Pursuing Lord Pascal (Dashing Widows #4)

Chapter Five

P ascal raised his hand to cradle Amy’s cheek as their lips clung. Hers were soft and trembling like a young girl’s, and her sigh expressed surprise as much as enjoyment.

Shock shuddered through him, pierced building pleasure. This lovely woman might have been married, but she kissed like a virgin.

Tenderness cut him, sharp as a sword. It was the most powerful emotion he’d ever known in a life devoted to selfish gratification. The pursuit of Lady Mowbray changed from an intriguing challenge and a pleasant way to answer his self-interest to something…else. Something outside the range of his experience. Or even his vocabulary to describe.

Slowly he pulled away, until the moonlight illuminated her unforgettable face. Her eyes were closed, and she looked transported to some higher realm.

After a kiss so chaste, he could almost have given it to an aunt.

Except that wasn’t quite true. However sweet that kiss, it held the promise of sensual exploration to come. That kiss was a beginning, not an end in itself.

Amy opened her eyes, the hazel shadowy in the silvery darkness. Astonishing that such an innocent kiss set his heart racing with an excitement he hadn’t felt in years. As if her innocence revived echoes of his, lost too long ago in a world that offered a presentable, aristocratic young man everything he wanted merely for the asking. Sometimes not even for that.

“That was…nice,” she murmured.

He smiled, seeing her as so precious and fragile, for all her strength and cleverness. Some hitherto unrecognized chivalry in his soul made him want to cherish rather than conquer, coax rather than demand. “It was. Shall we do it again?”

“Yes, please,” she said, like a child asking for another piece of birthday cake.

Pascal liked her lack of coyness. He was bored with the tired games where he was cast as the ruthless seducer, and the lady the helpless quarry. When the stark fact was on most occasions, women sought him out.

He’d become disgracefully lazy about his affairs. One lover became much like another.

Except this lover. Amy Mowbray wasn’t like anyone else.

Hesitantly, she placed one hand on his shoulder, taking the initiative for the first time. His heart slammed against his ribs, and his breath jammed in his throat.

He tilted her face up, and this time he lingered over the kiss. Her scent mixed with the moonlit night and flooded his senses. Fresh. Female. Crushed flowers and a trace of musk. The air was cold, but her lips were warm. So warm.

Instead of enjoying an entertaining, but essentially forgettable interlude with an attractive woman, he let strategy sink to oblivion under a wave of unprecedented need. He leaned in, increasing the pressure, and her lips fluttered against his.

When his tongue swept along the closed seam, a tremor of response rippled through her. Unbelievably it seemed he needed to teach her how to kiss. Innocence had never held any particular appeal, but something about Amy’s uncertainty touched him. When he nipped her full lower lip, she gave a soft cry.

He took immediate advantage, slipping his tongue inside to taste her. She was delicious. Hot, salty honey.

She recoiled at the invasion. “My lord…”

“Hush. Trust me,” he whispered, and strangely he meant it. Tonight he wouldn’t go beyond a few kisses. He played a longer game with Amy Mowbray than a mere night’s pleasure, however incendiary. With every moment in her company, he was more satisfied with his choice of bride.

“What you did, it was odd.”

“You’ll come to like it.”

She frowned, more in puzzlement than displeasure, he thought. “I’m not saying I didn’t like it.”

He laughed softly, enchanted anew. “Then let me show you more.”

He brushed his lips across hers, and when she immediately parted, excitement sizzled through him. One hand splayed against the soft thickness of her hair. His other hand caught her waist and hauled her close, until those luscious breasts pressed into his chest.

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 a few 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 the gentleman’s 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 meant 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 take 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.”

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.”

“Never,” she said, too quickly to be convincing.

His voice hardened. “I’ll make you pay for every day of frustration, once you’ve admitted I’m the only man for you.”

“I’m quite terrified.”

“Amy,” he said warningly.

“Shaking in my dancing slippers.”

“And one last thing. You’re never to refer to me as the handsomest man in London again.”

Her eyebrows rose with genuine puzzlement. “Don’t you like it?”

“Not when you use that stupid nickname as an excuse to disparage my sincerity.”

Her regard was thoughtful, but not censorious. “You know, I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve underestimated you, Lord Pascal.”

He took her arm in a firm grip and cursed the fact that he couldn’t kiss the insolence from her before he returned her to the crowded party. “I most ardently hope so, Lady Mowbray.”