Pursuing Lord Pascal (11 page)

“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.”

Pascal had hoped that the hugely successful
visit to Sir Godfrey Yelland would soften Amy’s attitude. Perhaps
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
let him 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 sent his cheerfulness
plummeting. 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.”