Pursuing Lord Pascal by Anna Campbell Page A

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.