Free Pursuing Lord Pascal by Anna Campbell Page A

of Wight.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    He shrugged. “She wasn’t made for old
age.”
    Not for the first time, the perfection of his
features operated as a mask concealing the real man. “That
seems…cold.”
    His lips turned down, as he took her arm
again and walked on. “When I was a child, I adored her and clamored
for her attention. After I came home from London, I’d cry for a
week. But she lost interest in me, once I stopped being small and
appealing. Gangly, pimply adolescents tried her patience—and she
abhorred people knowing she had a son approaching manhood. By the
end, we were strangers.”
    He spoke carelessly, but by now, Amy knew
better than to trust his pretended indifference. The vibrating
tension in the arm under her fingers indicated that the hurt still
cut deep.
    For his sake, she made herself smile, even as
she wanted to fling her arms around him and apologize on behalf of
fate for that desolate upbringing. “I refuse to believe you were
ever pimply or gangly. I’ll wager you always looked like a prince.
No wonder you devoted yourself to pleasure when you hit London. The
ladies must have gone into a frenzy for you.”
    His laugh held a sour note. “You describe a
dashed shallow cove.”
    “That’s what you want me to believe, isn’t
it?”
    He leveled that deep blue gaze upon her.
“What I want you to believe is that I’ll make an excellent lover
and an even better husband.”
    The abrupt change struck a jarring note. She
knew how reluctantly he’d spoken of his past, but now he had, she
couldn’t help seeing beyond this magnificent creature to the bereft
little boy.
    Although if she told him that, he’d run a
hundred miles. Just when she started to think that she might like
him to stay.
    It was clear she’d wring no more confidences
from him today. The uncompromising line of his jaw told her that
he’d unveiled as much of his soul as he intended. “We’ve made an
excellent start.”
    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