Pursuing Lord Pascal (Dashing Widows 4)

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.