“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 ruined the effect.
“Lady Mowbray.” He tightened his hold on her hand, although she hadn’t tried to pull away. On the narrow seat, her hip nestled warm against him.
Good intentions could go to blazes.
He leaned in and brushed his lips across hers. There was a fleeting sweetness, a huff of feminine outrage, the impression of softness. Then he drew back, astonished at how difficult it was to resist returning for a longer taste.
“Nice,” he whispered.
The air shimmered with awareness, before she broke the thread twining between them with a soft laugh. “My goodness, you really are a rake. How exciting.”
Curiosity lit her eyes, and her lush lips were still parted. Then and there, he decided that this pursuit was serious. Probably the most serious thing he’d ever attempt in his hedonistic, purposeless life. “Reformed rakes make the best husbands, I’ve been told.”
Shock widened her eyes, banished the amusement. More shock than she’d demonstrated when he kissed her. Which was interesting.
“Husbands?”
He smiled self-confidently and turned his attention to the horses, flicking the reins to get them moving again. “I warned you I had intentions, Lady Mowbray.”