Pursuing Lord Pascal (3 page)

“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 Park, 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 nearly 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?”

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.

Pascal started his campaign the next
afternoon. Last night’s two dances had only whetted his curiosity
about the new arrival to London. In between, he’d managed to find
out what little society knew about the beguiling Lady Mowbray.

The lady was a widow, and now he understood
that nagging feeling of familiarity. She was Silas Nash, Lord
Stone’s youngest sister. The Nashes were a famously clever
family.

And Pascal’s luck held beyond her brains and
lack of an encumbering spouse. It seemed there was money.
Unusually, most of the late Sir Wilfred Mowbray’s property hadn’t
been entailed on his next male heir, but left to his young widow.
With a generous portion from her Nash relatives, this lovely woman
was nicely plump in the pocket.

Perhaps Pascal needn’t marry a dimwitted
heiress to restore the Dacre fortunes after all.

He’d also learned that she was staying with
Sally in Half Moon Street. Which explained why he was currently
standing on the elegant front steps of Norwood House.

The butler showed him to the drawing room and
left to ascertain if Lady Mowbray was at home. The room was crammed
with bouquets, and if only a fraction were for Lady Mowbray, it was
clear that he had competition. Even as he waited, footmen carried
in at least another half dozen.

Etiquette limited a partner who was neither
husband nor betrothed to two dances at a party. So last night,
Pascal had watched as she’d danced every set, apart from his two,
with one or another of London’s fashionable numskulls. Most of whom
he counted as his friends.

Now he scowled at the riot of color
surrounding him. He restrained the urge to gather up every last
flower, whoever they were meant for, and toss the lot into the
street.

He possessed enough self-awareness to be
surprised at his jealousy.

Lady Mowbray entered with the resolute strut
he’d noticed last night. Most girls were taught to prance and
mince, but Lady Mowbray, who wasn’t much past girlhood, despite
being a widow, stalked into a room as if she knew where she was
going, and meant to get there sooner rather than later. After ten
years of society poppets, he liked how she moved.

“Lord Pascal, how lovely of you to call.” The
thick mane of leonine hair was caught up in a loose knot that made
his fingers itch to undo it. She wore some floaty thing,
embroidered with daisies and violets on white muslin.

His pulse hadn’t raced at the sight of a
woman since his first season, when he’d learned he was far more
likely to be the pursued rather than the pursuer. But when he saw
Lady Mowbray, his heart performed an unaccustomed skip. He felt a
sudden urge to go on his knees and thank her for rescuing him from
a miserable marriage with a silly, giggling chit straight out of
the schoolroom.

Pascal caught the hand she extended and bent
over it. A less devious man might risk a kiss, but he played a
subtle game. A game he’d started so often that it had begun to
pall. London’s handsomest man rarely failed when he set out after a
woman.

Another surprise today. With Lady Mowbray,
the game seemed intriguing and new.

“I’m astonished you can see me amongst all
these floral tributes.” It was an effort to keep the sourness from
his tone.

She glanced around with a smile. “They’re
throughout the house.”

“You made a triumph last night.”

Pascal considered himself too jaded to find a
woman’s blush charming. But the pink coloring Lady Mowbray’s creamy
skin beguiled him.

“They’re not all for me. Lady Norwood’s niece
made a pleasing impression. And of course, Sally and Morwenna are
lovely.”

“They are. But the night belonged to
you.”

She tugged her hand free—he’d been in no
hurry to release her—and fluttered her fingers in an unexpectedly
dismissive gesture. One might imagine she wasn’t used to
compliments. “You’re too kind. By the way, thank you for your
lovely pink roses.”

He dipped his head in a brief bow. “I’m glad
you like them.” He searched the room without seeing them. Were they
somewhere else or, God forbid, had she thrown them out? “I called
to see if you’d like to come driving. A lady who has made such a
splash should confirm her conquest by gracing Hyde Park at the
fashionable hour.”