“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.