Pursuing Lord Pascal (Dashing Widows 4)

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 sent his cheerfulness plummeting. 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.”

He focused burning eyes on Amy. “And what about you? Would you love me to be there?”

When they’d first met, he’d had little trouble interpreting her expressions, but with every day, she became more of a mystery. He’d decided long ago that love turned a man’s brains to porridge. “Of course.”

“Of course,” he muttered and turned back to watch as the painting rose to reveal more damned mountains. The whole bloody play had been about mountains. What was the point of moving the scenery at all?

The orchestra finished scratching away, and the noisy nitwits reappeared to play out this tosh. Pascal was vaguely aware of Sally, Meg, and Sir Charles taking their seats.

He could go home. Amy probably wouldn’t mind if he left. But what was the point of retreating? The devil of it was that he was as miserable away from her as he was with her.

About ten minutes later, Amy leaned closer. “Stop sighing. You sound like an overridden horse.”

Despite his morose mood, he couldn’t contain a smile. “It’s worse than ‘Othello.’”

To his astonishment, she reached across and squeezed his arm. The gesture was friendly rather than seductive, but it still went a long way toward calming his roiling unhappiness. “It will soon be over.”

If only she meant his wait for her. “I hope so.”

He waited in suspense for her to pull away. She hadn’t touched him in weeks, apart from sanctioned contact when she stepped into a carriage or danced with him.

“Thank you,” she whispered, after a reverberant pause.

What a surprise. Pleased astonishment flooded him. He didn’t need to ask what she thanked him for. It seemed that she’d noticed his efforts to woo her and appreciated them.

Even after she withdrew her hand, warmth lingered. Unexpectedly a few of the silly jokes on the stage turned out to be funny enough to raise a laugh.

* * *

“Goodnight, Aunt Sally,” Meg said. Amy watched the girl bend to kiss her aunt’s cheek. “It’s been a lovely evening.”

They were in Sally’s sitting room, and it was late, well past midnight. After the play, Sir Charles had arranged supper at his fine house on Berkeley Square.

“Yes, it has,” Sally said. “Sleep tight, and dream of handsome gentlemen.”

Amy caught a hint of slyness in Meg’s glance. What was the chit up to? So far this season, she’d behaved perfectly. But there was no mistaking the mischief in those dancing blue eyes.

“Sir Charles is very handsome.”

Sally smiled at her. “He really is. Now away with you, you incorrigible girl.”