Pursuing Lord Pascal by Anna Campbell Page A

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.”
    “You want to talk to Amy about Lord Pascal,”
Meg said.
    Amy blushed, although it was no secret in the
household that Pascal had set his sights on the widowed Lady
Mowbray.
    “I do indeed,” Sally said. “Mind you go
quietly upstairs. Morwenna’s asleep.”
    “No, she’s not. I saw the light in her window
when we came in.”
    “Nonetheless, don’t you go disturbing
her.”
    “I won’t.” Meg made a pretty curtsy in Amy’s
direction. “Goodnight, Amy.