Page 56 of Pursuing Lord Pascal
He cast her an astonished glance. “Really?”
She shrugged and dared to take a step toward him. “Apparently my affair with the much sought-after Lord Pascal has done wonders for my confidence.”
He frowned, as if seeking some hidden attack in her words. “But how the devil can I ever convince you I don’t want your money?”
“I thought you did want it.”
His smile was grim. “I do. But not as much as I want you.”
She almost—almost—believed him. “We could put it in trust for our children.”
He looked brighter. “We could. That’s an excellent idea. We might have to live quietly in the country for a couple of years. Watch our pennies. Do the urgent tasks first, and leave the rest until we can afford it. I’m sure if we make some economies on the estate, we’ll manage.”
“We could work something out, that’s certain.”
“Amy?” Gervaise regarded her as if he still didn’t trust what she said. He’d been so sunk in self-hatred and misery, she couldn’t blame him.
“And you’re marrying a woman famous for her scientific approach to farming. Once I get my hands on it, your estate will be a showplace in no time.”
The flare of hope in his eyes set her heart racing and skipping and jumping. She sent up a tiny, urgent prayer.Dear Lord, don’t let this be another trick.
He’d lied to her. That was irrefutable. But did that mean everything was lies?
Her brain had come to her rescue, thank heaven. And reminded her of what she and Gervaise had shared.
While his motives had undeniably been murky, Amy couldn’t dismiss all his actions as callous self-interest. She remembered how desperate he’d been for her, and how careful when he’d taken her. And how desolate he’d looked when he thought he’d lost her.
She remembered, too, how amiably he’d devoted a day to tramping around Sir Godfrey Yelland’s muddy farm, justbecause she wanted to look at cattle. She remembered his kindness and his humor. And how he’d entrusted her with the sad story of his childhood, when it was clear the humiliating details left his pride in tatters.
She remembered the times—until tonight when he’d been mad for her—he’d protected her from conceiving. When a pregnancy was the quickest, surest way to gain her consent to a wedding.
She remembered how mad he’d been for her tonight.
Gervaise’s stare was unwavering, as if he was a condemned man, and only she could save him from a hanging.
“The tragic truth is that’s why I want to marry you—all that free advice.” He struggled to achieve his usual sardonic note. It was a little too threadbare to be convincing. But the small, dry joke hinted that he crawled out of his despair.
She prayed that he really was in despair, and this wasn’t more deception. But some bone-deep instinct insisted that he wouldn’t betray her again. That he might have started out after her fortune, but against all the odds, now he really did love her.
He loved her.
Was she prepared to take the greatest risk of her life? By now, she should be used to this giddy mixture of dread and excitement. She’d felt this way since the day she met him again.
“You know, if you’d offered me the chance to bring an ailing estate back to prosperity, I’d have married you when you first proposed.”
“I’ll remember that for the next time I find a woman I want to make my wife.”
Although it was cursed difficult to look stern when a chorus of larks trilled in her soul, she summoned a frown. “You’d better not, or there will be trouble.”
“Why?”
Amy decided that in the end, all she could do was trust her heart. Her brain would take her so far, but it wouldn’t give her the courage to seize the future she wanted. A future with Gervaise at her side.
She stood straight and tall and met his eyes. “Because the only woman you’re going to marry is right in front of you.”
Incredulity flooded his face, then swift, overwhelming relief that filled her with thankfulness. They might just pull through this crisis and find their way back to one another.
In breathless suspense, she waited for him to sweep her up and tell her how happy he was, but he folded his arms and studied her down his aristocratic nose. “Why?”
