Pursuing Lord Pascal Read Online Free PDF

turn to study her and try to
winkle out her secrets. Luckily they’d turned into the park so he
was no longer at risk of killing someone, if he didn’t pay
attention to driving. “Make me a happy man, and tell me you’re
still carrying the willow for me.”
    “Don’t be absurd.” The blush intensified, and
she looked away. “I’ve been married and widowed since then. My
passing fancy for you ended nearly ten years ago.”
    “Pity,” he said shortly. “Are you still
interested in modern farming?”
    Her expression turned wry. “If I say yes,
does that mean you’ll drop me from your list of dance
partners?”
    “No, I don’t think it does,” he said slowly.
“I could listen to you talk about anything, even marrows and
parsnips.”
    A dry laugh greeted what had been a sincere
statement, damn it. “My lord, you’d better watch out. I might put
that flummery to the test. There’s a new variety of turnip coming
out of the Low Countries that has me in alt. I can talk about it
for hours.”
    He shook his head, enjoying her humor. Her
crackling intelligence was devilish appealing. Especially after a
month of Miss Veivers and her ilk. “I look forward to hearing about
it.”
    “No, you don’t.”
    Actually recent bad harvests had turned his
mind to crop yields, if only out of self-interest. “So you were
madly in love with me,” he said in a considering tone.
    “Quite madly.” With exaggerated ardor, she
batted her eyes at him.
    “So who was the cad who stole you away from
me?” He set the horses to a gentle amble, so he could concentrate
on the woman beside him.
    Regret shadowed her eyes to the color of
light through a forest glade. He’d never met a woman with such an
expressive face. “You’re asking about my husband.”
    “Yes.” He drew the carriage to a stop under a
chestnut, coming back to life after a long winter. Pascal had an
idea how that felt.
    Admiration and social success had spoiled
him. The ennui of the last few years was the inevitable result of
never needing to strive for anything. In Amy Mowbray’s company,
ennui was the last thing he felt. Marrying this widow for her money
promised to be a complete and undeserved delight.
    She avoided his eyes and smoothed her dark
green skirts over her knees. “How odd. We’re already progressing
beyond small talk.”
    “We are.”
    “I think…I think I’d rather talk about the
weather.”
    “Really?”
    He let the silence extend, until she turned
troubled eyes up to meet his steady gaze. “We’re strangers, my
lord.”
    They were concealed from sight, unless
someone followed the winding path behind them. He placed his hand
on hers where it twisted the material of her skirts. Over the
years, he’d explored every sensual pleasure, so touching Amy’s hand
should have no great significance. But when she didn’t pull away,
he felt a surge of anticipation completely out of kilter with the
action’s innocence.
    “Nonsense. I’ve known you since you were
fourteen.”
    “Even if you don’t remember.” She cast him an
unimpressed glance under her thick fan of eyelashes. “And should we
be holding hands in public?”
    He smiled, unexpectedly enchanted. Last
night, he’d liked her, and he’d found her attractive—what
red-blooded man wouldn’t? But today, every second changed the
performance of duty into the pursuit of pleasure.
    The world considered him a lucky sod. Right
now, when fate offered him the chance to bed Amy Mowbray and at the
same time, solve his financial woes, he was inclined to agree. He
knew enough about women to recognize that, while she was far from
won, she was intrigued. There was a catch to her breath, and the
heaviness in those bright eyes betrayed sensual interest.
    “There’s nobody here but us.”
    “I’m well aware of that.”
    He looked around, as if checking for
observers. “A man must seize his opportunity.”
    “Lord Pascal…” she said repressively,
although the throb of excitement in her voice