He stepped closer. She retreated. He approached again.
She pulled back. “My lord, you’re pushing me into the hedge.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not acting like a gentleman.” In fact, he behaved like an oaf. He had no right to bully her. The breath he sucked in was bitter with the taste of failure. Stepping away, he tried to tell himself that if she refused him, there were other women. “It’s your right to end the acquaintance.”
His schoolboy posturing had shoved her into the shadows. Perhaps even frightened her, which was the last thing he wanted. Damn him for a clumsy blockhead. Damn these unaccustomed feelings that turned his usually practiced wooing into a complete mare’s nest.
Pascal didn’t expect his stiff pronouncement to evoke a low laugh. “I almost begin to believe you are sincere. You sound quite distraught, Pascal. Don’t take on so, for heaven’s sake. I haven’t said no.”
“You said you were sending me away.” He hated his sulky tone.
“For tonight. At least until the waltz.”
He frowned, trying to find cause for optimism, but not quite managing it. She sounded a little too businesslike to be anywhere near yielding. “So you consent?”
“I consent to consider your offer.”
“Then I must wait?”
Another laugh. He should resent that she found his predicament so entertaining, but he was too damned grateful that he still had a chance.
“You could fill the time in between, trying to convince me that you’re honest.”
His pride kicked. “You want me to dance attendance on you?”
“I know. It’s such an imposition.” He winced at her sarcasm. She stepped into the moonlight again, and he read the stubbornness in her delicate jaw. “I hardly dare to imagine how I could even ask it.”
Impossible wench. She set to torment him. “Send you flowers, and make polite calls, and take you to the opera?”
She folded her arms over her impressive bosom and regarded him steadily. “All of that sounds delightful.”
His eyes narrowed on her. “You mean to put me through the hoops before you cede the game? I hadn’t picked you as a woman who likes to torture a man.”
Amy made a dismissive gesture. “I want to know you a little better before I abandon a life of perfect respectability to become your mistress.”
“What about becoming my wife?”
This evening, he very deliberately hadn’t mentioned his matrimonial intentions. In Hyde Park, she hadn’t seemed too keen. He’d hoped a couple of kisses might make her more receptive.
He should have known better. Although at least she hadn’t refused him outright.
“Becoming more familiar with you is even more important if we’re contemplating a life together.”
He liked the sound of that. He felt more cheerful, despite his impatience. “You want me to court you?”
“Yes.”
He straightened. “I can do that.” He paused. “What about kisses?”
She frowned thoughtfully, as if assessing a bullock’s readiness for market. “I can’t think when you kiss me.”
He liked the sound of that even better. He smiled smugly. “Then clearly kisses must be allowed.”
She cast him a repressive glance. “Clearly they mustn’t.”
He closed his eyes and groaned. “You’re going to kill me.”
“That would be a pity when you’re so spectacular to look at. Every lady in London will weep at your funeral.”