“Yes,” she admitted, then wondered if she confessed too much.
His 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.”