Ridiculously, it was true. Perhaps because her agricultural experiments belonged to the real Amy Mowbray, whereas compliments he paid her looks were a tribute to Sally and her skilled modiste.
“I’d be glad to advise you,” she said, then was grateful that the shadows hid her blush. What a nitwit she was. As if this sophisticated man wanted to talk agriculture at one of the biggest social events of the year. To hide her mortification, she gulped a mouthful of wine.
“I’d like that,” he said with what sounded like enthusiasm. “Perhaps you’ll come to Northumberland and see for yourself what needs to be done.”
Her self-castigation melted away. Astonishing as it might be, he didn’t dismiss her as hopelessly unsophisticated. She curled her hand around his arm more firmly. In thin evening gloves, her fingers were cold. More, she wanted to touch him.
The path he chose led away from the light. She noticed but didn’t protest. The sinful hope arose that he might kiss her again. Properly this time. Wilfred hadn’t been much for kissing, but she’d caught Silas and Helena in enough passionate embraces with their spouses to know that she had lots to discover.
Perhaps she’d discover it with Lord Pascal.
She edged nearer to him, partly because it was cold away from the braziers. In the distance, she could hear laughter and the sweet, silly tune for the dance. Closer, a woman murmured something in a husky voice, then fell silent.
Amy sipped her champagne, wondering if she could blame her uncharacteristic rashness on the wine. Her heart thumped like a drum, and her blood pumped slow and heavy like syrup. She’d never felt this way before. Such a giddy mixture of suspense and anticipation.
Desire.
Suddenly that seemed a sad confession. She’d been married for two years. She should have known desire.
Their steps slowed, came to a stop. They stood alone in a small glade with a sundial in the center. The moon was three-quarters full, illuminating shapes without detail. Very gently, Pascal set down his empty glass on the sundial. Then he took hers and set it beside his.
Amy swayed forward as with breathtaking assurance, his hand curved around her waist. He leaned in, blocking the moonlight, turning everything to dark mystery.
When his lips met hers, she sighed in wordless surrender.
Chapter Five
Pascal raised his hand to cradle Amy’s cheek as their lips clung. Hers were soft and trembling like a young girl’s, and her sigh expressed surprise as much as enjoyment.
Shock shuddered through him, pierced building pleasure. This lovely woman might have been married, but she kissed like a virgin.
Tenderness cut him, sharp as a sword. It was the most powerful emotion he’d ever known in a life devoted to selfish gratification. The pursuit of Lady Mowbray changed from an intriguing challenge and a pleasant way to answer his self-interest to something…else. Something outside the range of his experience. Or even his vocabulary to describe.
Slowly he pulled away, until the moonlight illuminated her lovely face. Her eyes were closed, and she looked transported to some higher realm.
After a kiss so chaste, he could almost have given it to an aunt.
Except that wasn’t quite true. However sweet that kiss, it held the promise of sensual exploration to come. That kiss was a beginning, not an end in itself.
Amy opened her eyes, the hazel shadowy in the silvery darkness. Astonishing that such an innocent kiss set his heart racing with an excitement he hadn’t felt in years. As if her innocence revived echoes of his, lost too long ago in a world that offered a presentable, aristocratic young man everything he wanted merely for the asking. Sometimes not even for that.
“That was…nice,” she murmured.
He smiled, seeing her as so precious and fragile, for all her strength and cleverness. Some hitherto unrecognized chivalry in his soul made him want to cherish rather than conquer, coax rather than demand. “It was. Shall we do it again?”
“Yes, please,” she said, like a child asking for another piece of birthday cake.
Pascal liked her lack of coyness. He was bored with the tired games where he was cast as the ruthless seducer, and the lady the helpless quarry. When the stark fact was on most occasions, women sought him out.
He’d become disgracefully lazy about his affairs. One lover became much like another.
Except this lover. Amy Mowbray wasn’t like anyone else.
Hesitantly, she placed one hand on his shoulder, taking the initiative for the first time. His heart slammed against his ribs, and his breath jammed in his throat.
He tilted her face up, and this time he lingered over the kiss. Her scent mixed with the moonlit night and flooded his senses. Fresh. Female. Crushed flowers and a trace of musk. The air was cold, but her lips were warm. So warm.
Instead of enjoying an entertaining, but essentially forgettable interlude with an attractive woman, he let strategy sink to oblivion under a wave of unprecedented need. He leaned in, increasing the pressure, and her lips fluttered against his.