Page 52 of Pursuing Lord Pascal
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.”
Chapter Fifteen
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.
