Page 32 of Pursuing Lord Pascal
“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.”
Chapter Nine
Pascal 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.”
