

“And blind stubbornness is a sign of a closed mind.”

Sally laughed, clearly discounting Amy’s comments. “You’re too kind. Why would anyone look at me when I’m with Meg, who’s so young and vibrant?”

Amy shook her head. “Not every man wants an untried girl, Sally.”

Sally’s eyes sharpened. “Speaking of men who like women with some life experience, when are you going to put Pascal out of his misery?”

Amy’s shoulders tautened, although she knew that this interrogation was inevitable. And also that Sally asked the question to shift the focus away from herself. “He’s courting me.”

“Which he’s done assiduously for the last three weeks. I’ve never seen the man work so hard to win a woman. Usually they’re clamoring after him.”

“That’s part of the problem,” Amy admitted, staring into her glass to avoid Sally’s perceptive gaze. She’d never told her friends that Pascal wanted to marry her. Although since he’d become the perfect escort, he hadn’t mentioned marriage. Quite possibly, he’d dismissed the idea, now Amy proved so much trouble.

“Oh, tosh. None of those women meant a farthing to him.”

A chill ran down her spine. “You seem remarkably well informed,” she said stiffly.

Dear God, had she been too na?ve for words? Pascal and Sally were old friends and visibly comfortable together. Had they once been more than friends?

Scorn edged Sally’s snort. “Tuck in your claws. We’ve never been lovers. I was faithful to my husband, and since his death, nobody has tempted me to err.”

“Then why are you pushing me along the primrose path?” Amy said, ashamed of her petty jealousy.

Sally shrugged. “I’m not opposed to taking a lover. Perhaps I’ll look around more seriously, once I’ve got Meg settled.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I don’t know.” A dreamy light that Amy had never seen before softened Sally’s expression. “It's just that you and Pascal seem…right somehow. Like you fit. To be candid, I expected him to tumble you into bed that night you came in from the Bartletts’ garden, looking like he’d kissed you into next week.”

“Oh.” Heat prickled Amy’s cheeks. “You noticed.”

“I could hardly miss it.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

Sally smiled. “You were doing well without interference. But since then, you’ve turned as prim as a middle-aged governess, and he’s tiptoeing around you as if terrified you’ll shatter at the first touch.”

“I want…I want him to prove he’s genuinely interested.”

Sally rolled her eyes. “He’s so interested, he looks ready to cut his throat unless you show him a drop of kindness. Which would be a sad waste of a very pretty man.”

Amy sent her friend a direct look. “By kindness, you mean let him seduce me.”

Sally shrugged and refilled her glass. “Or you could seduce him. I hate to see you at odds, when it’s perfectly obvious that you’re both mad for one another.”

“I’ve never…I’ve never taken a lover,” Amy said unsteadily.

“Well, given dried-up old Wilfred Mowbray is the extent of your experience, it’s time you did.”

“Wilfred was a good man,” she snapped, hearing the guilt lurking beneath her defense of her late husband. Because of course, Pascal excited her in ways that Wilfred never had.

“He was. But he’s gone now. And he was always too old for a vivid creature like you.” Sally set her glass on a side table. The understanding in her face made Amy feel that her friend guessed all her secrets. Including her aching longing to surrender to Pascal and sample this hot magic that put the whole world in a stew. “You need to see what a young, virile man can do for you.”

“And that young, virile man is Lord Pascal?”

“He’s certainly willing. I’ve never seen a man as…willing.”

“It’s a big step.”

“And you’re frightened.”

Amy’s lips twitched. “Terrified. And I can’t quite believe he’s attracted to me.”

Compassion flooded Sally’s face. “Oh, Amy, I hoped you’d got over this silly self-doubt. You’re lovely and smart and unusual, and any man would be lucky to win you. I know it. Meg knows it. Morwenna knows it. All those men who line up to dance with you know it. Believe me, Lord Pascal knows it. The only person who doesn’t know it is you.”

“You make me sound so poor spirited,” Amy said in a subdued voice. The brandy that had tasted so pleasant on her palate now burned like acid in her stomach.

Sally made a sweeping gesture. “No. Just inexperienced in the ways of the world. Pascal is eating his heart out for you.”

“I’m not sure his heart is involved.”

Sally’s smile was arch. “Other parts of him certainly are. The man’s turning into a complete wreck. I started out enjoying the sight of him topsy-turvy over a woman. After all, he’s had enough ladies sighing over him. Now I can’t help feeling sorry for him. If you want him, take him. If you don’t, set the poor fellow loose.”

It might reflect badly on her character, but Amy couldn’t help relishing the thought of gorgeous Gervaise Dacre sick with desire for her humble self. She sucked in a breath and stiffened her backbone as she summoned all her courage. Perhaps it was time to dare.

Her voice emerged with unexpected steadiness. “I want him, all right.”

Sally’s smile was broad and approving. “In that case, do something about it.”