Pursuing Lord Pascal Read Online Free

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that they could be sculpted from marble, if they weren’t so
sensual.
    Such spectacular masculinity would make
Michelangelo weep.
    “Delighted, Lady Mowbray.” His soft murmur
set every nerve jangling with female awareness.
    “Good evening, my lord,” she said, shocked
that the words emerged at all, let alone as steadily as they
did.
    With a spurt of relief, she realized that she
wasn’t sixteen anymore. By God, she could handle society. She could
handle anything life threw at her. Here was proof. While
butterflies and grasshoppers performed a mad ballet in her stomach,
she faced down the man who had once turned her tongue-tied.
    Her smile broadened as she stared into Lord
Pascal’s brilliant blue eyes. Dear heaven, that color was
extraordinary, like a noon sky on a perfect summer day.
    Those eyes warmed and turned predatory, and
she realized her hand still rested in his. Ten years ago—good Lord,
last week—she’d have jerked away, flustered and awkward. Not
tonight. Tonight she remained where she was and let herself drown
in those azure eyes.
    “May I presume upon our new acquaintance and
ask for this waltz?”
    “I’m engaged with Sir Brandon.” With a
flirtatiousness she’d never before attempted, she let her lashes
flutter down. She didn’t mention that she and Pascal had met
before, if years ago. Why revive memories of her clumsy younger
self and spoil this chance to make an old dream come true?
    Pascal didn’t even glance at Fenella’s son.
“I’m sure he’ll yield to my greater need.”
    “Greater need?” Amy slowly withdrew her
hand.
    “Sometimes a waltz can be a matter of life or
death, my lady.”
    Brandon turned away from Meg and smiled at
Amy. “Shall we?”
    He must have missed the quiet exchange
between Amy and Pascal. She shivered with delight. His lordship’s
nonsense seemed even more delicious when spoken privately in a
public place.
    “I’m claiming seniority,” Pascal said with a
smile.
    “That’s a dashed cheek,” Brandon said
good-naturedly. “What’s a fellow to do instead?”
    “He can dance with his dear sweet mother,”
Fenella said, taking his arm and casting a laughing glance at Amy
and Lord Pascal.
    “Always happy to dance with you, Mamma,”
Brandon said gallantly. “You’re still the prettiest woman in the
room.”
    “Are you sure, Brandon?” Amy asked, feeling
bad for deserting him.
    “That my mamma is a peach? I am indeed.” He
didn’t sound like he minded too much missing out on partnering
Amy.
    “You’re a good lad,” Anthony said, clapping
his son on the shoulder.
    “You have my thanks, Sir Brandon.” Pascal
drew Amy toward the dance floor.
    “Do I get any say in this?” she asked, with a
breathless catch in her voice.
    His arm slid around her waist, and he caught
her hand in his, setting off another of those odd frissons. “Do you
want to say no?”
    He stared down at her as if he saw nobody
else in this crowded ballroom. She had to work hard to summon a
response. It really was the most extraordinary sensation, being
this close to such physical splendor. Her girlhood self had been
transfixed, but mostly at a distance. Now it turned out that
grown-up Amy was even more susceptible to golden good looks and
deep blue eyes. The music started, and for the first time, her
steps fell into the rhythm without her conscious effort to
count.
    “Lady Mowbray?”
    She reminded herself that she was no longer a
naïve, impressionable ninnyhammer. She’d been married. She ran a
great estate. Her appearance was modish in the extreme. She owed it
to Sally to demonstrate a modicum of polish.
    Instinct told her to play at reluctance. It
was a game she’d seen enacted often, although she’d never before
felt equipped to join in. But the answer that emerged was short and
honest. “No.”
    That striking face so far above hers—his
perfect proportions hid quite how tall he was until you were right
next to him—relaxed into a smile of masculine