Pursuing Lord Pascal (Dashing Widows 4)
She smiled dutifully, and he loathed that, too. “I hope she caught a trout or two, and you shared a romantic outdoor dinner.”
“No, the faithless chit kept the fishing rod, while throwing me over for the plowboy. Since then, I’ve stuck to the usual tributes.” He struggled to maintain his light tone. “Although if the battle looks lost, I’ve been known to produce a puppy or two. You’d be astonished how much sin a puppy can inspire.”
Amy gave a short laugh, half-shocked. “You’re a terrible man.”
He whirled her around to avoid bumping into Sir Charles Kinglake and Sally. “You know that.”
“I do.” She paused. “I like puppies, but I really can’t take one on, when Sally’s putting me up.”
“Pity.” He’d already considered and dismissed including a kitten or a dog in the avalanche of pretty gifts. “So no more flowers?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you’d like me to put a little more imagination into my wooing?”
“I’d like to feel that you’re trying to win Amy Mowbray, not some generic woman lined up to become your hundredth mistress.”
Even as secretly he squirmed, he shot her a straight look. It was hell being in thrall to a clever woman. “I’m not quite up to three figures.”
Something that might have been jealousy flashed in her eyes. That pleased him, even as he wondered what the deuce would convince her that she was unique in his existence. “Mind you, I have high hopes that a certain widow from Leicestershire will bring my total up.”
Her lips flattened, and her tone turned arid. “You’ll have to work a little harder, then.”
This discussion had been dashed uncomfortable, partly because she was right about his laziness, much as he didn’t want to admit it. Now amusement won out over hurt pride.
“There’s my schoolmistress again.” To his regret, the waltz ended. Pascal held onto her until the last possible second. This damned vexatious courtship offered few enough opportunities to touch her. “It seems my arithmetic may need improvement after all.”
Without shifting from his grasp, Amy narrowed her eyes on him. “It does, if you want one and one to make two, my lord.”
* * *
Amy sat beside Pascal as his curricle negotiated the narrow country lanes. On this cloudy, but dry day, they were well into Surrey. They’d passed through Epsom half an hour ago. “This seems a long way to go for a picnic, my lord.”
He didn’t shift his attention from the horses, but the corners of the firm mouth deepened, as if her remark aroused some secret amusement. “I’m very fussy about where I eat.”
They’d left London before ten, and he’d told Sally that they’d be back late. Amy might suspect some nefarious purpose—she hadn’t missed his increasing frustration with her rules—if a groom hadn’t accompanied them.
Usually when they went driving, Pascal left the boy at Sally’s. This adherence to propriety hinted that something unusual lay ahead.
Amy just wished she knew what the devil it was.
They hit a deep hole among all the other ruts, and she clutched his arm for balance. Then she made herself let go, much as she’d rather cling to him.
This decorous courtship tested her patience, too, and several times she’d wondered if she pushed him too far, and he’d look elsewhere for a mistress. But she had to give him credit. For more than two weeks, he’d been the perfect suitor.
“Are you still there, George?” Pascal asked, checking with the boy at the rear of the carriage.
“Aye, your lordship,” the young groom said breathlessly. “These roads are a bit rum.”
“They are indeed, my lad.”
Amy had already noticed Pascal’s easy manner with George. She liked that he wasn’t highhanded with his servants. The problem was that she liked far too much about Gervaise Dacre, Earl Pascal. Her resistance grew ever more threadbare, yet she still wasn’t sure she wanted to risk an affair.
It was an effort to maintain her sardonic tone. “You should have told me you planned dinner rather than luncheon, and I’d have had an extra sausage for breakfast.”
This time he d
id look at her, the blue eyes suspiciously innocent. “If there’s one thing our delightful acquaintance has taught me, Lady Mowbray, it’s that patience is a virtue.”