Pursuing Lord Pascal (Dashing Widows 4)

“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.

Chapter Two

Pasca

l 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.