Page 50 of Pursuing Lord Pascal
Amy examined her heart. She found confusion, and the constant yearning that by now felt almost like an old friend. But strangely, no regret. Even more unexpected, no fear.
“It doesn’t feel like a disaster to me either,” she said slowly.
He started to smile. “Well, then.”
She frowned. “Well, then, what?”
Gervaise stepped forward and caught one of her gloved hands. “Amy Mowbray, will you make me the happiest man in London and marry me?”
Her heart began to crash about like a drunken sailor. Whether with horror or excitement, she wasn’t sure. Probably a turbulent mixture of the two. “Because you’re worried about a baby?”
He shook his golden head, and his blue eyes were grave. “I’ve wanted to marry you from the first. I said so. Don’t you remember?”
“I…I didn’t think you meant it.”
“I told you I was wooing you.”
“Into bed.”
“Into my bed.” He paused. “And my life.”
“Oh,” she said, wishing she could come up with something more coherent. Tenderness softened his features, and she closed her eyes to delay the inevitable yielding.
“May I kiss you?”
She opened her eyes and pulled away, needing to think. And stupidly missed the contact, the moment it was broken. “You don’t usually ask.”
“I’m not taking anything for granted.”
She liked that. But then, he knew she would. “No, you may not kiss me.”
Disappointment dulled his eyes. “Amy, are you saying no to my proposal?”
She hesitated. Was she ready to marry again? If she was, Gervaise would be her choice. But would his interest in her last beyond the illicit excitement of their affair? She couldn’t imagine him finding her so fascinating when she went back to being a hardworking farmer. “No.”
To her surprise, she watched the jaded mask descend over his features. Even more surprising, she realized she now knew him well enough to recognize that cynicism as a facade. “Then I beg your pardon for troubling you.”
A rusty laugh escaped her. “Gervaise, you nitwit. I mean I’m not saying no.”
He regarded her uncertainly. “You did.”
She shook her head. When they touched, she and Gervaise communicated perfectly. Not so much when they talked, to her regret. “Words are tangling me up.”
“Then be clear, for God’s sake,” he said roughly. “Will you marry me?”
She hesitated, even as she saw her havering tormented him. “I…I’ll think about it.”
He gave a soft growl of frustration and gestured toward the desk. “After that, you must know how good we are together.”
“We desire each other.” She swallowed to moisten a dry mouth. “That on its own isn’t enough.”
“We share more than passion, and you know it. I’ve never enjoyed a woman’s company as I have yours. Don’t you like talking to me, too?”
“You know I do.” She made a helpless gesture, and decided to take a chance with the prosaic truth. “But London isn’t my real life. When the season’s over, I’ll go back to being eccentric, practical Amy Mowbray, who spends her time tramping her fields and working on improvements to her land and stock.”
Gervaise looked offended. “You think I’m too frivolous to hold your attention?”
Her sigh carried the weight of all her years of insecurity. “No, I think I’m too dull to amuse you.”
