Page 24 of Pursuing Lord Pascal
His face creased with familiar humor. “You sound like a schoolmistress marking my arithmetic.”
“Arithmetic isn’t the subject here, my lord. You are.”
The path petered out at a weir, so they turned to retrace their steps. “That’s a damned uncomfortable thought.”
“It shouldn’t be. And you passed with high marks. You haven’t even tried to kiss me.”
His smile was rueful. “I’ve thought about it.”
So had she. Last night’s kisses had been so delightful, she could barely resist asking for more. And that way lay madness and ruin.
He shot her a sideways look. “Are you going to let me escort you to the opera?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps in a dark opera box, I can persuade you to break a rule or two.”
“Sally and Meg are coming, too. And I believe Meg has invited Sir Brandon Deerham.”
Pascal’s sigh was theatrical in its glumness. “You have a cruel streak.”
Surreptitiously she studied him as they strolled along the path. He looked more resigned than angry. She knew she tested him, which was the whole point, really. “You must think I’m unhinged when it’s perfectly clear we’re…attracted.”
Talking about his childhood, a pall had fallen over his brightness. She could see he felt much more comfortable with flirtatious nonsense. “We are?”
“Of course we are.”
His eyes glinted. “That gives me hope.”
She snorted. “As if you don’t know how dazzling you are.”
The brief cheerfulness faded. “Oh.”
Curse it. She’d been doing such a fine job of restoring his spirits, but now she put her foot in it. When she’d promised not to.
“Not just because of your blasted looks,” she said with a hint of impatience. “I like you. Or haven’t you realized that yet?”
He stopped so abruptly that her hand slipped free. “You do?”
“If I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t consider your proposal,” she said, puzzled that this seemed to be news.
“So you are considering it?”
“Yes,” she admitted, then wondered if she confessed too much.
His gaze intensified. “Then let me take you to bed.”
When she burst out laughing, he looked offended. “What’s so funny?”
“You are. You need to court me for more than an afternoon.”
“Why?” He spread his hands, the picture of masculine bewilderment. “You like me. I like you—very much. There’s enough heat between us to melt Greenland. We owe nobody allegiance. Stop teasing me.”
His indignant outburst frightened the ducks off the water once again. They took off in a flurry of quacking and splashing and flapping wings.
Amy shook her head, as some foolhardy part of her longed to say yes. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is simple. It’s the inescapable imperative of desire.”
