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 Grange, 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
* * *
Raynor House, Mayfair, March 1829
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 re
minded 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 woman 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 last
ed 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.
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