Pursuing Lord Pascal by Anna Campbell

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?”
    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