Reading sample Pursuing Lord Pascal

Prologue

To a farmer, even winter’s dreary beginning had its purpose.

Or so Amy, Lady Mowbray, told herself as she stared out of the morning room window onto the landscape of her childhood. It was early on a gray day. Around her, the old house was blessedly quiet. That would change, once everyone was up.

Nash friends and family gathered to celebrate the christening of her brother Silas’s fourth child. The revels had extended late last night, but Amy, used to rising with the birds to tramp her fields at Warrington Court, couldn’t sleep.

So she didn’t expect the door to open and reveal Sally Cowan, Countess of Norwood. “Lady Mowbray, I didn’t think anyone else was awake.”

Amy didn’t know Sally well. Recently the attractive widow had become friends with her sister-in-law Morwenna. Morwenna mostly lived in seclusion in Portsmouth, but she and Sally both supported a charity for indigent naval widows.

“I don’t keep sophisticated hours, Lady Norwood.” Anything but. Lately the sheer predictability of her days had begun to pall.

When she was a girl, she’d become interested in scientific agriculture, and since then, the rhythms of planting and harvest had ruled her life. Her brief marriage seven years ago had caused barely a hiccup in the endless seasonal work.

“I don’t either.” Lady Norwood closed the door and ventured into the room. “I’m looking for something to read. I know Caro keeps the latest novels in here. I won’t disturb you.”

Amy rarely sought female company, although she loved her sister Helena who slept upstairs, no doubt blissfully, in her husband’s arms. But something about the bleak, lonely dawn left her dissatisfied with solitude. “No need to go. Would you like a cup of tea?”

Lady Norwood cast her a searching look, before a smile of startling charm lit her face. She wasn’t exactly pretty. Her long, thin nose had a definite kink, and her eyes and mouth were too large for her face, but she was dauntingly stylish. Next to her, Amy always felt a complete frump.

This morning was a case in point. Lady Norwood wore a filmy cream gown, trimmed with bands of satin ribbon, deep green to match her remarkable eyes. With her loosely gathered fair hair, she looked like the spirit of spring, even as the year moved into winter.

Whereas Amy had dredged a frock ten years out of date from the cupboard in the bedroom she always used at Woodley Park. She’d assumed at this hour, she wouldn’t run into any other guests. She was sharply conscious that the dress was faded and worn, and too loose for her. At twenty-five, she was slimmer than she’d been at sixteen.

“Thank you. I’d love a cup of tea. Morwenna speaks so fondly of you, Lady Mowbray. I was looking forward to this house party as a chance to get to know you.”

Amy crossed the room to the tray a footman had just brought in and poured two cups. “Please call me Amy. Lady Mowbray is my late husband’s mother.” Who lived in Brighton, and fussed over her ten pugs, and found little common ground with the practical young woman her son had married.

Lady Norwood turned something as mundane as accepting a cup and saucer into an act of breathtaking grace. Amy stifled an unworthy pang of envy. Not even her best friend—if she had one—would credit her with a shred of elegance. Somehow this morning, that seemed a shame.

“Very well, Amy. And you must call me Sally.” She sipped her tea as the door swung open.

“Morwenna,” Amy said in surprise, placing her tea on a side table and stepping forward to embrace her lovely, fragile sister-in-law. The body in her arms was so thin, Amy feared it might break if she wasn’t careful. “You’re up early.”

“You know I don’t sleep much these days.” The willowy brunette focused her large blue eyes on Sally and managed a smile. “Good morning, Sally.”

“Good morning, Morwenna.”

“Have some tea.” Amy filled another delicate Wedgwood cup. There were four on the tray. The footman must have guessed she’d have company. “I’m sorry you had a bad night. If it’s so difficult for you to see the family, you don’t have to come to these gatherings. Everyone would understand—although we’d miss you.”

Bitterness twisted Morwenna’s lips as she took her tea and sat on a brocade chaise longue near the fire. Although all three women were widows, only Morwenna wore mourning. The dense black emphasized her ghostly pallor. “I doubt it. I’m well aware that I’m a constant reminder of sorrow.”

Grief stabbed Amy. Sharp. Painful. Accepted, but unsoftened by time. “The sorrow is always there for us, whether you’re here or not.”

Robert Nash, Morwenna’s husband and Amy’s brother, had been lost at sea four years ago in a skirmish with pirates off the Brazilian coast. At first, because Robert had been such a larger-than-life character, everyone who loved him had held out hope of his survival. But as month followed month, the grim truth of his death became undeniable reality. When the navy had ordered him into the South Atlantic, Robert was newly married to this charming Cornish girl, who had since become a beloved member of the Nash family.

Morwenna cast her a sad smile—sad smiles were her stock in trade these days. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to imply his family had forgotten him. I know you haven’t—but you all have other concerns, other people to occupy you.”

Amy hid a wince. Because she didn’t. Not really. Her estate ran like clockwork, and her steward and staff were so well trained in her methods that they could manage without her, indefinitely if necessary.

Devil take this strange humor. Why on earth was she so discontented? Envying Sally’s style. Even envying Morwenna, who at least had known love before losing it.

Amy and her late husband had been good friends, despite the age difference, but the stark truth was that she’d married him to join him in his farming experiments. When Sir Wilfred Mowbray passed away five years ago, agriculture lost a great innovator. Amy had grieved over a man more mentor than husband.

Her marriage had been her choice, but on this dismal day, she couldn’t help thinking life should hold more than cattle breeding and crop rotation. And she’d never thought that before.

“Kerenza enjoys seeing her cousins.” Sally sat next to Morwenna. “I know you miss Robert, but you’re lucky to have a daughter to love.”

“Yes, she’s a darling. I wish Robert had known he had a child. She’s so like him.”

“And becoming more so,” Amy said. The whole family found a measure of consolation in Robert’s bright, pretty daughter.

“I would dearly have loved children,” Sally said in a muffled voice, her mobile features uncharacteristically somber. She placed her teacup on the tray, and Amy was distressed to see that her hand trembled. “But God didn’t see fit to bless me.”

“I’m sorry,” Morwenna said gently.

Sally shook her head. “Ten years of marriage, and no sign of a baby. Lord Norwood bore his disappointment bravely.”

But nevertheless made that disappointment felt, Amy guessed.

“You could marry again, Sally,” Morwenna said.

Amy saw Sally hide a shudder, confirming her vague impression that the Norwood marriage had been unhappy. She was curious, but even she, renowned for her tactlessness, couldn’t ask a woman she hardly knew for intimate details. More was the pity. She had an inkling she and Sally might end up friends.

“No, thank you. I’m too old to take a man’s orders, or change my ways to fit another person.”

Morwenna struggled for a real smile. Amy almost wished she wouldn’t. The effort involved made even someone watching feel tired. “But if you want children…”

Sally’s shrug didn’t mask her regret. “I have nieces and nephews. In fact, I’m going to bring my niece Meg out in London next season. I intend to dive into the social whirl and enjoy myself as much as a woman of my advanced years may.”

To Amy’s surprise, Morwenna gave a derisive snort that sounded like the vital girl Robert had married, rather than the wraith of recent years. “Only if your arthritis permits, you poor decrepit thing.”

Reluctant humor tugged at Sally’s lips. “Well, I’m no longer a giddy girl. Not that I had much chance to kick up my heels. My parents married me off at seventeen.”

“And now you’re only thirty,” Morwenna said, showing more spirit than Amy had seen in ages. “Why not have some fun?”

“You’re a great one to talk,” Amy said, before she remembered that Morwenna needed delicate handling.

Morwenna paled, and her animation faded. “It’s different for me.”

“No, it’s not,” Amy said, justifying her reputation for blundering in where angels feared to tread, but unable to stay quiet. “I loved my brother, but you’ve mourned him for four years. He wouldn’t want you moping around for the rest of your life. Why don’t you go to London with Sally?”

As Morwenna frowned over what she clearly considered an outlandish suggestion, Sally clapped her hands together with enthusiasm. “Why don’t you? I’d love a friend to go about with. Meg is a capable, sensible girl and won’t need me hovering.”

Morwenna glared at Amy. “And what about you?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You spend so much time stomping through your muddy fields that turnips are practically growing out of your hair—which, by the way, could do with some attention. As could your wardrobe.”

Amy backed away until her hips bumped into the windowsill. “We’re not talking about me.”

“Yes, we are.” Morwenna turned to Sally. “Amy could be really pretty if she made an effort and wore something apart from rags a beggar woman would disdain to put on her back.”

“That’s unfair,” Amy protested, even as she reluctantly admitted that her dress today might deserve the criticism.

“Is it?” Morwenna’s glance was scornful. “Did you find today’s monstrosity in the back of a cupboard? Or did you steal it from the housemaids before they could use it as a duster?”

Amy flushed and shot Morwenna an annoyed look. “I think I prefer you cowed and miserable.”

“You could come to London, too, Amy,” Sally said calmly. “I’d love to introduce you to my modiste and show you off at some parties. Morwenna’s right. You’re a pretty girl.”

Amy was already shaking her head. “I won’t fit into society.”

“How do you know?” Morwenna said.

“I had a season, and I didn’t take.” Amy decided to go on the attack. “Anyway, why should I break out of my comfortable little rut when you won’t?”

Morwenna’s chin set in unexpected stubbornness. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t.”

Sally looked startled, then pleased. “So you’ll come?”

“Only if Amy does.”

Sally’s expression turned thoughtful. “I was talking to Fenella and Helena last night. They told me that once they came out of mourning for their first husbands, they formed a club called the Dashing Widows and set out to turn London on its ear.”

Amy had long been familiar with the story. Eight years ago, her sister Helena, her sister-in-law Caroline, and their dear friend Fenella had cast aside old sorrows and danced and flirted their way into happy marriages. “It wasn’t a club. It was more a…a pact.”

“Can’t we make such a pact?” Sally spread her hands. “I’m sure we three can be Dashing Widows, too, if we put our minds to it.”

“I’m not particularly dashing, and I’ve got nothing to wear,” Amy said, amazed at her spurt of disappointment. Perhaps her mood this morning hinted at a malaise deeper than temporary restlessness.

Sally stood in front of her and subjected her to a thorough and dispassionate examination. “You know, with the right clothes, and a bit more confidence, you could really shine.”

A painful blush heated Amy’s cheeks, and she shifted from one foot to the other. With her mop of tawny hair and dominating Nash nose, not to mention the fact that she’d always been far more interested in cattle than flirting, she’d never felt comfortable in society. She looked like her brother Silas, but unfortunately the quirky features that made him a draw for the ladies only turned her into an oddity. “I made a complete shambles of my season.”

Morwenna came to stand beside Sally and conducted her own inspection, just as comprehensive. “That was years ago, and you didn’t have Sally to help you.”

“And you,” Sally said.

Morwenna smiled. “And me.”

Morwenna looked more alive than she had since receiving the news of Robert’s death. Amy dearly loved her sister-in-law and couldn’t bear to think of her languishing in a dark pit of grief all her life. Amy had never been in love—although when she was fourteen, she’d harbored a violent fit of puppy love for Lord Pascal, widely considered London’s handsomest man. Which made her adolescent interest a complete joke, given the graceless ragamuffin she’d been.

But she knew about love. It surrounded her—Silas and Caro, Helena and Vernon, her parents who had died together ten years ago in a carriage accident outside Naples. She didn’t discount love’s power to create joy.

Morwenna had suffered enough. Now she deserved new happiness. If that meant that Amy had to hang up her farm boots and put on her dancing slippers, she’d do it.

“You’ll have your work cut out for you,” she said drily.

Sally frowned. “No more of that talk. By the time I’ve finished with you, you’re going to dazzle the ton. We’ll tame that wild mane of hair and dress you in something bright that shows off your splendid figure. By heaven, you’ll be the toast of Mayfair.”

How extraordinary. Within minutes, she and Sally had gone from acquaintances to co-conspirators. At Warrington Court, Amy inhabited a largely masculine world. She wasn’t used to cozy chats with other women. Especially cozy chats about fripperies like clothes and hair.

“So we’re doing this?” She looked past Sally to Morwenna.

Amy was afraid of facing those critical crowds again, but also strangely excited. This felt like a new challenge, and she realized she badly needed one.

Morwenna straightened and met her eyes. Amy was used to seeing endless grief there. Now she caught a glimpse of something that looked like hope. If so, she didn’t care if the fashionable multitudes shunned her.

Anything was worth it, if Morwenna came back to life.

“Yes,” Morwenna said unhesitatingly.

Sally caught Amy and Morwenna’s hands and laughed. “Then I hereby declare the return of the Dashing Widows. Watch out, London. We’re on our way.”

Chapter One

Sometimes 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 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 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.