Pursuing Lord Pascal by Anna Campbell

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 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