Pursuing Lord Pascal (Dashing Widows 4)

She gritted her teeth, as the curricle turned between two stone gateposts and bowled along a drive considerably smoother than the roads they’d taken to get here. “Where are we?”

A beautiful park extended on either side, with artfully placed follies and bridges. In the distance, she saw a lake, with just beyond, a magnificent Portland stone country house, built in last century’s style.

“Didn’t I say we were visiting a friend of mine? I’m sure I did.”

Dear heaven, he could be irritating. “I’m sure you didn’t.”

“Oh, well, we’re here now.” With a flourish, he pulled up on the circular drive in front of the impressive double staircase. As a groom darted out to hold the horses, a familiar figure emerged from the house and ran down the steps with a vigor belied by his sixty-odd years.

“Welcome, welcome, Pascal and Lady Mowbray.” Sir Godfrey Yelland smiled broadly and strode toward the curricle, where Pascal had leaped down and now helped Amy to descend. “My lady, I’ve been so looking forward to showing you my herd and hearing your opinions on my methods to increase milk yield. Ever since we danced together at the Bartletts’, I’ve been thinking of what you said about changing my stock feed.”

“Sir Godfrey.” Goodness gracious, he wasn’t who she’d expected to see.

“Yelland, so kind of you to allow us to visit,” Pascal said.

“Not at all. Not at all. Was glad you asked to come. Privilege to have the famous Lady Mowbray here. I’m sure you’re famished after the drive from London. I thought we’d have a meal, while I describe some of my experiments. Then we can spend the afternoon outside. The weather looks like it will hold.”

“That sounds…that sounds delightful,” she stammered, releasing Pascal’s hand. “Although my expertise is in beef cattle, not dairying.”

“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. Perhaps 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 let him 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?”