He glowered. “You think this is all a joke.”
The teasing light left her eyes, and her expression turned austere. “Not at all. I just want to make sure you don’t think it’s a joke. I know it’s hopelessly provincial of me, but if I give myself to a man, I want him to value my surrender.”
Pascal could hardly blame her for mistrusting him. The irony was that he was more sincere than he’d ever been with a woman he wanted. Any promises he made to Amy, he meant.
He realized with a shock that while he’d launched this pursuit to marry her money, now he’d willingly take her in her petticoat and beg on the high roads to keep her in fripperies.
After two damnable days.
The Good God knew what a wreck he’d be by the time he’d wooed her into taking him seriously. He’d be babbling nonsense and howling at the moon.
“You’re enjoying this,” he accused.
She nodded. “Most definitely. I came down from Leicestershire, afraid that society would laugh me back home again. Now I’ve got London’s handsomest man begging for a moment of my time. Frankly, I’m ecstatic.”
“I’m more than just a pretty face,” he said resentfully, although his looks had brought him more benefits than disadvantages, so he had no right to quibble.
Until now, when the first woman he really wanted dismissed him as a lightweight.
The problem was he remained unconvinced he was anything else. Why demonstrate character, when a smile brought him everything he wanted?
But as he registered Amy’s expression, he knew he’d have to dig deep and produce something more substantial than easy charm if he meant to win her.
“Prove it,” she said implacably.
Fleetingly he contemplated giving up the chase. He could stroll away now and take on one of the little henwits he’d so dreaded marrying. Lucy Compton-Browne or Cissie Veivers. Dash it, a proposal to either chit tomorrow, and his worries were over.
No mess. No fuss.
No joy.
It was too late. He was lost. Caught by a lovely face, and a brilliant mind, and a heart too fine for a careless brute like him. Which didn’t mean he planned to retreat.
He faced the inescapable fact that he didn’t want some ingénue with a fat dowry. He wanted Amy Mowbray, who might come with a fat dowry, but who also proved herself more complicated by the minute.
He sighed, resistance flowing away. She wanted to be courted. Then dash it all, he’d court her.
He bowed as if they were in a drawing room, instead of in the corner of a garden where he’d just been kissing her. “Lady Mowbray, it would give me the greatest pleasure if you’ll come driving with me tomorrow afternoon.”
She eyed him as if unsure of his candor. Then she curtsied briefly. “I’d be delighted, my lord.”
“I’ll call at three.” It seemed an eon until then, but he could already see that a swift victory had been likely only in his fevered brain.
“Perfect.”
“And I have a box for the opera that evening. Perhaps you, Lady Norwood and her niece would care to join me.”
Her lips twitched. She’d guess how reluctantly he included Sally and Meg in the invitation. “I’m not sure about tomorrow evening.”
He sucked air through his teeth. “Damn it, Amy,” he protested. “I’m trying.”
To his surprise and gratification, she touched his cheek in silent reproof. Although the contact felt more like a caress than chiding. “I know you are, and I appreciate it. But I’ll have to check what Sally has planned.”
“Oh,” he said sheepishly. He should have known that.
“Now, please take me back to the ballroom before they send out a search party.”
The music had started again. He’d been too focused on Amy to notice. Luckily nobody had interrupted them. He made one last attempt to claim the masculine high ground. “Don’t imagine you’ve got me on a string.”