“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 three 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. Even just watching it, the effort involved made her 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 three 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 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 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 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-do
ubt. 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.”
Charming Sir Charles (Dashing Widows Book 5) Page 14
