Pursuing Lord Pascal (15 page)

He rolled out of bed and crossed to the
washstand. How she admired his comfortable nakedness. Even now,
after those extraordinary moments in his arms, she wasn’t quite so
brave.

Amy was reaching for the sheet when he
splashed some water from the ewer into a bowl and began to wash.
Her hand stilled and she lay transfixed. Something about observing
this private activity strengthened the invisible net drawing them
together.

Once he’d finished, he poured fresh water
into the bowl and approached the bed. “Let me wash you.”

His seed was sticky on her stomach. She
thought back to the fiery moments when she’d burst through into
transcendent pleasure, followed by the faint disappointment, even
then, when he’d withdrawn.

As a man of honor should, he’d protected her.
But the abrupt intrusion of worldly practicality into that profound
experience had tainted her wholehearted surrender.

A baby out of wedlock would be a disaster.
During her marriage, she’d never conceived, but Wilfred had been
old and mostly indifferent. She had a suspicion Gervaise’s seed was
considerably more potent.

This chagrin was lunacy for a woman who
wasn’t sure she wanted to marry again. Although if she were to
choose a husband, she began to think Gervaise mightn’t be a bad
option.

“Thank you,” she murmured, as he ran the
cloth over her skin.
She lay
unmoving under his care, although she still wasn’t completely at
ease with her nakedness.
“For everything.”

“I don’t want you regretting anything we do,”
he said softly, rinsing the flannel in the lukewarm water, then
returning to his task. He parted her legs, and the water felt
marvelous on the hot, swollen flesh between her thighs.

It was years since she’d had a man in her
bed—and Gervaise’s proportions were considerably more generous than
Wilfred’s. And he’d been much more energetic. She’d loved what he’d
done, but now she felt stretched and a little sore.

“I should feel more remorseful than I do,”
she admitted. “And shocked.”

“Yet you don’t?” He dropped the cloth into
the water with a small splash and returned the bowl to the
washstand.

“I must be irredeemable.” Amy pushed higher
on the pillows and shoved the heavy fall of hair back from her
face. She didn’t want anything to obscure the spectacular view.
Female appreciation warmed her blood as her gaze traced his strong
back and legs, and the firm globes of his buttocks.

When he turned to face her, the interest in
his eyes echoed the interest his body betrayed. Late sunlight
poured through the window and traced him in gold, as if even the
sun couldn’t resist contributing to his splendor. “Oh, I hope
so.”

She laughed. “You’re no use.”

His eyes narrowed with purpose. “I dare you
to say that in ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes?”

“Maybe five.” His smile deepened. “Tell me
what you feel.”

She stretched against the bedhead,
luxuriating in how his eyes focused on her breasts. Her bashfulness
receded under his blatant admiration. Nakedness had its advantages.
“Naughty certainly.”

“That’s a start.”

Her voice lowered to seriousness. “I never
imagined I could feel like I did in your arms. You have a gift, my
lord.”

Unexpectedly, her heartfelt praise displeased
him. “It’s not just me. It’s the two of us together. You’re
incomparable, Amy. And the only person who doesn’t recognize that
is you.”

She didn’t want to ponder her shortcomings.
After all, the afternoon would soon be over, and she’d have to go
back to London and pretend she was the same pragmatic creature
she’d been before today. She stretched out her hand. “I’ll tell you
something—I feel like the most beautiful woman in the world when
you touch me.”

His smile filled with the sweetness that
always turned her mind to soup. “Then it must be time to touch you
again.”

“An excellent suggestion,” she said, fearing
that she smirked. Difficult to resist smugness when he looked at
her like that. Like she was a piece of Turkish delight, and he
wanted to snap her up with one bite of his straight, white
teeth.

Gervaise took her hand, but didn’t yet push
her down for another passionate wrestle. “Are you sure you’re ready
to do this? I’m not a brute. I can wait until next time.”

Her eyebrows arched in taunting inquiry.
“Next time?”

“I don’t want a passing conquest.” He lifted
her hand, and the graze of his lips across her skin made her quake
with anticipation. Stronger than before, now she knew just what she
anticipated. “If I had my way, I’d whisk you away to some secret
haven and sate every appetite. Day after glorious day.”

For a dazed interval, she stared into those
intense, perfect features and imagined what that would be like.
Hour after hour in Gervaise’s bed. Night after night. Taking their
pleasure, until they collapsed with exhaustion in a tangle of naked
limbs. Then seeking pleasure anew. Nobody nearby to interrupt or
observe or judge.

And endless time to talk to him. She wanted
him. Of course she did. But more than that, she longed to see into
his soul. He was such a compelling mixture of rake and hero.

A bird called from a tree outside and
shattered the alluring fantasy of escape. It was impossible. She
wasn’t some starry-eyed milkmaid in thrall to the amorous plowboy.
With fishing rod or not.

She had responsibilities, obligations. If she
forsook her reputation, she’d damage her family’s future. Silas and
Helena and Robert all had children who would suffer from gossip
about a notorious aunt.

Amy beat back the sudden wistfulness. Regret
held no sway in this room. What she had was the fulfillment of a
dream. Asking for more was greedy.

She rose to lace her arms around Gervaise’s
powerful neck and draw him down for a bold, open-mouthed kiss. When
at last he raised his head, she smiled and told herself to be
content with the present.

“We’re somewhere secret now,” she murmured.
“Let’s take advantage of it while we can.”

Carefully Pascal closed the library door,
shutting out the sounds of the crowded ballroom from the other side
of the house. The music and chatter from Lady Shelton’s party
turned into a distant hum.

Now all he heard was the insistent pump of
his blood and the siren call of temptation.

Amy faced him, standing before the large
mahogany desk under the curtained windows. She wore crimson, as if
their passion found its inevitable color. The melting surrender in
her expression sent a jolt of arousal through him.

He leaned his back against the door and
turned the key in the lock without looking. He was too busy
drinking in every detail of this woman he wanted more with every
day.

A slow, sensual smile curved her lips. The
smile was new and spoke of a woman incandescent with sensual power.
Such a change from the lovely, but wary lady he’d first met. Now
her beauty blazed like a beacon. Need, bright and burning as
lightning, sizzled along his veins.

The luxuriant pile of tawny hair held a
tantalizing hint of untidiness, a reminder of how it cascaded free
when he hauled her into bed. Her hazel eyes were more gold than
green, glittering with brazen interest. Her creamy breasts mounded
above the daringly low bodice and rose and fell with her uneven
breathing.

“You’re here.” His voice rang with
satisfaction.

“Of course I am,” she said with unconcealed
excitement. “It’s been three days since we were alone.”

He loved that she didn’t try to hide her
need. “We’ve been driving every afternoon.”

Her grimace was charming. “You know what I
mean.”

He did indeed. And he’d suffered, as
apparently had she. It was a fortnight since those extraordinary
hours at the house near Windsor. They’d managed two more meetings
there. Both brimming with unforgettable pleasure. Both cruelly
short.

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 Shelton 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?”

She smiled and rose on her toes to trace his
jaw with her lips. Heat seared a path across his skin, and he
started shaking. She was the only woman in Creation who could make
him tremble. The whisper of her breath across his face spurred his
pulse to a gallop. “You want to be the only blackguard who paws
me?”

“Hell, yes,” he hissed and turned his head to
catch her mouth with his.

Immediately she curved against him, and her
lips opened with a hunger that matched his. He lashed his arms
around her, bringing her so close that she could be in no doubt of
his readiness. She tasted of spicy honey with a hint of champagne.
Her female scent filled his senses, made him drunk on her
fragrance.

“Damn it, Amy, this is excruciating.”
Reluctantly he drew away. “Will you meet me tomorrow?”

She raised a gloved hand to stroke his cheek.
“Silas and Caro are down from Leicestershire, and we’re spending
the day together.”

“Come to me instead. Please.” In his rakish
past, he’d never pleaded with a woman.

“I can’t.” Her smile conveyed regret, but
damn it, not enough. “You know I can’t.”

He scowled, knowing he was unfair, but
incapable of hiding his frustration. “All I know is that I feel
like I’m starving to death for want of you.”

She cast a sideways glance toward the couch
near the fire. He read the thought before she spoke, and a shocked
thrill shuddered through him. She was the most exciting woman he’d
ever known. Through the heady progress of their affair, she’d
become breathtakingly reckless.

“We could do something tonight.” Her voice
was a thread of sound, and pink tinged her cheeks. “Here.”

Eagerness vied with caution. He’d never
regarded himself as the chivalrous type, but he guarded Amy’s good
name like a sheepdog guarded a lamb. “That’s not why I asked you to
meet me.”

“I know.” Her voice strengthened, and she
spoke with more urgency. He couldn’t doubt that she wanted this.
“But with the crowds at supper, nobody will notice our absence.
Even if they do, they’ll think we’re in the gardens, or admiring
the art in the gallery. There’s time.”