Pursuing Lord Pascal (Dashing Widows #4)

Chapter One

Raynor House, Mayfair, March 1829

S ometimes it was no fun to be London’s handsomest man.

Gervaise Dacre, Earl Pascal, glanced across at the pretty blonde chit beside him in the line and struggled to hide his impatience for the dance to finish.

“It’s quite a crush tonight,” he said. He’d already flung usually reliable topics like the weather and last night’s ball into the conversational impasse. They now lay bleeding and silent on the floor.

There was a long pause—not the first one—while the girl’s blush turned an alarming shade of red. Then without meeting his eyes, she managed to say, “Yes,” so softly that he had to lean closer to hear.

Miss Veivers was an heiress and accounted one of the diamonds of the season, but clearly the honor of sharing a contredanse with that magnificent personage Lord Pascal had rendered her incoherent. She was his third partner tonight, and he hadn’t succeeded in coaxing more than a monosyllable out of any of them.

For a man in search of a wife, it was a depressing state of affairs. Last January’s storm had left his estate in ruins. He needed cash, and he needed it quickly. He’d come up to Town, vowing he’d do anything to restore his fortune.

But surely there must be better alternatives than Miss Veivers and her pretty little airheaded friends.

Did London this season contain no women of sense? Clearly none had attended this extravagant ball to launch Lord and Lady Raynor’s youngest daughter. When he’d waltzed with the overexcited Raynor girl, she’d nearly giggled him to death.

Bored, he glanced over the top of his partner’s ridiculous coiffure. Why did females torture their hair into such God awful monstrosities? Half of Kew Gardens sprouted from the girl’s elaborate brown curls. Across the room, he noticed a party of late arrivals.

Four pretty women in the first stare of fashion. He immediately recognized the tall blonde as Sally Cowan, who bore enough resemblance to the young miss in white to suggest a relationship. Probably aunt and niece. Beside them was a graceful brunette in buttercup yellow.

Last to step into the ballroom was a tall woman with tawny hair arranged with an elegant simplicity that set off her striking features. Her rich purple gown clung to her Junoesque figure with breathtaking precision. She reminded him of someone, although Pascal would swear they’d never met.

His heart crashed against his ribs, and he only just stopped himself stumbling. He who was lauded as a perfect dancer.

In a room full of fluttering, cooing doves, this woman had the presence and power of a swan floating across a moonlit lake.

How could he concentrate on half-baked girls when that luscious banquet of a female wandered into sight? Damn it, he had to find out who she was.

“L-Lord Pascal?” the chit in his arms stammered, the chit whose name he’d already forgotten. “Are you going to the Bartletts’ ball tomorrow night? Mamma is most eager that we at…attend.”

“I’m sure I’ll be there.” He was hardly aware what he said, as he took her hand to lead her up the line. He couldn’t take his eyes off the superb creature standing beside Sally. Who the devil was she? He wasn’t looking for a mistress, and the state of his finances meant he couldn’t veer from his purpose. But by God, even across the crowded room, he wanted her.

“Oh,” the chit said breathlessly. “Oh, doubtless we’ll see you there.”

“Doubtless.” He wondered idly what he’d agreed to. But he didn’t wonder much. Most of his mind remained fixed on the tall woman, who had joined Lord and Lady Kenwick near the French doors, closed against the chilly night.

Brutal necessity insisted he pay court to one of the wellborn virgins brought to London to shine on the marriage mart. Every masculine impulse insisted he engage the attention of the woman in imperial purple.

The battle was brief, its outcome sure, even before it began.

He returned Miss Veivers—at last he remembered her name—to her parents and set off in pursuit of much more interesting prey.

* * *

“Stop picking at your gown,” Sally hissed out of the corner of her mouth as they stood in a laughing group with Anthony and Fenella Townsend, and Fenella’s handsome son Brandon Deerham.

Guiltily Amy forced her trembling hand down from where she’d been hauling at the low bodice. “It’s too tight. And I feel half naked.”

“For pity’s sake, you look wonderful—and the dress is quite modest by London standards.”

“Not by Leicestershire standards. And it’s so bright.”

“It is,” Sally said. “And don’t start fiddling with your hair instead. You said you liked it when my maid put it up like that.”

“I do.” She liked the dress, too, although she felt painfully self-conscious in the flashy color. “But it doesn’t look like everyone else’s hair.”

Around her, she saw women whose hair was arranged into elaborate ringlets and knots. Hers was almost austere in its simplicity.

“No, and all the better for it. You’ve got a classical beauty. Make the most of it.”

“I don’t think I’ve got any beauty at all,” she muttered under her breath, hoping Sally wouldn’t hear. Over the last bustling week of modistes and milliners and maids poking and prodding at her, she’d learned that Sally had no tolerance for self-doubt. Given self-doubt was Amy’s default position, she was surprised that their friendship survived. Even prospered.

“Of course you do,” Morwenna said, proving she’d been eavesdropping. Last November’s woebegone widow was impossible to recognize in the slender woman in spangled yellow sarsenet, who faced this glittering crowd with unexpected assurance. “You mightn’t see it, but everyone else does, even when you’re wearing faded chintz and farm boots, and you have mud on your face. You just need to believe you’re beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Amy said, still unconvinced. Morwenna didn’t understand what it was like to grow up as the only plain member of a good-looking family. Silas and Robert were both handsome men, and Helena, while unconventional in looks, was nonetheless striking. Whereas Amy had always felt like a cabbage set in the middle of a bouquet of roses. “I’ll say one good thing for cattle and sheep—they don’t care what you look like.”

“You can’t spend your life in a barn, Amy,” Morwenna said. This week, she’d been as bossy as Sally. Amy didn’t mind. It was wonderful to see her venturing back into life again, even if it meant sisterly nagging.

“Yes, I can.”

“Nonsense,” Fenella said, proving she’d been listening while her fine blue eyes scanned the ballroom. “You’re a lovely girl, Amy, and it’s about time you crept out from under your rock and showed the world your mettle.”

Amy went back to plucking at her bodice, until a scowl from Sally made her drop her hand. “But people—men—keep staring. I feel like a fright.”

“They’re staring because you’re a new face—and you look good enough to eat in that dress,” Anthony Townsend, Lord Kenwick, said, proving he, too, lent an ear to Amy’s cowardly havering. “In fact, may I have this dance, Amy? Otherwise, I doubt I’ll have another chance all night.”

“Really?”

“Trust us,” Sally said with a sigh. “As if we’d let you make a fool of yourself.”

“No, I can do that all by myself.”

“Amy,” Morwenna said sternly. “Hold your head up and dance with Anthony. And when gentlemen line up to dance with you, act as if you expected nothing else.”

“Since when have you been such an expert on the ton?”

Morwenna had met Robert in Cornwall, and they’d married after a whirlwind courtship. He’d left for the South Atlantic before he had a chance to introduce his wife to London society. “I’ll have you know that I was the belle of the Truro assemblies. This is just a larger, better dressed version. I can already see you’re going to make a sensation. Enjoy it.”

“I wish I was back talking about drainage with my steward,” she mumbled.

As Sally rolled her eyes, Anthony took her hand. “Courage, lass.”

She lifted her gaze to his and managed a smile. He towered over her. He towered over most people, and he’d never lost the bluff manners of his humble Yorkshire upbringing. But while he might look like a mountain, she’d long ago learned that he had a kind heart and a mind sharp enough to see past her grumbles to the sheer terror possessing her soul.

“Please promise you’ll dance with me again if nobody else does.”

The twitch of his mouth bolstered her failing courage. “I promise. And so will Brandon. Won’t you, my lad?”

Brandon, fair and beautiful like his mother, subjected Amy to a glance of unmistakable admiration. “Rather! Amy, you’re looking tiptop. All the fellows will be knocked for six.”

It was Fenella’s turn to roll her eyes. “Brandon, I despair of your expensive Cambridge education. You used to speak the King’s English.”

Anthony sent his wife a fond glance. “It’s nowt to worry about. He’s just bang up to date, my love.” He turned his attention back to Amy. “And I have to agree with him. You’re as bonny as they come. Now let me show you off.”

Amy let him lead her onto the floor. Fenella’s family really were so kind. She sucked in a breath to calm the nervous gallop of her heart. What did it matter what London thought when she had such loving friends?

As she lined up opposite Anthony, she noticed Brandon and Meg taking the floor together. Seconds later, Fenella, Morwenna and Sally found partners.

She’d spent her life afraid of the ton’s disparaging eye. But when she started to execute the steps—she’d spent the last month practicing dances she hadn’t attempted since adolescence—giddy excitement gripped her. Not strong enough to banish uncertainty, but heady nonetheless.

Here she was at the center of London society. She had beautiful new clothes and friends set on her enjoyment. Who knew what adventures the next few weeks might bring? At the very least, she’d have something to remember when she went back to counting heifers and weighing oats on her estate.

* * *

By the time she’d danced a minuet with Anthony and a quadrille with Brandon, Amy was almost comfortable in her new clothes. It still amazed her quite how much attention and effort went into preparing a woman to appear at a ball that merely lasted a few hours. If she took this much time to dress at Warrington Court, the estate would fall into ruin.

Gradually her choking fear receded. The people she spoke to were nice to her, and nobody pointed a finger in her direction and shrieked “imposter!” Which didn’t make her any less of an imposter in this glamorous milieu.

She even started to enjoy herself. The music was pretty; the dancing was fun once she stopped worrying about forgetting the steps; even a fashion ignoramus like her appreciated the beautiful clothing on display.

Best of all, Morwenna looked young and happy for the first time in four years. And the men in the room showed the excellent taste to clamor to dance with her.

Nor did Sally lack for partners. She always spoke as if she was at her last prayers, but the gentlemen seemed as eager to dance with her as with her pretty niece Meg.

So when Mr. Harslett, a man with an interesting take on using turnips as pig feed, deposited Amy back with Fenella and Anthony after their dance, she could almost pretend to poise. So silly to be scared of something as trivial as a ball. At this rate, she might even survive her London season without carrying too many scars away.

Then all that frail confidence fizzled to nothing. Striding toward her was the man she’d spent a couple of wretched years dreaming about when she was a silly girl. He’d fueled her romantic fantasies, until she hit sixteen and decided that life was real and practical, and adolescent foolishness served no purpose.

Anthony greeted Pascal with unalloyed pleasure. “Grand to see you.”

“And you, Kenwick.” Lord Pascal bowed briefly to Fenella. “Lady Kenwick.”

“My lord,” Fenella said with a pretty curtsy.

“Will you please introduce me to your lovely companion?”

Lovely companion? Amy almost looked around to see who he meant, even as those blue eyes leveled on her with unmistakable intent.

“Amy, may I present Lord Pascal?” Fenella said, shooting him a speculative glance. “Pascal, this is Amy, Lady Mowbray, down from Leicestershire for the season.”

Automatically Amy extended her hand. When he took it in his and bowed, a strange current zapped through her as if she touched lightning. Bewildered, she told herself this was impossible, especially as they both wore gloves. But rational thought was elusive when such remarkable male beauty filled her view.

The hundreds of candles in the ballroom turned Lord Pascal to gold. Golden hair. Golden skin. Tall, perfectly proportioned body. Broad, straight shoulders. Narrow hips. Long legs. Cheekbones high and prominent. Lips so crisply cut 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, do you want to say no?”

She reminded herself that she was no longer a na?ve, 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 satisfaction. “That’s what I hoped.”

He swept her into a turn that left her dizzy. Yet feet that usually threatened to stumble kept her upright and moving.

Heat radiated everywhere they touched, and her heart raced with exertion and excitement. She could hardly believe it. Her first ball this season, and she danced with a man as close to a prince as any she was ever likely to meet.

Cinderella would be green with envy.