Page 15 of Pursuing Lord Pascal
She’d saved Pascal two dances as he’d requested. Well, insisted. But so far, he was yet to make an appearance.
There were plenty of other candidates to dance with her, but she muffled a sigh as her latest partner returned her to Sally’s side. She should have known Pascal’s interest would fade. After all, London’s handsomest man would hardly waste his time on a dressed-up rustic like Amy Mowbray.
But that didn’t prevent a heavy lump of disappointment from settling in her stomach. The supper dance Pascal had asked her to keep came next.
“Don’t look so downhearted, sweeting,” a deep voice murmured beside her. “Clearly it’s time for the champagne cure.”
The joy that gripped her was frightening. Still, Amy had the sense to compose her expression before she turned and curtsied. “Lord Pascal, good evening.”
Her cool response amused him. “And good evening to you, Lady Mowbray.” He bowed and passed her a glass of champagne. “Did you imagine I’d forgotten you?”
She put on an airy tone. “I wouldn’t have lacked for a partner.”
“I’m sure.” He raised his glass in a silent toast. “Would you like to join the set, or take a walk outside? The Bartletts have put braziers on the terrace so their guests don’t turn into icicles.”
Wisdom dictated that after Pascal’s declaration this afternoon, she’d be safer in a crowd. But the number of people crammed into the ballroom made Amy feel confined and suffocated.
And some small, untamed part of her wanted to be alone with Pascal. She thought his plan to marry her was ludicrous, but he was still the most exciting man she’d ever met. Even a brilliant occasion like the Bartletts’ ball lost all flavor if he wasn’t there.
When Sally had reminded her this afternoon of their pledge to become Dashing Widows, something inside Amy had broken free. She mightn’t want to marry Lord Pascal. But by heaven, she meant to enjoy his attention while she had it.
She raised her chin and met those worldly blue eyes. “I would love a stroll, my lord.”
The pleasure in his expression made her shiver. Mostly with anticipation, although enough of the old Amy persisted to add a dash of nervousness.
“Excellent.” He presented his arm. “Shall we go?”
She caught Sally’s eye as she headed toward the French doors. Her friend’s smile brimmed with approval, before she turned to greet Mr. Harslett for the next dance.
“Are you enjoying the ball?” Pascal asked, as they stepped onto a terrace lit by torches and warmed, as promised, with braziers full of coals.
“Yes.” Surprised, she realized it was true. Now that Pascal was here. Which made for a terrifying admission. “I’m sure you’re so accustomed to London’s whirl that one event becomes much like another. But since my marriage, I’ve led a very quiet life.”
Pascal gave one of those mocking laughs that became familiar. “I’d be more convinced that your bucolic isolation chafed, if I didn’t know how much you love it.”
She cast him a quick smile and sipped her champagne. This was her second glass this evening. The first had been sour and flat. This glass, courtesy of Pascal, was just right. “You’ve discovered my shameful secret.”
They wandered down the steps into the gardens. She caught glimpses of other couples snatching some air, away from the ballroom’s stuffy heat, so she assumed this was perfectly acceptable behavior.
“It wasn’t difficult once I worked out you were Stone’s sister. You’re the clever woman who wrote all those articles on animal husbandry. I should have known from the first, but then I never imagined I’d want to dance with an expert on hoof disease in beef cattle.”
“You’ve read my pieces?” Amy asked, disconcerted.
“With interest. I’m trying the new farming methods on my estates, and my bailiff is a long-term admirer of your ideas.”
“Th-thank you,” she said, flustered.
There was enough light to reveal the fond smile he sent in her direction. “I do believe my appreciation of your work has thrown you into more of a spin than all the times I’ve told you you’re beautiful.”
Ridiculously, it was true. Perhaps because her agricultural experiments belonged to the real Amy Mowbray, whereascompliments he paid her looks were a tribute to Sally and her skilled modiste.
“I’d be glad to advise you,” she said, then was grateful that the shadows hid her blush. What a nitwit she was. As if this sophisticated man wanted to talk agriculture at one of the biggest social events of the year. To hide her mortification, she gulped a mouthful of wine.
“I’d like that,” he said with what sounded like enthusiasm. “Perhaps you’ll come to Northumberland and see for yourself what needs to be done.”
Her self-castigation melted away. Astonishing as it might be, he didn’t dismiss her as hopelessly unsophisticated. She curled her hand around his arm more firmly. In thin evening gloves, her fingers were cold. More, she wanted to touch him.
The path he chose led away from the light. She noticed but didn’t protest. The sinful hope arose that he might kiss her again. Properly this time. Wilfred hadn’t been much for kissing, but she’d caught Silas and Helena in enough passionate embraces with their spouses to know that she had lots to discover.
