When his tongue swept along the closed seam, a tremor of response rippled through her. Unbelievably it seemed he needed to teach her how to kiss. Innocence had never held any particular appeal, but something about Amy’s uncertainty touched him. When he nipped her full lower lip, she gave a soft cry.
He took immediate advantage, slipping his tongue inside to taste her. She was delicious. Hot, salty honey.
She recoiled at the invasion. “My lord…”
“Hush. Trust me,” he whispered, and strangely he meant it. Tonight he wouldn’t go beyond a few kisses. He played a longer game with Amy Mowbray than a mere night’s pleasure, however incendiary. With every moment in her company, he was more satisfied with his choice of bride.
“What you did, it was odd.”
“You’ll come to like it.”
She frowned, more in puzzlement than displeasure, he thought. “I’m not saying I didn’t like it.”
He laughed softly, enchanted anew. “Then let me show you more.”
He brushed his lips across hers, and when she immediately parted, excitement sizzled through him. One hand splayed against the soft thickness of her hair. His other hand caught her waist and hauled her close, until those luscious breasts pressed into his chest.
This time when his tongue slid into her mouth, she greeted him with the slide of hers. His grip firmed as he deepened the exploration, relishing her sighs of enjoyment.
Dark heat descended to mesh him in delight. Desire throbbed through him, lured him to touch her body. The curve of waist and hip. The line of her flank. The soft swell of her breast.
When his palm brushed her pebbled nipple, she gasped and pulled away. Not far, but enough to wrench him back to reality. He and Amy weren’t alone in a bedroom—more was the pity—but standing mere steps from one of the season’s most glittering parties. And while society might forgive his rakish ways, it would look askance if a new arrival like Amy flouted propriety. At least publicly. Amy came from a respected family and had married well. Now she was a widow, the world would wink at a
discreet affair or two.
Discretion being all.
As if to confirm how close scandal hovered, voices drifted in from the other side of the hedge. The distress on Amy’s face made him wrap her in his arms and step soundlessly into the shadows.
The unseen couple were arguing about his forthcoming trip to see his wife in Devon. Amy pressed close and clenched her hands in his coat. She was trembling. Fear of discovery? Or because he’d kissed her?
As she hid her face in his neck, he lashed her against his body. The unspoken trust in her action stabbed him with more of that poignant tenderness. Her nearness did nothing to soothe his unacceptable yen to ignore manners, morality, and the whole damn world, and run off with her somewhere private.
The interminable discussion continued, until Pascal wanted to throttle both participants. The voices were vaguely familiar, although it wasn’t until he heard the fellow mention Barrow Hall that he identified Lord Bagshot. Which mean the woman protesting her lover’s departure was Lady Compton-Browne, the lady with plans to become Pascal’s mother-in-law.
The world Pascal inhabited was decadent, and hedonistic, and rife with hypocrisy. Amy seemed to come from somewhere purer and better. With a desperation that would have astonished him two days ago, he suddenly wanted to inhabit that world with her.
At last, the disputing lovers wandered off, fortunately without venturing into the haven that contained the sundial—and Lady Mowbray and Lord Pascal in a forbidden embrace.
Pascal stood holding tall, lissome Amy in his arms, marveling at how perfectly her body fitted against his. The music in the house had stopped, so he guessed that supper must have started.
He was so conscious of her, he felt the subtle shift of her muscles that signaled she was about to step away.
“That was my measure of excitement for the night,” she murmured shakily, withdrawing a pace.
Where they stood, it was too dark to see her face, but he heard hard-won humor and lingering traces of fear. “I hope you mean the kissing.”
“Of course I do,” she said in a tone as dry as dust. “How could you think anything else?”
He caught her up and kissed her hard. When he released her, she regarded him breathlessly. “What was that for?”
“Luck.” Her gallantry made his rusty heart cramp with admiration. He’d been caught before, doing what he shouldn’t, and as a consequence, he’d dealt with enough hysterical women to last a lifetime. Amy’s calm good sense made him want to marry her tomorrow.
“We should go in,” she said, and he was pleased to hear the reluctance in her voice.
“We should.” He took her gloved hand and drew her into the moonlight. “When can I see you again?”
“In about an hour. You asked me to save you a waltz.”