Free Pursuing Lord Pascal by Anna Campbell Page B

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.”
    “Which promises to become very complicated
indeed.”
    He exhaled with frustration. “You want me. I
want you. What else do we need to worry about?”
    Her lips tightened. He was a clever man. He
understood her qualms, even if he claimed he didn’t. “For a start,
I’m not sure I want to marry again. I came to London to keep
Morwenna company, not to find a new husband.”
    He sliced the air with his hand. “Then be my
lover.”
    She shook her head again. “I’ve never taken a
lover.”
    “How long have you been widowed?”
    “Five years.”
    “And no glimmer of temptation?”
    After his honesty with her, when it was
obvious he’d rather have his liver dug out with a pitchfork, she
could hardly tell him it was none of his business. She dared to
share the embarrassing truth. “I’ve never been tempted.”
    “To take a lover?”
    “To want to do…that.”
    He looked shocked. She could hardly blame
him. “But you said you once had a penchant for me.”
    She made a dismissive sound. “That was
childish stuff. I doubt I thought much beyond dancing with you.
You’re…talking about a different world.”
    He looked thoughtful. “But what about your
husband?”
    “Wilfred was forty years older than me.”
    Good God, that was a whole lifetime. “He
wasn’t capable?” He sucked in an audible breath. “You’re not saying
you’re a virgin?”
    She was blushing. “No, I’m not a virgin.”
    “But you’ve never felt desire.” Pascal spoke
slowly, as if coming to terms with her confession.
    “Don’t you dare feel sorry for me.” Which was
ironic, considering how she’d wanted to smother him in compassion
not long ago.
    Anger lit Pascal’s eyes to blue flame. “Did
he hurt you?”
    “No,” she said, appalled that he should think
that. “Of course not.”
    “There’s no of course about it,” Pascal said
grimly, taking her hand. When she jumped, he gave an unamused
laugh. “Don’t worry. I won’t try my luck. But this is important,
and I don’t want to be driving back to London and juggling horses
and traffic while you tell me the whole story.”
    “I’m not sure I want to tell you the whole
story,” she said grumpily, resisting as he drew her toward a wooden
bench beside the path.
    “Too bad. If you can listen to me whine about
my parents, you can give me chapter and verse on your disastrous
marriage.”
    “You didn’t whine. And my marriage wasn’t
disastrous.”
    “Convince me,” he said in a mild tone. He
placed his hands on her shoulders, pushing until she sat.
    “Why should I?” she said in a sulky
voice.
    He sat beside her, stretching his powerful
legs in front of him. “Because you insisted we get to know one
another.” His tone softened. “Tell me, Amy.”

Chapter Seven
     
    Pascal heard Amy sigh as she stared across
the grass to the water. After what felt like a long time, she
turned to him. “I was eighteen when I married Sir Wilfred
Mowbray.”
    “And long over your tendre for that
popinjay Gervaise Dacre.”
    Pascal hoped his gentle teasing would ease
her strain. This sharing of confidences was a devilish
uncomfortable pastime.
    “Oh, that was ancient history by then.”
    “Did you love your husband?”
    She still stared at the ponds, silvery in the
fading