The Tempestuous Debutante: Book 4 in the Cotillion Ball Series (Crimson Romance)

by Lower, Becky

  The Tempestuous Debutante

  Becky Lower

  Avon, Massachusetts

  This edition published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, Ohio 45242

  www.crimsonromance.com

  Copyright © 2013 by Becky Louise Lower

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-6875-8

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6875-6

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-6876-6

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6876-3

  Cover art © istockphoto.com/RetroAtelier

  For Mom and Dad

  You are missed, every day.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  About The Author

  More from This Author

  Also Available

  Author’s Note

  The decade leading up to the Civil War was one of great advancement on many fronts. The Women’s Suffrage Movement was making rapid strides, but would soon take a back seat to the abolitionist movement as the Civil War loomed on the horizon. But in this decade, many small businesses emerged on the streets of New York, and in some cases, were operated by women who were trying to create the American dream. I used this backdrop to find an artistic outlet for Jasmine, and I was inspired by a visit to The Western Reserve Historical Society in Cleveland, Ohio. On display was a collection of wedding gowns from the 1830s through the 1990s, including their signature piece; a jaw-dropping gown by the esteemed designer, Charles Frederick Worth, who was the Father of Haute Couture, at the height of his acclaim from the late 1850s through the 1890s.

  Chapter One

  New York City, January 1857

  This was it.

  The one.

  The dress that — with a few of her embellishments — would make her, Jasmine Fitzpatrick, the belle of the cotillion ball.

  Of course, after last season’s debacle, she’d need all the help she could get.

  Jasmine picked up her copy of Godey’s Lady’s Book and bounced down the staircase of the family brownstone, stopping at the first-floor landing to take a deep breath. Today was the day she would confront her parents. Each time she had tried to broach the subject of the ball during the past couple weeks, they had studiously avoided it or given her excuses about needing to cut out extraneous expenses. Her mother had even cancelled a planned shopping trip for the two of them last week. But time was growing short. After all, the ball was only three months away.

  She moved from the hallway to the front parlor, where her parents usually relaxed on a Saturday afternoon. Her mother, Charlotte, was sitting on the loveseat and stitching a piece of embroidery while Jasmine’s father, George, sat nearby in a tan leather chair, reading his daily newspaper. There was a low buzz of conversation between them that Jasmine couldn’t quite make out, but she did catch an expression of worry on her mother’s face. Undeterred, she plunged into the room, waving the fashion book.

  “Look what I just found! The perfect debutante gown for the cotillion ball in April. Look, Mother. Don’t you think it’s delightful? Or at least it will be when I add some glass beads to catch the light, and maybe some lace trim … ” She laid the open book in her mother’s lap and then took a seat opposite them.

  Jasmine caught the quick wrinkling of her father’s brow and began to get an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Something was not right.

  Her mother ran a hand down the front of her throat. “We were just talking about the upcoming season, dear.”

  Jasmine let out the breath she’d been holding. “Well, good. We’re thinking along the same lines, then. It’s imperative we begin assembling my wardrobe, and I need to get some new slippers to replace the treacherous ones Monsieur Louboutin made for me last year.”

  Her mother reached over and patted Jasmine’s hand. “We may both have had the same topic on our minds, but we are definitely not thinking along the same lines. To begin with, you don’t need a white debutante gown, since you were introduced to society last year.”

  Jasmine’s uneasy stomach turned over. “But … but … no!” She leapt to her feet and began to pace the room. “I was a debutante for all of fifteen minutes last season, before I fell and broke my ankle. I demand to start over. There are other nineteen-year-olds who are among those to be introduced this year.”

  Jasmine sensed moisture beginning to form at the back of her eyes. Two fat tears slid down her smooth cheeks.

  Her mother was oblivious to her tears, though. “You know I’m sorry your season came to such an abrupt end last April, but the rules of the debutante ball are exacting, and must be followed to the letter. Annie Schemerhorn thought of everything when she introduced the ball to New York society a few years ago. You made your debut last year, so now you will be a returning debutante. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it must be.”

  Jasmine’s tears fell in earnest now as she wrung her hands. “But you know ‘returning’ debutantes are those who are too plain to have captured a husband during their season. I cannot be one of those ‘poor unfortunates.’”

  “My darling daughter, everyone knows about your accident just as the ball was beginning last year, so they won’t think anything of it if you are a returning debutante. It will be fine. And wherever did you come up with the phrase ‘poor unfortunates’?” Her mother smiled and patted Jasmine’s hand again before tucking a new stitch into her embroidery.

  “Amanda Phillips came up with the name to distinguish those girls from us new debs last year.” Jasmine sat for a moment, making certain her father was watching as she wiped away her hot tears. She took a deep breath. “Well, regardless, we must discuss my wardrobe for the season. If I’m to be relegated to the poor unfortunates, it’s even more essential that my wardrobe be better than everyone else’s.” She peeked at her father hopefully.

  He folded his paper with a snap and fastened his eyes on his daughter. “You may have one new gown for the cotillion ball and a new pair of slippers. But other than that, you already have an armoire filled with dresses and riding habits that you didn’t get to wear last season, so you have no need of new clothing.”

  “I have no need of new clothing?” Jasmine added stompin
g to her pacing, for effect. “I think I have even more need, since I’ve just been told I’m not to have my moment at the top of the stairs. With all those new debutantes stealing the attention, I’ll need to look especially beautiful in order to fill up my dance card, and that means new dresses for every ball. Amanda, Heather, and I all laughed at Cecily Montgomery and her old, tired dress last season. I simply cannot be seen in last year’s styles.”

  Her father’s mouth twitched into a smile as he reached up and caressed Jasmine’s cheek. “Your beauty has nothing to do with your clothes. Don’t you know that by now? I realize it’s not what you were expecting, but we must all embrace austere measures. I am sorry, daughter, but the banks are suffering. Our investments out west have started to fail, and the state of the European economy has me a bit concerned. I’ve shielded the family from my troubles as long as I could, but I’m afraid we all must do our part.”

  He ran a finger around his starched collar and then went through the ritual of lighting his pipe. He inhaled the fragrant tobacco before turning to his wife. “Charlotte, I think we should make a trip to St. Louis in the next few months. I want to go over our client list at the bank branch there with our son, Basil.”

  Jasmine stopped her pacing and whirled around. “You have the means to go to St. Louis, but not enough to buy me new outfits? I don’t understand. You were more than willing to shower clothing on Ginger for her season. Why are you being so unfair?” Her father had always been a soft touch when it came to his daughters’ emotions, but it wasn’t working this time. Maybe she needed to put a halt to the tears and pout prettily instead. He had never been this unrelenting before.

  “Our trip, if we take one, will be for business,” he replied with a sigh. “Bad times are ahead, and I’m trying to hold the banks together. Who would have thought the mere choice of a silk top hat would totally destroy the beaver industry? At least we’re fortunate enough to have invested in Blake Morgan’s haberdashery, but I’m still uneasy about the situation. I’m even considering bringing in a partner to help get our financials back where they should be.” His eyes twinkled as he continued. “I know talk of my business bores you to tears.” He brushed away the dampness from Jasmine’s cheek to emphasize his point. “But I have to do what’s best for our entire family, and that means sacrifices for all of us.”

  “This is the first I’ve known about a potential partner,” Jasmine’s mother said. “Tell us about this person, George. Is it someone we’re acquainted with?” She set her embroidery aside and stared at her husband, suddenly very interested in what he was saying. She seemed very eager to move the conversation away from the need for new gowns.

  “No, but he has sent me some correspondence. He’s from England, and his name is Alistair Wickersham, a viscount. He’s coming to America to set up, of all things, a racetrack and a horse-breeding farm. And he wants to do that right here in New York. I’m planning to visit his headquarters in the Bronx tomorrow. Would you both care to come? We can meet some real British aristocracy.”

  “Well, of course, George, I’d love to join you. But tell me about this viscount. Is he married?”

  “Quit matchmaking, Charlotte. I don’t know much about him, but he did mention a wife who died in childbirth.”

  Jasmine’s curiosity got the better of her, despite the fact this was banking business. If the man’s wife had died in childbirth, he might be still young, and not a man of middle age, like her father. He might be worth meeting, and before the season began. Her interest was piqued. “Do you have to call him ‘my lord’ or something? Ooh, how delicious.”

  Jasmine noted her father’s raised eyebrow as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m fairly certain he’s coming to the States to escape the bounds of conventional England, so I do believe calling him Mr. Wickersham would be most appropriate.”

  Jasmine turned to her mother, and caught the same gleam of anticipation in her eyes that she was feeling. A man with a title! Viscount Alistair Wickersham! She was certain that wasn’t the proper way to address him, but it would do for starters. Once they got to know each other, she would find all kinds of special ways to refer to him. Her twin sister, Heather, may have married last year, but Jasmine would be married to a titled member of English royalty by the time summer was out. She didn’t really give a fig about his appearance, but she wouldn’t be sorry if he turned out to be young and handsome. There was no way she could be lumped in with the poor unfortunates if she was engaged to a viscount by the time the season began. What did one call the wife of a viscount, anyway? Her brow furrowed in thought for a moment. Well, no matter. She’d be Lady whatever it was by August.

  • • •

  Parr O’Shaughnessy thought his partner was crazy. Or brilliant. He couldn’t decide. Either way, working with him meant a free trip to the United States with his special horse in tow. So he wasn’t going to point a finger at his lordship’s eccentricities until he reached the shores of his newly adopted country, and left the aching poverty of Ireland behind. Parr wasn’t delusional enough to think his skill in training horses got him this far. He was aware it was his horse, the Grey Ghost, that punched his ticket to the States.

  The horse was the only possession Parr had left, and he had been pitting the graceful stallion against all comers when it caught the eye of Alistair Wickersham, the Viscount of Foxborough. The viscount had tried to buy the horse outright, but Parr loved his horse more than he loved food in his belly. So Alistair Wickersham instead offered to make him part of his scheme of establishing a horse breeding farm and racetrack in the colonies rather than have Parr continue to be a competitor. And that brass ring was something Parr latched onto.

  So, here he was. One day off the boat, both he and Grey, and settled into the stable at Alistair’s new farm in the Bronx. Life was good. Parr stretched and rolled his shoulders as he curried Grey. He had his own somewhat modest quarters within the stable and it was warm and dry. Both were things he did not have in Ireland. The smells of the barn — hay, leather, horses — were with him morning, noon, and night, enticing in their aroma. And he already loved the scent of America, the land of opportunity. Parr, Grey, and Alistair were about to set the racing world on its collective ear. Starting this afternoon, when Alistair entertained a wealthy New York businessman, who would help legitimize their business for the other upper-crust members of New York society.

  Parr was jolted from his dream-like musings when he caught wind of the familiar quick, sharp steps of his partner coming into the stable. He ran a hand over Grey’s flank one final time and put the currycomb away. He took a bite of a tangy green apple before feeding the remainder of it to his horse.

  “Hello, milord.” Parr dipped his head at the man.

  “Is everything ready for our guests, Parr?”

  “Yes, ’tis. All the horses are groomed and the stable is clean.”

  Alistair quickly viewed all corners of the barn. He shook his head. “I do wish you’d reconsider, and move into the house with me. We’re equal partners in this venture.”

  “Aye, and worlds apart in social status. Besides, ’tis best for the horses if someone’s here to watch over them.”

  “All right then, look lively. I see the carriage coming up the driveway. You’ll have to entertain the women while George Fitzpatrick and I speak of business.”

  “Is he bringing his wife, then?”

  “Not only his wife, but a daughter as well. I do wish he’d come alone. I hoped to have a respite from matrons trying to foist their daughters on me, for at least a little while.”

  Parr grinned. “’Tis a terrible fate, milord, having women thrown at you left and right.”

  “Please cease with the ‘my lord’ designation, Parr. I’ve told you, we’re in America now, and our ancient, obscure English titles don’t mean anything here. It wasn’t all that long ago that they booted the lot of us out of this country. We’re
still referred to as ‘Redcoats’ in some parts of this land.”

  “Well, then, what shall I call you? Foxborough?”

  Alistair shook his head. “No, I don’t want to be known by where I’m from, so you can drop the use of the name Foxborough, too. I’m Alistair here. It’s why I came to this country, where I’m not just a son waiting for my father to die so I can become a duke. I wanted the challenge of doing something constructive with my life. And you’re a big part of that.”

  “Well, this racetrack and the breeding stable will give us a great reputation in New York, that much is certain.”

  “And the first thing we need in order to procure our place in America is the backing from someone such as George Fitzpatrick. I’ll bring them through the stable to begin with, and then take George off to show him where I want to build the track.”

  “All right.” Parr joined Alistair at the door to the stable as the carriage pulled up. The driver alighted and opened the door. A gentleman got out first and turned to assist his traveling companions. Parr caught sight of a woman with blonde curls as she emerged from the carriage next. From her age, it was apparent she was Mr. Fitzpatrick’s wife. The next person to appear was a petite, dark-haired, lovely young woman. As she cleared the carriage, her eyes moved up to take in the men standing at the stable door. Parr’s breath caught in his throat as he studied her expression. Her eyes moved over Alistair’s face and then landed on his. Entirely inappropriately, he locked eyes with hers for a long moment, then he smiled and winked at her. Even from the distance of twenty feet, her gasp of indignation filled the air. His smile grew wider. He was going to enjoy America.

  Chapter Two

  How dare he! The arrogance of that insufferable man! Jasmine gasped at the stable boy’s behavior. Obviously, he thought they were of the same mold. He was handsome, she’d give him that, with his trim body, black hair, and lovely blue eyes, but that was all she’d be giving him. He was not the man she came to see. She finally broke eye contact with him and turned her attention back to the man she was interested in. Alistair Wickersham, in all his titled glory, was a fairly handsome man, not terribly tall, but well built. He appeared to be closer to his forties than his thirties, which was a bit disappointing. His hair was a light brown color and his blue eyes snapped with excitement. Maybe he was as interested in this meeting as she was. She moved with her parents to meet him.