Authors: Cat Lindler
She pursed her lips. “Indeed. Future compatibility aside, what one gets may not be what one needs or desires. I often found it ill-advised to pine over a piece of bright candy one knows will make them sick, even unto death.”
He seemed to ponder her statement. She took the pause as an opportunity to jump back in. “And what of your trip to America, my lord? Have you found it meets your expectations?”
The baron snorted. “Suffice it to say, madam, I can envision no greater misery than being obliged to remain in this uncivilized backwater among all manner of country bumpkins. Should I desire to rusticate, I would seek out my estate in Kent. Of course, I seldom find it necessary to leave London, which offers myriad refined entertainments for those of a more sophisticated nature.” He expelled a dramatic sigh. “Nonetheless, I fear duty to King and Country dictates my participation in this dreadful scrabble. But have no concern on my behalf. I have no doubt we shall whip the rabble into shape before I run out of clean linen.”
He turned his head to look down at her. A supercilious smile lifted his rouged lips. “And what of you, madam, do you also long for more civilized company?”
At this moment, I do.
Her rancor at his diatribe against her adopted country and friends threatened to spill from her mouth in a blistering tirade. Voices and the swish of other bodies around them brought her to her senses. However, should she continue this conversation, she would create a scene that would run the gossip mill for months. She simpered at him. “I beg your pardon, my lord. I must confess I find it impossible to pay attention to the dance steps and engage in conversation simultaneously.”
He wrinkled his nose, and the creases in his powdered face deepened. “I must say, how very odd.”
She curved her mouth in a wry smile. “Yes, well, there you have it. I fear we uncivilized country bumpkins are less adept at court manners than true Englishmen.” She pulled free of his hand to circle around the line.
The dance became an endless exercise in torture as the baron minced and capered beside a much subdued Willa. His flamboyant gestures drew attention to them, as if anyone were able to avert their gaze from the baron’s outlandish clothing and embarrassing movements. Willa felt like a circus performer, failing the impossible task of restraining the dancing bear beside her. Her carefully crafted composure cracked, and she simmered as she suffered through the pitying glances of her friends and neighbors, upon which the dance ended.
When Montford extended his elbow to escort her to her father, she presented her back and stalked off the floor alone. Crossing the room, she exited out the French doors into the garden. There she halted and took in a breath of cleansing air. Not only did she burn with mortification, but the cowhanded oaf had tromped on her feet no less than six times, very nearly crushing her toes in their delicate slippers. Moreover, the clodpate’s overpowering scent stuffed up her nose and provoked her head to spin. Her stomach twisted with a sickening lurch, and she felt as if she might heave at any moment.
Willa gradually became aware of her father’s voice calling her, and she moved farther into the garden, away from the light spilling out through the windows and doors, desperate to get away. Should she be forced to confront Lord Montford again tonight, she doubted she could refrain from strangling him with his pink wig. She slipped with haste into the night’s solitude, sped past blooming azaleas and camellias, through stands of redbud and pink dogwood, and made for the creek.
Ford followed Willa outside on instructions from her father, who expressed fear for his daughter’s safety in the deserted garden. Privately, Ford suspected Bellingham had greater concern for the girl’s mood and intentions after meeting her future bridegroom.
Hell’s teeth,
but the girl was a catastrophe. Between her straggly wig, stained skirt, perspiration-spotted bodice, and streaked, powdered face, she brought to mind a wren that emerged the loser in a scuffle with a hawk. He relied on Marion’s promise and thanked God he would not be bound to carry through with the marriage.
The girl’s reaction of disgust to the outrageous figure he presented was exactly as he planned. His borrowed clothing served its purpose. He was certain to win the time to complete his duties to the patriot cause. Miss Bellingham would delay their wedding for as long as possible, of that he had no doubt. That is to say, should her father even go so far as to consider continuing with this debacle. Were he the chit’s father, he would bloody well reject a court jester as a son-in-law. He mentally blessed the Frenchman, Count d’Estaing, a friend of the general’s, for providing him with his costume.
Trailing the gleam of blue satin through the garden and trees and across a meadow, he halted at the bubbling of a creek behind a screen of willows and live oaks. When he caught sight of Wilhelmina, she stood on the creek bank, struggling with the hooks of her gown. He had a sudden impulse to offer his assistance but managed to quell the urge.
Ford ducked beneath a convenient willow and leaned against the trunk. Crossing his arms over his chest, he kept watch while she disrobed. His eyes widened when he divined her ultimate purpose. To all accounts she planned to strip down to her skin out here in the open where anyone could come across her. If this was an example of her normal behavior, no wonder her father betrothed her to a stranger. To his surprise, he experienced a tug of protectiveness toward the harebrained twit.
When she discarded her wig in a less-than-ladylike way, drop-kicking it into the bushes, Ford smiled. He noted her hair was dark, like her brown eyes, and sheared off short to below her chin. It fell as straight and limp as a horse’s tail. He wondered whether she’d been ill, as most young women he knew would gladly give up a body part rather than cut their hair to such an unflattering length.
The half moon limned a slim body, but not as thin as he had supposed from his first impression. High pert breasts rose above a tiny waist, a modest swell of hips, and long, lean legs. Climbing onto a log, she stilled, poised like a pagan, arms raised in worship to the moon, before diving into the pond. The splash, as her body met the water, caused him to drag in a draught of air. He realized he had stopped breathing at some point. His groin stirred—an unwelcome but not unexpected reaction to a good deal of bared feminine flesh.
“Sweet Jesus,” he muttered beneath his breath and lowered his hand to shift his swelling cock to a more comfortable position in the tight silk britches.
A nudge of recognition had goaded him when he first faced Lady Wilhelmina in the ballroom. Now in an acknowledged appreciation of her hidden beauty, he knew he could not have forgotten this girl had they met at some time in the past. He pressed his lips together and suffered another surge of lust while he followed her movements. She streaked through the water like a porpoise. Tantalizing bits of bare skin broke the surface on occasion and transformed his uncomfortable condition into acute pain. He could not help but think it a shame he would never see her this way again. He had put her to the hounds tonight and had every intention of making sure she ran fast and far. No matter how alluring she appeared when stripped of her finery, he had no aspiration to become enamored of a Tory wench.
While he watched over her in silence, she swam to the shore and collected her clothes. She dropped her chemise over her nakedness, and like a fairy spirit, vanished into the night toward the rear of the house. Ford threw one last regretful glance at her pale, retreating figure, emerged from beneath the willow, and made his way back to the ballroom. One guest yet remained for him to meet, and Ford was anxious to make his acquaintance. That man was Banastre Tarleton, the British officer who had taken up the task of bringing in Francis Marion’s head.
The halls of Willowbend trembled with the war being waged on the morning following the ball. Servants tiptoed past the study, stopping on occasion to press a curious ear against the walnut doors and exchange knowing glances. The hullabaloo culminated in Willa’s shouted threat to throw herself into the ocean should the colonel force her to marry Baron Montford. Marlene sat by the fireplace throughout the scene, a piece of untouched embroidery in her lap. Her stepmother added not a word to fuel the row. Nonetheless, Willa felt the animosity the woman emitted like the strong odor of rotting fruit.
“For pity’s sake. How can you still expect me to marry him?” Willa yelled as she tramped back and forth between the bookcase and the windows. Her arms refused to remain still and punctuated every word with sharp gestures. “You did see him, did you not? You had conversation with him, I presume. You cannot possibly fail to admit the man is a bloody, preening, bumbling peacock.”
Colonel Bellingham speared shaky fingers through his iron-gray hair and forced down a swallow of tonic Cook had prepared for him. “Very succinctly put, Willa. But you have no need to raise your voice. I’m capable of hearing you perfectly well. You may consider me blind on the subject of Lord Montford, but I assure you I am far from deaf.” He grimaced and gave her a pained frown while motioning to a chair. “And would you kindly seat yourself? Your incessant pacing is making me queasy.”
She reached the windows and turned on a slippered heel. Her shoulders shook with the force of her agitation. “I cannot help myself. I have no inclination to sit quietly like a demure daughter with my hands folded in my lap while you proceed to destroy my life. I’m bloody well distraught!”
“That is exceedingly clear,” he said dryly. “Would you be so kind as to follow along, I shall attempt to interject some logic. I do concede that Lord Montford presents a trifle … unique appearance. On that we are of the same mind. But his wardrobe has no bearing on this discussion. You cannot condemn a man simply because he is overly fashionable.”
She halted at the bookcase, pivoted about, and sent him a look of astonishment. “Overly fashionable? He is quite beyond overly fashionable. He is the bloody emperor of bad fashion, a popinjay, a dandy, a fop, a coxcomb, a cock-robin, not to mention clumsy, and pompous, and … and too ludicrous for mere words. I tell you again, I’ll not marry him. I know full well I could never love a man like that.”
Bellingham’s bushy brows soared. “Love? What has love to do with marriage? Marriage is contracted for practical purposes—land, position, security, and children. For that precise reason, these arrangements are best left in the hands of parents who can detach themselves from such frivolous notions as love.”
Silence fell like Lucifer from heaven.
Tears formed at the back of Willa’s throat, and she struggled to swallow them. “Do I understand you to mean you had no love for Mama?”
He lifted a fist to his mouth, belched from the effects of the tonic, and tugged at his cravat with his other hand as though the cloth strangled him. “As I informed you once before, your mother and I had no knowledge of each other prior to wedding. I had scant expectation of finding love in our union. I feel confident your mother had no such romantic notions, either. She and I suited as well as any couple. We learned to deal well, and after a respectable amount of time, developed fond feelings. You must realize that love comes with time. ‘Tis not a guaranteed commodity, and well you know it. Compatibility is all one can reasonably expect.”
She threw a pointed glance toward Marlene, who looked up, as subtly serene as a coiled rattlesnake. “Is that a fact? What about your marriage to
her?
Does it also qualify as an alliance for practical reasons?”
“Willa,” her father said sharply as he shot to his feet. “Now you forget your place. My relationship with your stepmother is none of your concern.”
Willa balled her hands and clashed eyes with the colonel. “I’ll not marry without love. I have no intention of spending my life with a man for whom I have no love or respect. I cannot imagine my days filled with no feeling other than … companionship. The man I marry will be noble and kind and giving, not a high-nosed toff in a silk coat and tight knee-britches with whom I have nothing in common.”
He braced his hands on the desk and returned her steady gaze. “Might I inquire as to how you ascertained young Lord Montford’s lack of those qualities you seek?” He rounded the desk and walked toward her. “Hmm? You based your opinion on a sole meeting, which consisted of one dance, did you not?”
She frowned and veiled her eyes behind lowered lashes. Trust her father to confuse the issue with facts. “I suppose so, but you must admit Lord Montford makes a decidedly poor first impression.”
“Indeed, Willa. I concede your point.” He smiled and rested his hands on her shoulders. “Let us just say the baron could benefit from a measure of assistance in polishing his social skills … and his wardrobe. He most assuredly comes with faults, as do we all. None of us is perfect. I trust you will reserve your final judgment until you take the chance to know him better.”
Her head came up. “Do you mean what I understand you to mean? Should I allow the baron to court me and, after a time, still believe him to be a buffoon, you will call off the betrothal?”
He sighed, dropped his hands, and walked to the side table to pour a glass of brandy. “After a reasonable time, should you continue to feel this way, I shall reconsider. I should not be keen to force an unwilling bride on Baron Montford.”
Willa grinned.
As though he read her mind, Bellingham swung around and gestured with the brandy glass. “But let us understand one another,” he said. “I shall consider an annulment only should Lord Montford express a desire to break the betrothal. You’ll not cry off. And you must vow to give this matter your best effort. You’ll not put off Lord Montford nor attempt in any way to influence his suit. I shall have your promise.”
“You have my word on it, Papa,” she said, her grin drooping a bit. But surely she could manipulate the outcome to her satisfaction. “I shall accord his lordship every opportunity to impress me.” She had gained the concession she sought. She merely had to tolerate Montford’s odious company while she devised a scheme that would convince him to break the betrothal. She had no illusions her baron could transform from a frog into the prince she dreamt about. Once a frog, always a frog. He would reveal his warts for all to see, and even her father would soon admit this marriage was not the best of inspirations. Meanwhile, in between the detestable calls she would be forced to endure, she could find solitude and peace in the swamps and continue her search for Marion’s hideout.