“She has a point. I have a reputation as a rake, and I’m famous for trifling with ladies’ affections, then dropping them cold.”
“I know about your reputation.” She studied him with that direct, inquiring gaze he recalled from their dances last night. “All Silas’s society friends are naughty men.”
“Your brother isn’t naughty anymore.” Eight years ago, Lord Stone had married a lovely widow, and he’d been blissfully happy ever since. Something about Amy Mowbray’s company on this fine day made Pascal wonder if emulating him mightn’t be a bad idea.
“Not in public, anyway.”
“So you’re not afraid of my intentions?”
Still she inspected him, as if she saw beneath his spectacular hide to the less than spectacular soul beneath. With most of his flirts, problems invariably arose once the lady discovered an average man lurked beneath his apollonian looks. They expected a prince, and instead got Gervaise Dacre, with all his faults.
Under Amy Mowbray’s regard, he shifted uncomfortably. He had an awful suspicion she already guessed he wasn’t a perfect knight.
The pause lengthened. “Lady Mowbray?”
A faint smile lifted one corner of her mouth. He bit back the impulse to kiss her. One day, he would. Not today. And not when he had to devote at least half his attention to negotiating London’s bustling streets.
“You know, I’m not sure I am.” Her smile lengthened. “Although I’m hurt you don’t remember that we’ve already met.”
The carriage’s gentle rocking bumped her hip against his in a pleasing way. “You’ve been to London before?”
“I had a season before I married. But before that, you came to Woodley Park for the hunting. I had a horribly painful case of calf love for
you when I was fourteen, my lord.”
He racked his brains. He remembered visiting Lord Stone’s beautiful Leicestershire estate on several occasions. He remembered Helena, Stone’s dashing dark-haired sister, and Robert, tragically lost at sea a couple of years ago. “I should have noticed you.”
She made a dismissive sound. “No, you shouldn’t. Not really.”
A glimmer of memory sparked. “You were the girl who talked farming at dinner.”
Another blush. “I was an awful bore.”
He laughed and shook his head. “You terrified the life out of me. I already didn’t feel clever enough to be a guest in that house. Helena and Robert discussed mathematics. Silas was busy with his botanical specimens. And most intimidating of all, there was this young Minerva who knew all about new strains of wheat. I felt hopelessly shallow.”
“We can be a bit overwhelming when we’re together.”
Pascal frowned, struggling to summon the details of those long ago house parties. “We danced together, didn’t we?”
She looked sheepish. “Now I am surprised you’ve forgotten that. I bruised your toes most egregiously.”
He gave a low laugh. “You didn’t last night. You’ve been practicing.”
A mysterious smile curved her lips. “I have.”
It was his 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.”