Kiss of a Traitor

by Cat Lindler

  “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.

  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 expec
tations?”

  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.

  Chapter 5

  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.