Pursuing Lord Pascal (Dashing Widows #4)

Chapter Thirteen

C arefully Pascal closed the library door, shutting out the sounds of the crowded ballroom from the other side of the house. The music and chatter from Lady Frame's party turned into a distant hum.

Now all he heard was the insistent pump of his blood and the siren call of temptation.

Amy faced him, standing before the large mahogany desk under the curtained windows. She wore crimson, as if their passion found its inevitable color. The melting surrender in her expression sent a jolt of arousal through him.

He leaned his back against the door and turned the key in the lock without looking. He was too busy drinking in every detail of this woman he wanted more with every day.

A slow, sensual smile curved her lips. The smile was new and spoke of a woman incandescent with sensual power. Such a change from the lovely, but wary lady he’d first met. Now her beauty blazed like a beacon. Need, bright and burning as lightning, sizzled along his veins.

The luxuriant pile of tawny hair held a tantalizing hint of untidiness, a reminder of how it cascaded free when he hauled her into bed. Her hazel eyes were more gold than green, glittering with brazen interest. Her creamy breasts mounded above the daringly low bodice and rose and fell with her uneven breathing.

“You’re here.” His voice rang with satisfaction.

“Of course I am,” she said with unconcealed excitement. “It’s been three days since we were alone.”

He loved that she didn’t try to hide her need. “We’ve been driving every afternoon.”

Her grimace was charming. “You know what I mean.”

He did indeed. And he’d suffered, as apparently had she. It was a fortnight since those extraordinary hours at the house near Windsor. They’d managed two more meetings there. Both brimming with unforgettable pleasure. Both cruelly short.

For the first time in Pascal’s life, a few snatched moments with a lover weren’t enough. He was tired of sneaking around. He wanted the world to acknowledge Amy Mowbray as his. He wanted a wife.

How the mighty had fallen.

“You’re wearing my bracelet.”

She raised her slender wrist until the stones caught the uncertain light. “I am.”

The memory of the occasion a week ago when she’d accepted the diamonds shuddered through him. She’d sprawled naked across the rumpled sheets at his manor, and the sinking sun had painted her pink and gold.

“And is that a new dress?”

“It is.”

“I approve.”

All night, he’d been unable to look away from the tall woman in red. A woman who danced with every blockhead in the room except Pascal, damn it. He’d reserved his two dances. The supper one—which they now missed—and the final waltz. Every day, the restrictions placed around pursuing a respectable mistress chafed more painfully.

Devil take it, if she married him, he could dance with her all night and let gossip go hang. Hell, they could stay home and forget dancing altogether.

“I’m glad.” Their commonplace words floated on a turbulent sea of unspoken yearning.

The room was dimly lit—Lady Frame didn’t want her guests skulking in the library when they should be adorning her glittering ballroom. The light fell across Amy from behind and turned her fascinating, changeable eyes to mystery.

“I look forward to stripping it off you.”

With a poignant echo of her old uncertainty, her hand fluttered above her sumptuous bosom. “In the middle of a ball, that might take things a little far.”

“I can dream.”

She reached for him. “I’ve been dreaming of you.”

She’d never been a coy woman. From the first, he’d recognized her rare authenticity in the world of appearances and illusion he inhabited. In some profound way, she turned him into a good man. If she ever took that feeling away, she’d leave him desolate.

Such magic she had. And he’d fallen under her spell before he learned to fear her ability to wreak devastation upon him.

“Good dreams?” Pascal straightened away from the door and approached her. Every time he saw her, he paused to thank whatever forces blessed him with this extraordinary woman.

To his delight, she flushed and avoided his eyes. “I doubt if my vicar would describe them that way.”

“How intriguing.” He caught her hand and, with sudden determination, tugged her into his arms. “Tell me more.”

“Perhaps later,” she gasped, as her soft breasts met his cream brocade waistcoat. Her heat seeped through his clothing and stoked his desire. She was warm in body and soul. Until he met her, he’d lived in an arctic wasteland. “You’re far too used to getting your own way, my lord.”

“My lord?”

She tilted her face up, and he caught the spark of mischief in her eyes. A few weeks ago, her fire had been banked. Now it flamed high for all to see. “Gervaise.”

She wouldn’t know this, but whenever she spoke his name, her expression softened in a way that turned his cynical heart to pudding. “That’s better.”

“It would be even better if you kissed me.”

“I’m savoring the moment.” He strung out the tantalizing delay.

Her fingers curved against his neck in a caress of such tenderness that she stole his breath. Never before had he known this heady combination of passion and affection and respect with a lover. It was as addictive as opium and twice as sweet.

“Savor the moment a little more quickly,” she said drily. “Mr. Harslett has requested the quadrille after supper.”

“Damn it, don’t I know it? Why the devil do you let those other blackguards paw you?”

She smiled and rose on her toes to trace his jaw with her lips. Heat seared a path across his skin, and he started shaking. She was the only woman in Creation who could make him tremble. The whisper of her breath across his face spurred his pulse to a gallop. “You want to be the only blackguard who paws me?”

“Hell, yes,” he hissed and turned his head to catch her mouth with his.

Immediately she curved against him, and her lips opened with a hunger that matched his. He lashed his arms around her, bringing her so close that she could be in no doubt of his readiness. She tasted of spicy honey with a hint of champagne. Her female scent filled his senses, made him drunk on her fragrance.

“Damn it, Amy, this is excruciating.” Reluctantly he drew away. “Will you meet me tomorrow?”

She raised a gloved hand to stroke his cheek. “Silas and Caro are down from Leicestershire, and we’re spending the day together.”

“Come to me instead. Please.” In his rakish past, he’d never pleaded with a woman.

“I can’t.” Her smile conveyed regret, but damn it, not enough. “You know I can’t.”

He scowled, knowing he was unfair, but incapable of hiding his frustration. “All I know is that I feel like I’m starving to death for want of you.”

She cast a sideways glance toward the couch near the fire. He read the thought before she spoke, and a shocked thrill shuddered through him. She was the most exciting woman he’d ever known. Through the heady progress of their affair, she’d become breathtakingly reckless.

“We could do something tonight.” Her voice was a thread of sound, and pink tinged her cheeks. “Here.”

Eagerness vied with caution. He’d never regarded himself as the chivalrous type, but he guarded Amy’s good name like a sheepdog guarded a lamb. “That’s not why I asked you to meet me.”

“I know.” Her voice strengthened, and she spoke with more urgency. He couldn’t doubt that she wanted this. “But with the crowds at supper, nobody will notice our absence. Even if they do, they’ll think we’re in the gardens, or admiring the art in the gallery. There’s time.”

His cock responded predictably to her suggestion. “It’s still risky.”

She pressed her lips to his in a quick kiss that promised more to come. “You’re not the only one who hungers, Gervaise.”

Heat rippled through him. Heat—and gratitude for lovely women who turned a man’s world to bright sunshine. How could he resist? He caught her hand, then stared thwarted at the row of tiny buttons fastening her long red gloves.

Wanton anticipation vibrated in her laugh. “It will take you an hour to undo them. And another hour to do them up again. My maid nearly went cross-eyed, dressing me tonight.”

“Blasted impractical rags you women wear,” he muttered.

A soft huff of amusement. “I thought you liked my new ensemble.”

“I want your hands on me.”

“I do, too.” She curled her gloved fingers around his and drew him toward the couch. “Next time.”

He resisted. “I have a better idea.”

An idea that threatened to incinerate his brain to ash, it was so audacious.

So far in bed, they hadn’t progressed much beyond the basics. The pleasure of having her lying beneath him was more than enough. He never tired of the rapturous surprise glowing in her eyes with every climax. It still appalled him that her old duffer of a husband hadn’t had the gumption to value what he had. Wilfred Mowbray had had paradise in his grasp, and he hadn’t known it.

But perhaps tonight offered Pascal a chance to try something a little more exotic.

Curiosity lit her eyes to bright green. “Oh?”

He caught her hips and turned her toward the desk, then released her to take off his coat. “Trust me.”

“I trust you.” Her ready agreement made him smile. It had taken him a long time to gain her trust. Now he had it, he intended to keep it. “Do you want me to get onto the desk?”

“You don’t sound shocked.”

She shrugged, although intriguingly her blush intensified. “I bow to your greater experience.”

He wanted to tell her that what they shared beggared his experience. With Amy, there was an emotional link he’d never felt before. Old, familiar moves seemed new and meaningful. But right now, she was ready and willing, and time ran away with a speed he cursed to Hades.

Soon he’d have to settle their future, persuade her to marry him, perhaps even confess what lay in his heart. But not now. Now pleasure and a beautiful, ardent woman awaited.

He shifted behind her and rubbed luxuriously against her buttocks, holding her upper arms in a caressing grip. “I commend your bold spirit, my love.”

She swayed back, and he turned his face into the soft mass of her hair. She never reacted to his endearments. But then, why should she? He’d called so many women his darling and his sweetheart, and meant nothing special.

Sometimes, God forgive him, an endearment hid that he’d forgotten a lover’s name. With Amy, though, he meant every tender word—and he paid the price for his thoughtlessness, because the one woman who should believe him didn’t notice.

“You’ve made me brave,” she murmured. “Let me go, so I can get onto the desk.”

Pascal smiled with salacious expectation into her silky hair. “Oh, no, my dear. That’s not how we’re going to manage this.”

He felt her sudden tension. “Gervaise?”

“You’ll like this. I’d wager another diamond bracelet on it.”

He ran his hands down her arms. The oh, so proper satin gloves—well, apart from that vivid red—added extra spice to what he intended. Like stockings on an otherwise naked woman.

He bumped his hips forward, coaxing Amy closer to the desk. Then he stretched her hands across the desk’s leather top and flattened them under his. By the time he bent over her, pressing her down, she was trembling.

She guessed his plans now. But then, she was a clever woman.

For a long moment, he paused, his body crushed into the long line of hers and his nose buried in her hair. Her scent, redolent with arousal, was the air he breathed. Her unsteady gasps betrayed uncertainty and excitement.

He kissed the side of her neck. She pushed back in silent invitation.

Fumbling, he released his trousers. Once his cock sprang free to nestle in the tumbling red skirts, he grunted with relief. When she edged back more insistently, he shuddered and bit her neck. She gave a soft cry.

He squeezed her breast, luxuriating in its softness. Then unable to bear the barrier between his hand and her skin, he dipped his fingers under her bodice and found her nipple. Hard and tight with arousal. He tugged on the peak, and she jerked delightfully. With his nail, he teased that sensitive tip until she was shaking.

Only then did he reach down to raise her skirts, bunching them in his hand before tossing them up. When she began to straighten, he placed a hand flat on her lower back. “No. Stay there.”

She swung her head to send him a scorching look. “Don’t make me wait.”

“Never.”

What a glorious spectacle she made. Amy Mowbray with her splendid arse in the air. His cock swelled, as his hand traced those luscious curves through her sheer drawers.

A few deft flicks of his fingers, and the cambric crumpled down to drift across her red silk dancing slippers.

“Step out of your drawers,” he murmured, bending to place a kiss on one round, satiny cheek, now bare to his sight.

She obeyed immediately and spread her legs. For a long moment, he stared down at her, so pink and glistening and ready. He slid his fingers along her sleek cleft, swiftly finding the place that made her quiver and cry out. When she lifted her hips in silent entreaty, he angled her to take him.

Steadying her with one hand, he positioned his cock with the other. Her choked sound of longing spurred him on. With a powerful glide, he pushed forward.