Catching Captain Nash (Dashing Widows #6)(45)

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.