“So have I.” To her relief, the heavy traffic on the way home had given him no opportunity to revive that troubling conversation about marriage. His boldness left her scared and unsettled and puzzled—and stupidly, dangerously tempted. For more kisses, above all. Some hitherto unrecognized feminine instinct insisted that if Pascal bent his mind to it, he could kiss her to heaven and back. “Thank you.”
Sally’s gleaming black door opened, and a footman ran down the stairs to hold the horses. Another appeared to assist Amy to alight, but retreated to stare stalwartly into space when Pascal shook his head.
“My pleasure. I’m glad the drive wasn’t nearly the ordeal you expected.”
She released a startled gasp of laughter. Perhaps he did know her better than she thought, after all. “Oh, dear, Sally would be disappointed. She tried so hard to teach me to pretend all of this is a mere doddle to my sophisticated self.”
“You acquitted yourself beautifully, Lady Mowbray. I told you—I’m paying special attention.”
Just like that, her earlier tumult returned. Her stomach knotted, and the moisture dried from her mouth. “Lord Pascal…”
He jumped down from the carriage to come around to offer one gloved hand. “Don’t fret.”
“Don’t fret?” she whispered with sudden temper, but too conscious of the servants to give this arrogant, disturbing—gorgeous—man the set-down he deserved. “Of course I’m going to fret.”
“Good,” he said, still smiling as if she wasn’t telling him off. His teeth were as perfect as the rest of him. Straight. White. And somehow predatory.
“What the devil do you mean by that?” She placed her hand in his and made a creditable descent from the carriage. Heat curled up from his fingers and settled in the pit of her stomach in a most unsettling fashion. Except a woman would have to be dead not to find Pascal attractive. And however quiet Amy’s life might have been in recent years, she was far from dead.
“When you fret, you’ll be thinking of me.”
“Not necessarily with fondness,” she said grimly. The groom in his bright blue livery ran up the stairs from the kitchen, bowed to his employer, and settled in the seat at the back of the carriage.
Pascal laughed again. “Well, I’ll be thinking of you—and fondly.”
For a searing moment, his gaze focused on her lips, and she was transported back to those dazzling seconds when he’d kissed her. She hadn’t scolded him nearly as severely as she should for t
hat piece of daring. In fact, she had a horrid feeling she hadn’t scolded him at all.
“You’re engaged for Lady Bartlett’s ball tonight?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, and realized he still held her hand. She had to stop doing this.
She pulled away, struggling to ignore a pang at the separation. She couldn’t stand out in the street, holding hands with Lord Pascal as if they were sweethearts. The innocent description seemed incongruous for such a worldly man.
“Will you save me both waltzes?”
Her lips twitched. It was devilish difficult to cling to anger. Dear Lord, he was a master at these flirtatious games, while she was a mere novice. “No, I will not.”
When he placed one of those elegant hands on his heart in a tragic gesture, she giggled. And Amy couldn’t remember giggling since she’d been a silly chit under this very man’s spell.
“Cruel beauty.” His blue eyes—that was such an impossible color—sharpened. “One waltz.”
“Very well.”
“And the supper dance?”
“My lord—”
“Excellent.” Another flashing smile as he caught her hand and bent over it. She braced for his lips on her glove, the way she’d await a blow. But the contact never came, although the way he squeezed her fingers set her giddy heart racing. “Until tonight.”
He jumped into the curricle and waited as Amy went inside. Only her conscience knew how difficult it was not to look back and watch him drive away.
Chapter Four
When Amy walked into the house, Morwenna was writing a letter in the drawing room. “Amy, come and talk to me.”
Amy took off her hat and coat and passed them to another of the ubiquitous footmen. Smoothing her fly-away hair, she went to join her sister-in-law, who had already put aside her pen and poured her a cup of tea. The room still looked like it held every flower in London, apart from one bouquet of pink roses which had escaped to take pride of place in her bedroom.