Page 46 of Pursuing Lord Pascal
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?”
