Pursuing Lord Pascal (17 page)

To her surprise, she watched the jaded mask
descend over his features. Even more surprising, she realized she
now knew him well enough to recognize that cynicism as a facade.
“Then I beg your pardon for troubling you.”

A rusty laugh escaped her. “Gervaise, you
nitwit. I mean I’m not saying no.”

He regarded her uncertainly. “You did.”

She shook her head. When they touched, she
and Gervaise communicated perfectly. Not so much when they talked,
to her regret. “Words are tangling me up.”

“Then be clear, for God’s sake,” he said
roughly. “Will you marry me?”

She hesitated, even as she saw her havering
tormented him. “I…I’ll think about it.”

He gave a soft growl of frustration and
gestured toward the desk. “After that, you must know how good we
are together.”

“We desire each other.” She swallowed to
moisten a dry mouth. “That on its own isn’t enough.”

“We share more than passion, and you know it.
I’ve never enjoyed a woman’s company as I have yours. Don’t you
like talking to me, too?”

“You know I do.” She made a helpless gesture,
and decided to take a chance with the prosaic truth. “But London
isn’t my real life. When the season’s over, I’ll go back to being
eccentric, practical Amy Mowbray, who spends her time tramping her
fields and working on improvements to her land and stock.”

Gervaise looked offended. “You think I’m too
frivolous to hold your attention?”

Her sigh carried the weight of all her years
of insecurity. “No, I think I’m too dull to amuse you.”

He took her hand again. “What would you say
if I told you a life in the country with you at my side sounds like
a great adventure?”

Amy frowned, although this time she didn’t
break free. “I’d say I still need to think.” When he loomed closer,
she placed her hand on his chest to keep him at bay. “And don’t
kiss me. You turn my brains to scrambled eggs when you do.”

“That’s a good thing, when people contemplate
marriage,” he said, looking happier. Of course he did. He knew now
how close she teetered to agreement.

“Not when I need to be sensible.” She cringed
at the word. It sounded so cramped and mean after this marvelous
fortnight of generosity and abundance and passion since she’d gone
to his bed.

“You’ve been sensible your whole life. I’ll
wager you were born sensible.” He placed his hand over hers where
it lay above his heart. “Take a chance.”

Her laugh was wry. “I was sensible until the
day I met you. Now I need a clear head.”

He studied her and must have seen that she
was adamant. With a sigh, he released her and leaned back against
the desk. She tried not to let the dejected slump of his shoulders
sway her decision.

“Do you want me to woo you again?”

She found a smile. He sounded like she asked
him to sign up for ten years’ hard labor in the colonies. “No.”

He regarded her under lowered golden brows.
“Then for pity’s sake, what do you want?”

She wanted him, but that wasn’t necessarily a
reason to accept him. “I want a couple of days to reflect upon my
answer. Surely that’s not too much to ask, when we’re talking about
the rest of our lives.”

He straightened, and his expression turned
austere. “I’ll call tomorrow for your answer,” he said in an
uncompromising tone.

His sudden ruthlessness startled her.
“Gervaise…”

He regarded her impatiently. “You can’t
pretend my offer comes out of the blue. If you don’t know now that
we’re perfect together, you’ll never know. Say yes tomorrow, or
send me away forever.”

She folded her arms and regarded him with
displeasure. “You’re very highhanded.”

“Get used to it.”

The awful truth was that Amy found his
arrogance exciting. She didn’t want a man who rode roughshod over
her. But she respected Gervaise’s willingness to stand up to her
and demand an answer. Once she’d settled into Warrington Grange,
she’d become the stronger half of the partnership. Wilfred had
followed her every directive. As a result, she’d spent most of her
marriage feeling very lonely.

She realized with a shock that when she was
with Gervaise, she never felt lonely.

Now she had to deal with this new masterful
version of her lover. Heat swirled in her veins, and a familiar
sinful longing weighted the base of her belly. What a wanton he
made her. She liked this new, daring version of Amy Mowbray.

It was as much to deny that stirring interest
as to bring the difficult conversation to a close that she spoke.
“We should go. I can hear music. Supper must be over.”

He studied her with an unreadable expression
before giving her a brief bow as if they returned to the formality
of their early meetings. “As you wish.”

Actually it wasn’t in any way as she wished.
Wicked girl she was, she wanted to stay here with Gervaise and lose
herself in mindless pleasure.

More. She wanted him to hustle her away and
persuade her with kisses, until she forgot what an important
decision marriage was. She had a horrible feeling that if she
thought too hard, she’d turn into a coward and scuttle back to
obscurity—and safety—in Leicestershire.

Suddenly that seemed a sad outcome to these
recent, exciting weeks.

“Am I…am I tidy?” she asked in a reedy voice,
as he shrugged on his coat and smoothed his hair. The efficiency of
his movements reminded her, as if she needed reminding, that here
was a man used to managing amorous intrigues.

His forbidding air softened at her hesitant
question, and she sucked in her first full breath since he’d
proposed. “Come here,” he said gently.

She stood in front of him. He tucked away a
couple of stray tendrils of hair and straightened her pretty new
dress.

“Will I do?”

“You’ll dazzle them all.” He leaned forward
to give her another of those devastating kisses. He didn’t seem
angry anymore, but she couldn’t forget his ultimatum.

Through the closed door, she heard a
quadrille. “I won’t dazzle Mr. Harslett. I promised him this
dance.”

Gervaise’s finger traced a burning trail
along her jaw. “I wish you could dance with nobody but me.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Are you likely to
become one of those odiously possessive husbands who snaps like a
grumpy dog if his wife flirts with another man?”

His expression turned wry. “You know, I think
I am. Does that mean you won’t have me?”

“I’m better off knowing,” she said lightly.
The urge to say yes struggled against the bonds of her prudence. A
lifetime with Gervaise? It sounded like heaven. But it seemed
despite tonight’s rashness, she remained by nature cautious. “Shall
we go?”

“Let me check if the corridor is empty.” He
unlocked the door and edged it open.

She’d started forward when he hauled her back
into his arms. They both heard the nearby voices. Amy’s heart
slammed to a stop, then raced like a runaway horse. She buried her
face in Gervaise’s chest, as he edged deeper into the shadows
behind the open door.

“I can’t believe he’d choose her rather than
you. You’re accounted a diamond of the first water,” an affected,
very young female voice said in the hallway. Amy didn’t recognize
the speaker, but she immediately identified the girl who
answered.

“He wants her fortune. Mamma says I’ve had a
lucky escape,” Lucy Compton-Browne stated with her usual
self-satisfaction. Meg had invited the Compton-Browne girl to tea
several times. Amy had never much liked her. Or her pushy
mother.

“Do you think so? He’s so very, very
handsome, and everyone says he’s a great catch. Are you sure he has
no money?”

Amy felt Gervaise’s body turn rigid with
tension, and his grip on her tightened.

“Mamma heard it from one of his neighbours,
an old school friend who regularly corresponds with her. It’s not
in general circulation, but it soon will be. People can never keep
a story like that secret. A storm last January laid waste to his
estates, and apparently he was already up to his ears in debt after
a couple of bad harvests. He needs a rich wife, and he needs her
quickly.”

“Oh, that’s a pity when he’s such a gorgeous
man. If he proposed to me, I don’t think I’d care that he’s a
fortune hunter.”

“Have some pride, Arabella. Anyway, Lord
Pascal has set his sights on Lady Mowbray—he must have decided a
lonely widow without a watchful mamma would be easier prey. I
almost feel sorry for her.”

“Did you hear something?” the unknown
Arabella asked.

Amy bit her lip and cursed her betraying
gasp. Through her numbed shock, she was desperate to disentangle
herself from Lord Pascal’s grasp. Only to find he’d already
released her.

“Don’t be such a henwit. There’s nobody else
here. Let’s go back to the dancing. Sir Brandon Deerham has
requested the next waltz—and he’s both handsome and plump in the
pocket.”

Over the slow death knell playing in her
ears, Amy didn’t hear anything more. Her stomach knotted into
agonizing tangles as she struggled to come to terms with what she’d
learned. Blindly she stared at the mahogany door and fumbled for
courage, when all she wanted to do was run away and bawl her eyes
out.

What an idiot she’d been. A vain, brainless,
needy idiot. She knew who she was. She knew who Lord Pascal was.
She should immediately have seen that he was out to make a fool of
her.

But hindsight provided no comfort and pride
couldn’t come to her rescue, when her heart was engaged and
threatening to break. She made herself look up into that gorgeous,
deceiving face. Lord Pascal appeared sick with devastation.

Well, that was what happened when a fortune
slipped through your greedy, grasping fingers.

“Is it true?” she asked in a dead voice.

She waited for him to lie. How ironic that
not long ago, she’d been convinced that he’d always been honest
with her.

He squared his shoulders and met her eyes
without flinching. “Yes.”

Silently, Pascal reached behind him to close
the door. The click of the latch sounded loud in the reverberant
silence.

He went across to fill two glasses of brandy.
He passed one to Amy who had followed him, then drained his, before
returning it to the sideboard. He performed every action with
exaggerated care, as if somehow close attention now could make up
for his wrongs against her.

Beneath his surface calm writhed lacerating
regret. Regret that he’d hurt her. Regret that he was sure to lose
her. Regret that she’d never believe him now, when he told her how
he treasured her. The pain was so sharp, it was like rats gnawing
at his guts.

He deserved it, he supposed. But Amy didn’t.
That was the hell of it.

The liquor burned a path down his throat, but
didn’t banish his stark memory of her frozen horror when she
learned the truth. He braced for her to speak, to storm at him, to
accuse him of being a fortune hunter. But she stood silent in the
middle of the room.

Her expression was hard to read. He’d seen
her immediate, stabbing hurt. Now she’d drawn her formidable
defenses tight around her. She was proud and pale, back straight as
a ruler and head held high. And as beautiful as he’d ever seen
her.

After she sent him away, as she surely must,
this was how he’d remember her.

Instead of drinking the brandy, she set her
glass on the desk with an unsteady hand. Her accusing gaze leveled
on him. “Tell me, Gervaise.”

Pascal found no encouragement in her use of
his Christian name. He made a despairing gesture as guilt lashed at
him. “It will all sound so hellishly bad.”

Her lips twisted. “Did you ever intend to
admit you were after my money?”

He bit back a furious protest. Because of
course, that was how it had all started, wasn’t it? “Yes.”

“When?” For the first time, outrage edged her
voice. But he wasn’t fooled about what she felt. Any anger stemmed
from her anguish at his betrayal. “After we were married, and the
settlements were signed, and you had your hands on my fortune?”

He shook his head in bleak denial, although
in truth he’d never decided when to reveal his financial
embarrassment. He should have told her from the first. She’d have
marched away with that damned purposeful strut he loved, but at
least she wouldn’t condemn him as a liar.

Pascal swallowed to push down the remorse
crammed in his throat. “Please, sit down.”

She didn’t move. “Do you think you can charm
me into ignoring this?”

Again he shook his head. “No. But I’d at
least like you to understand, before you consign me to the
devil.”

He didn’t exaggerate. Life without her was
going to be the closest thing to hell he’d experience this side of
the grave. But now she was convinced he’d lied from the first,
she’d never believe his feelings were sincere.

The curse of all liars.

“If you insist.” Without shifting her gaze
from him, she sank down onto the couch.

Resisting the urge to have another brandy, he
crossed to sit beside her. No amount of brandy was going to soothe
this pain. She shot him a warning glance, but he didn’t need any
reminder that his touch was no longer welcome.

A heavy silence crashed down. Pascal stared
sightlessly at the carpet and fisted his hands on his thighs. There
was a clock on the mantel, and its heavy ticking threatened to send
him mad. The lilting music from the ballroom seemed to come from
another world.

“Please put me out of my misery,” Amy said,
in a low voice that would have broken his heart, if it wasn’t
broken already. “Was it all a pretense? Every bit of it? Right from
the very beginning?”

There was little he could say to defend
himself, but he couldn’t bear to let her go, believing that his
seduction had been cold and calculated. “No. No, it wasn’t like
that. On my honor, I swear it wasn’t.”