Authors: Cat Lindler
As she plied her fan with vigor, she longed to slip out of the trappings of Polite Society to soak in a tub of cool water. On the other hand, perhaps a dip in the creek out back would serve were she able to steal away from her father’s supervision.
Emma Richardson, a voluptuous red-haired beauty and Willa’s closest friend, shared Willa’s corner among the potted ferns. Emma’s father, Continental General Richard Richardson, passed away a month earlier after being taken prisoner by the British and falling ill while in captivity. Emma was officially in mourning, but the normal restrictions of Society held little sway over a wartime population that relished entertainments as a rare treat to be enjoyed by all.
Nonetheless, Willa noted the censorious looks directed at her and Emma. Politics mattered more than proprieties. The entrenched British took umbrage at amiable relations between Tory planters and their rebel neighbors. But ‘twas a common situation and unlikely to change. Willa had few close female acquaintances, and her father had welcomed Emma into his home. The two fathers—Loyalist colonel and rebel general—had taken opposite sides in the war, but Colonel Bellingham enjoyed a true liking and respect for Richard Richardson. They had maintained a close friendship before civil war tore them apart.
“I confess, ‘tis all too exciting,” Emma droned on at Willa’s side. Despite Willa’s discomfort, Emma appeared to suffer little from the sultry atmosphere and restrictive clothing. “Imagine being betrothed for your entire life and knowing naught about it until last week.”
“I would rather forget about it, if you do not mind,” Willa muttered while keeping an eye on her stepmother garbed in cloth of gold and looking like a princess as she danced with a dapper Major Digby. Willa looked down at her soiled, wrinkled dress and pursed her lips. Jwana had turned her out in fine form, but her social polish always seemed to unravel as quickly and easily as a poorly knit sweater. Another of Marlene’s many criticisms. Willa would never hold a candle to her stepmother.
“And betrothed to a major in the British Regulars, a cavalry officer and a baron,” Emma ran on unabated. “How thrilling. Why, you will be a baroness soon and doubtless take residence in a castle.”
Willa turned her head to gape at her friend. “What a ridiculous notion, Emma. Most peers, barons in particular, do not reside in castles. Should Montford own such a structure, ‘tis bound to be a crumbling ruin on an isolated moor. Why else would a peer join the military when England is at war? He needed the coin. I assure you, the baron is as poor as a church mouse and too homely by half.”
Emma paid scant attention to Willa’s disparagement of the baron. “I must admit I find it all so … so quixotic. A dashing cavalry officer, a nobleman, no less, has arrived to sweep you away on a white charger.”
Willa released an unladylike snort and fanned herself more vigorously. “Your delusions result from having read too many romantical novels. I have no expectation or desire that anyone, much less Lord Montford, should sweep me away on anything. And before you grow overly enamored of the baron’s imagined charms, understand this: I have no intention of going through with this farce. The baron will be obliged to seek another wealthy wife to bear his noble brats.”
Emma gasped. “But your father already posted the notices of your engagement and let it be known to all his acquaintances that you will wed. Surely you’ll not dare to defy him? The colonel arranged this ball to introduce you to your fiancé, and the formal betrothal will be announced tonight.” Before Willa could disabuse her friend of that absurd idea, a man entering the ballroom drew Emma’s eye. She sighed and fluttered her fan. A flush of color rose to her pale, powdered face.
The black footman at the doorway announced the new arrival. “Lieutenant Colonel Banastre Tarleton.”
“Do you not find him dreamy?” Emma said in a wistful tone. “Would he only direct his attentions my way.”
Willa examined the tall, slim colonel. Like Major Digby, Banastre Tarleton was striking in a pretty way that seemed nearly obscene. Another prime example of that detestable breed—a dandified gentleman. He was whipcord lean. His regimental riding breeches were as snowy as the impeccable bag wig covering his blond hair. A forest-green coat, the badge of the Legion of Green Dragoons, brass buttons shiny, medals polished and arrayed across his chest, stretched tight and molded to his broad shoulders. Boots rising to the knee, so glossy they reflected the candle glow in a blinding glare, encased his muscular calves. His thin face and full lips held a familiar, condescending sneer.
In addition to his status as a dandy, Willa deplored Tarleton for living up to his reputation as a rake and a cruel commander. He relished feminine attention as much as he embraced his nickname, “Butcher,” which he earned by allowing his legion to massacre a rebel troop under the white flag. She scorned him for his haughtiness and his infamous forays into the countryside to burn out planters who refused to swear allegiance to the Crown. She considered herself an ardent Tory. Even so, she had numerous friends amongst the planter families. Lately, some of her women acquaintances suffered from poor treatment by Tarleton’s troops. As much as Willa greatly desired for Britain to win the war of rebellion, she had no liking or tolerance for the inhumane tactics employed by Tarleton and his men. Only a man insecure in his own masculinity stooped to despoil a defenseless woman. Willa pointedly cut him when he looked in her direction, though she knew his gaze rested on Emma, not on her.
“Mark my words,” Willa cautioned her friend. “You have no desire to be the object of Bloody Ban’s pursuit. He may turn a pretty leg, but he has sampled the favors of every loose woman from Georgetown to Charles Town. In fact, last week he boasted he killed more men and bedded more women than any other man in America. Should you care at all for your virginity and want to avoid the pox, you’ll not dare to spark his interest.”
“Willa,” Emma sputtered, applying her fan furiously. “I vow, such scandalous talk. Your father would have apoplexy to hear you speak so boldly.” But her amused expression showed less shock than her words indicated. With a sigh and obvious reluctance, she turned her gaze away from Tarleton. “I wonder when your betrothed will arrive. Then, the night is still young. I suppose ‘tis fashionable for a peer to make a late entrance.”
“Better never than late,” Willa quipped.
Emma laughed. “I do believe I have no other friends as outrageous as you. I daresay I enjoy your company immeasurably because of your honesty and outspoken opinions. I always find your spirit refreshingly delicious, though I should never dream of being so courageous.”
An hour later, while Willa and Emma sipped tepid punch and Willa considered disappearing into the garden in search of a breeze, the footman’s voice bellowed over the throng. “Major Aidan Sinclair, the Right Honorable Lord Montford.” A hush fell over the room, and every eye gravitated to the portal at the top of the stairs.
Emma clutched Willa’s arm, jarring the cup of punch in her hand. It spilled over her glove and sent a wide red stream down the front of her satin skirt. “Good heavens, Emma!” She wiped at the stain with her handkerchief. “Look at what you have done. Perspiration has splotched my gown, powder is melting on my face, my wig is askew, and now I look as if I took a swim in the punch bowl.”
“Never mind that. You have a more pressing problem.” Emma’s fingers almost bruised Willa’s arm. “Your fiancé has arrived. Look.” She pointed with her fan.
Willa’s hand froze, the handkerchief and stain forgotten in her curiosity over the note of caution in Emma’s voice. She directed her gaze to the back of the man approaching her father. He was large, no, in truth, massive seemed a more apt description, like a hundred-year-old cypress tree. Instead of wearing his uniform, which was the custom in wartime Georgetown, he sported a plum satin jacket. Lime-green silk knee-britches fit trunk-like legs as snugly as a second skin. Blinding yellow stockings with cherryred stripes met his britches at the knee. Mountains of lace circled a thick neck and dripped from wide sleeves. Shiny ruby-red shoes with high heels adorned enormous feet. The most elaborately coiffed wig she could have imagined existed covered his head and, of all things, was a bilious shade of pink. He embodied every woman’s walking nightmare, hers in particular. She pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
Colonel Bellingham appeared taken aback by the colorful apparition bowing at the waist before him. But he quickly recalled his manners and returned the greeting. Then frantically searching over the heads of the crush, he located Willa and beckoned. She exchanged a helpless glance with Emma. Her friend, at last, was speechless. Waving her fan back and forth slowly, Emma stared openmouthed at the baron.
Willa pushed through the press of bodies and made her way to her father. Her lips twitched with ill-concealed amusement. Or was it revulsion? When she gained his side, Bellingham sent her a stern look and reached out to grasp her fingers in a strong grip, wordlessly warning her to behave. “My dear, may I introduce you to Lord Montford.” He turned to the fop. “My lord, I present to you my daughter, Lady Wilhelmina.”
Montford arched a thick, dark eyebrow, the size and shape of a wooly caterpillar, and clasped Willa’s fingers when she presented them. He sketched a bow and placed so wet a kiss on the back of her hand she felt the dampness through her glove. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Wilhelmina,” he uttered in a nasal, whining tone and pommy British accent. Sickly sweet perfume wafted from his oversized body and enveloped Willa in a noxious cloud.
She snatched back her hand as if covered in dog drool, wiped it on her skirt, and dared to lift her gaze to her fiancé. Up close, Montford was even more appalling. Such an immense display of lace covered his chest she had difficulty determining whether its width was natural or an artifact of his clothing. A bright blue sash cut across the lace from one shoulder to his waist. It added but one more color to all the hues of the rainbow. Her head reached no higher than his collarbone, and she tilted back her head to take in the entire view of his sartorial splendor. His hair soared to such a great height she feared it would catch fire from the candles in the chandeliers overhead. She experienced a vision of feather-singed birds nesting in the concoction and feigned a cough to disguise her bark of laughter.
Powder coated the baron’s face in a thick mask. Had he not been standing upright, she would vow he was a corpse. Bright red rouged lips and cheeks, and a black patch, in the shape of a heart, perched at one corner of his wide mouth. He had a monocle scrunched into one eye and a thick gold chain attaching it to his coat lapel. When he gave Willa an assessing look through a watery, mouse-gray eye, the magnifying glass made the orb look twice as large as its partner.
An involuntary smile spread across Willa’s lips. Disposing of Lord Montford would prove easier than she imagined. Surely her father would withdraw his insistence that she marry this man, if that was what he truly was. She would win her freedom.
The voices swelled to a clamor as the guests eyed the baron askance and whispered among themselves. His complexion turning a dull red, Bellingham cleared his throat and picked up a fork from the buffet table. He clinked it against the champagne glass held in his hand until the crowd quieted. “Friends, it gladdens my heart that you elected to join us on this joyous occasion.” His words soared across the hushed ballroom. “With great pleasure I announce the engagement of my daughter, Lady Wilhelmina, to Lord Montford.”
The applause at first was sporadic and a trifle restrained. When Bellingham scowled, it rose to an acceptable level. He sent his guests a strained smile and waved his hand at the waiting orchestra. They immediately broke into a minuet. The stately court dance had waned in popularity in Europe but still held preeminence in American ballrooms.
Elbow jutting to the side, wrist limp, Montford held out his gloved hand. “May I have the pleasure of this dance, Lady Wilhelmina?”
She remained stiff as a stick of wood with a sickly smile sitting on her lips until her father nudged her in the back. Moving to the baron’s side, she placed her hand, complete with red punch stain, on top of his. He gazed down at the soiled glove, made a moue of disapproval, and accorded her a tight-lipped smile. When she rolled her eyes, he blinked, and his mouth twitched. For a second he appeared nearly human. Then he led her forward into the open space created as the other guests moved aside.
Montford turned to her and bowed. The lacy handkerchief dangling from the fingers of his free hand swept the polished pine floor as he dipped so low his towering wig threatened to topple to the boards. He hastily straightened and shook his head, like a cockerel smoothing ruffled feathers, until the monstrosity settled back down. Willa curtsied and lowered her head. She was unable to stifle her giggle or the trembling of her shoulders.
Tarleton, with a buxom blonde in tow, as well as Emma, escorted by a planter’s son, moved into place behind them. The other dancers followed suit, drifting out and lining up. Tarleton wore a sneer, now exaggerated as he viewed Ford’s wardrobe with distaste. Emma still had a stunned expression on her face.
“You are in fine looks this evening,” Montford said as he led Willa through the promenade. “You always take such care with your person, I daresay?”
She accepted his comment for the insult it was. Her return look, dark with hostility, encountered his perusal through the quizzing glass. “You are too kind, sir. I feel I must return the compliment. Your looks are truly beyond compare. I have not seen such a display of splendor since I attended the King’s Birthday Jubilee when but a child. And at the time, I vow I was near blinded by the fireworks.”
The baron simpered and twirled her through a turn. “I find, my dear, that one’s appearance is often a reflection of their inner character. I do so ascribe to the adage that what one sees is what one gets. And what one presents to the world is an indication of future compatibility, do you not concur?” He turned his watery eye on her again.