Pursuing Lord Pascal (7 page)

This time when his tongue slid into her
mouth, she greeted him with the slide of hers. His grip firmed as
he deepened the exploration, relishing her sighs of enjoyment.

Dark heat descended to mesh him in delight.
Desire throbbed through him, lured him to touch her body. The curve
of waist and hip. The line of her flank. The soft swell of her
breast.

When his palm brushed her pebbled nipple, she
gasped and pulled away. Not far, but enough to wrench him back to
reality. He and Amy weren’t alone in a bedroom—more was the
pity—but standing mere steps from one of the season’s most
glittering parties. And while society might forgive his rakish
ways, it would look askance if a new arrival like Amy flouted
propriety. At least publicly. Amy came from a respected family and
had married well. Now she was a widow, the world would wink at a
discreet affair or two.

Discretion being all.

As if to confirm how close scandal hovered,
voices drifted in from the other side of the hedge. The distress on
Amy’s face made him wrap her in his arms and step soundlessly into
the shadows.

The unseen couple were arguing about his
forthcoming trip to see his wife in Devon. Amy pressed close and
clenched her hands in his coat. She was trembling. Fear of
discovery? Or because he’d kissed her?

As she hid her face in his neck, he lashed
her against his body. The unspoken trust in her action stabbed him
with more of that poignant tenderness. Her nearness did nothing to
soothe his unacceptable yen to ignore manners, morality, and the
whole damn world, and run off with her somewhere private.

The interminable discussion continued, until
Pascal wanted to throttle both participants. The voices were
vaguely familiar, although it wasn’t until he heard the fellow
mention Barrow Hall that he identified Lord Bagshot. Which mean the
woman protesting her lover’s departure was Lady Compton-Browne, the
lady with plans to become Pascal’s mother-in-law.

The world Pascal inhabited was decadent, and
hedonistic, and rife with hypocrisy. Amy seemed to come from
somewhere purer and better. With a desperation that would have
astonished him two days ago, he suddenly wanted to inhabit that
world with her.

At last, the disputing lovers wandered off,
fortunately without venturing into the haven that contained the
sundial—and Lady Mowbray and Lord Pascal in a forbidden
embrace.

Pascal stood holding tall, lissome Amy in his
arms, marveling at how perfectly her body fitted against his. The
music in the house had stopped, so he guessed that supper must have
started.

He was so conscious of her, he felt the
subtle shift of her muscles that signaled she was about to step
away.

“That was my measure of excitement for the
night,” she murmured shakily, withdrawing a pace.

Where they stood, it was too dark to see her
face, but he heard hard-won humor and lingering traces of fear. “I
hope you mean the kissing.”

“Of course I do,” she said in a tone as dry
as dust. “How could you think anything else?”

He caught her up and kissed her hard. When he
released her, she regarded him breathlessly. “What was that
for?”

“Luck.” Her gallantry made his rusty heart
cramp with admiration. He’d been caught before, doing what he
shouldn’t, and as a consequence, he’d dealt with enough hysterical
women to last a lifetime. Amy’s calm good sense made him want to
marry her tomorrow.

“We should go in,” she said, and he was
pleased to hear the reluctance in her voice.

“We should.” He took her gloved hand and drew
her into the moonlight. “When can I see you again?”

“In about an hour. You asked me to save you a
waltz.”

He loved that she teased him, while he cursed
the blasted rules that stopped him from tossing her over his
shoulder and stealing her away to some isolated cave. “You know
what I mean.”

She shot him a wry look, clear even in the
unreliable light. “I do indeed.”

Pascal shrugged. “I want to be your lover.
Why should I conceal it?”

He wanted to be more than that. But after
those kisses, he was desperate to get her to himself. Anything more
permanent could wait until he’d scratched this itch.

She had the most astonishing effect on him.
He couldn’t remember wanting a woman so much. Desire was a raging
fever in his blood.

He’d never expected to be eager to bed the
woman he married. Such a nice bonus that he was.

“And what would you think of me if I tumbled
into your arms after a few kisses?”

“I’d think you were wonderful—and that you’d
offered me a gift I’d treasure forever.”

“That’s all very well, but I don’t know you.”
She held up her hand when he started to protest. “I know it was
reckless to kiss you. I’ve clearly given you completely the wrong
idea of my audacity.”

He hid a smile. She’d felt like a virgin in
his arms. He knew to his soul she hadn’t kissed anyone since her
husband’s death. And if he was any judge of women—which he
was—she’d shared damned few kisses when she was married.

Heat flooded him when he remembered how
quickly she’d caught on. She had a rare talent that he intended to
encourage. He tightened his grip on her hand. “Are you going to
make me suffer for the sake of appearances?”

Her laugh was mocking. “A little suffering
might do you good. You’re far too sure of your attractions.”

“And you’re not confident enough of
yours.”

“Devil take you.” She jerked free. He’d hit a
nerve. “If I’m that appealing, you can jolly well work a bit harder
to win me.”

“I’m already mad for you.”

She sighed. “I’m sure you’ve said that to
every lady who has caught your fancy.”

“I have. But that doesn’t mean it’s a
lie.”

Her expression critical, Amy surveyed him in
the silvery light. “I imagine very few have said no.”

To his shame, that was true. He couldn’t
remember the last lady to deny him. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and
tell.”

Her lips flattened. “Which means I’m
right.”

“What’s in the past is past. I swear I’m a
new man since I met you.”

“Easily said.”

Something in him would be disappointed if she
accepted his extravagant claim, however true. What a fool he was to
imagine she’d accept him immediately. When he’d imagined he was on
the verge of success, he’d been drunk on hope and kisses. “After
those kisses, you can’t send me away.”

“You know,” she said slowly, “I think I
can.”

Hell.
Hell. Hell.
He’d
blundered. Somehow he’d ruined everything.

Black despair unlike anything he’d ever known
in his privileged life crashed down. He finally met a woman he
wanted as more than a temporary amusement, and now it seemed she
didn’t want him. “Amy…”

She arched her eyebrows and her voice was
cool. “Amy, is it?”

He reached for her. Although what the deuce
he’d do with her if he caught her, he had no idea. With half
society within earshot, he couldn’t tup her in Lady Bartlett’s
shrubbery. “Don’t you want me?”

As she evaded him, he cringed to hear the
stark need in his question. He was famous, some might say
notorious, for taking his love affairs lightly. Two days in thrall
to this unusual woman, and he hadn’t a thought to call his own.

She took too long to answer. His gut
tightened in suspense. And a vulnerability he refused to
acknowledge.

He stepped closer. She retreated. He
approached again.

She pulled back. “My lord, you’re pushing me
into the hedge.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not acting like a gentleman.”
In fact, he behaved like an oaf. He had no right to bully her. The
breath he sucked in was bitter with the taste of failure. Stepping
away, he tried to tell himself that if she refused him, there were
other women. “It’s your right to end the acquaintance.”

His schoolboy posturing had shoved her into
the shadows. Perhaps even frightened her, which was the last thing
he wanted. Damn him for a clumsy blockhead. Damn these unaccustomed
feelings that turned his usually practiced wooing into a complete
mare’s nest.

Pascal didn’t expect his stiff pronouncement
to evoke a low laugh. “I almost begin to believe you are sincere.
You sound quite distraught, Pascal. Don’t take on so, for heaven’s
sake. I haven’t said no.”

“You said you were sending me away.” He hated
his sulky tone.

“For tonight. At least until the waltz.”

He frowned, trying to find cause for
optimism, but not quite managing it. She sounded a little too
businesslike to be anywhere near yielding. “So you consent?”

“I consent to consider your offer.”

“Then I must wait?”

Another laugh. He should resent that she
found his predicament so entertaining, but he was too damned
grateful that he still had a chance.

“You could fill the time in between, trying
to convince me that you’re honest.”

His pride kicked. “You want me to dance
attendance on you?”

“I know. It’s such an imposition.” He winced
at her sarcasm. She stepped into the moonlight again, and he read
the stubbornness in her delicate jaw. “I hardly dare to imagine how
I could even ask it.”

Impossible wench. She set to torment him.
“Send you flowers, and make polite calls, and take you to the
opera?”

She folded her arms over her impressive bosom
and regarded him steadily. “All of that sounds delightful.”

His eyes narrowed on her. “You mean to put me
through the hoops before you cede the game? I hadn’t picked you as
a woman who likes to torture a man.”

Amy made a dismissive gesture. “I want to
know you a little better before I abandon a life of perfect
respectability to become your mistress.”

“What about becoming my wife?”

This evening, he very deliberately hadn’t
mentioned his matrimonial intentions. In Hyde Park, she hadn’t
seemed too keen. He’d hoped a couple of kisses might make her more
receptive.

He should have known better. Although at
least she hadn’t refused him outright.

“Becoming more familiar with you is even more
important if we’re contemplating a life together.”

He liked the sound of that. He felt more
cheerful, despite his impatience. “You want me to court you?”

“Yes.”

He straightened. “I can do that.” He paused.
“What about kisses?”

She frowned thoughtfully, as if assessing a
bullock’s readiness for market. “I can’t think when you kiss
me.”

He liked the sound of that even better. He
smiled smugly. “Then clearly kisses must be allowed.”

She cast him a repressive glance. “Clearly
they mustn’t.”

He closed his eyes and groaned. “You’re going
to kill me.”

“That would be a pity when you’re so
spectacular to look at. Every lady in London will weep at your
funeral.”

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.”