Captives' Charade
Authors: Susannah Merrill
This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, events, establishments, organizations or locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other names, characters, and places, and all dialogue and incidents portrayed in this book are the product of the author’s imagination.
Captives’ Charade. Copyright © 2011 by Foliage Press, LLC. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact [email protected].
CAPTIVES’ CHARADE
A Novel by
Susannah Merrill
His words made her bristle. “You can’t even take care of yourself, let alone control a man like d’Alava.”
“He thinks you’re my husband. Wasn’t this arranged for my protection?” she rebuked him, her voice on the edge of hysteria.
“’Tis only a deterrent – a charade for which I daresay you are most unqualified.”
Her face went white with fury. She snarled, “You are so very confident of my ineptitude.”
“Cajoling appreciative males is not your forte. If it were, by now you would have a string of suitors from which to choose a suitable mate ....”
She slapped him hard, the sound of the blow filling the cabin. Both were equally surprised, but Stewart was quicker to recover, seizing the offending limb in a painful grasp.
“It’s ruined. It’s ruined!” cried Lady Juliana Tremont. “And now I shall never be ready in time!” she wailed, making fruitless attempts to free her head from the mass of pink and white silk that made up her gown.
Hearing her younger sister’s mu ffled moans, Lady Sarah Tremont sighed and left her own room to help. “Oh Julie,” she chuckled, upon reaching Juliana’s doorway, “You are quite the helpless sight, are you not?” Sarah smiled affectionately as she moved closer to the mound of twisting pink flowers. “Just be still now and I will find you.”
AsSarahcarefullysearchedforanopeningin the gown, Juliana continued her whining. “Oh Sarah, I heard it tear and now I have absolutely nothing to wear to the ball. My birthday is ruined! And it was to be the most special day of my life.”
When Sarah placed the neck of the heavily trimmed empire style gown over the mass of honey gold ringlets and pulled it down over her sister’s head, she was not at all surprised to see the lovely face of Juliana red with effort and sparkling with huge tears of frustration. For despite all her beauty and the control it afforded her, Juliana was a spoiled and willful young lady and when events did not go according to her carefully contrived schemes, she usually reverted to tears, or rage, or both.
“Oh darling,” Sarah replied soothingly. “Your dress is not ruined. See it is only a tiny rend and I will sew it up for you myself.” Softly remonstrating her sister, Sarah added, “You should have waited for Tegan to help you. You are much too impatient, you know. Here, stand in front of the mirror and smooth your hair while I get a needle and thread.” Sarah deftly closed the tiny pearl buttons at the back of the festive gown.
“Anddryyoureyes,”shecalledoverher shoulder as she left the room. “You would not want Jack to think you’ve been crying on your birthday.”
“Jack!” Juliana sni ffed as she brushed her fingers across her sooty lashes and pouted at herself in the mirror. “What would he care? He laughs at my tears and treats me like a child!”
Sarah heard her sister’s petulant remarks as she crossed to her room. Oh, Julie, she thought to herself. Jack adores you and you destroy him with your tears. He is so hopelessly in love with you. It would serve you right if he found another who would appreciate his devotion.
As she retrieved her sewing box from the vanity, Sarah thought of Lady Juliana’s beau, the handsome Viscount James Harrington, the son of her father’s friend, The Marquess of Oxford, and their closest neighbor in the countryside of Oxfordshire. The girls had grown up with “Jack” and while everyone had expected Lord Harrington and Lady Sarah to wed, for they were closer in age and temperament, it was Lady Juliana whom he truly loved.
Sarah bore no hard feelings about this, since she never felt anything more than familial love for the young viscount. But it hurt her to see her fickle sister so abuse this lovesick young man that sometimes she wished that she did love Jack – and that he loved her – just so his poor heart would be immune to Juliana’s plotting ways.
Beneath her frothiness, Sarah knew her only sibling was not really as heartless as she often appeared. After all, she was only sixteen today and it would be soon enough that she’d be forced to behave more maturely. But for now, Juliana was gay, impetuous, beautiful and totally without conscience.
Sarah returned to Juliana’s room, the sewing box in hand, and smiled as she saw her sister posing coyly in front of the mirror, her lovely face completely devoid of tears.
“Oh Sarah,” Juliana turned as she saw her sister’s reflection. “It’s going to be so exciting, isn’t it? My very first grown-up ball and absolutely everyone will be here.” She continued rambling as Sarah began stitching the white lace to the pinkflowered silk at the raised waist. “Father said he even invited a Yankee to my party – a man from Massachusetts – and I just know how people will be gossiping about that for weeks! I do so hope he is handsome, for if he is, I intend to show him off to everyone!”
“But what about Jack?” Sarah looked up from where she was kneeling. “Did you not already promise him he would be your escort?”
Without a trace of remorse, Juliana replied, “Oh who cares about Jack? He certainly doesn’t deserve my affections, for he toys with me – as if I were a baby. Well, I am not and I will show him tonight!” Juliana stamped her daintily slippered foot, causing Sarah to prick her finger on the needle.
“Ouch,”Sarahwhisperedandpulledherhand away from the fabric so that the blood would not stain the delicate material. “Juliana,” she said crossly, blotting her finger on Juliana’s petticoat, “you are so cruel to Jack. He does not treat you like an infant! He only appears stern because you act like a child. You know he loves you and hopes someday to ask Father for your hand. Please, Juliana, be fair to him. He is perfect for you and you know it.”
Juliana gave a bored sigh. “I am so weary of everyone playing the champion of ‘poor old Jack.’ If he is so wonderful, why don’t you marry him?”
Sarah stood up impatiently as she broke the thread from the restored gown. “You know the viscount and I are nothing more than friends. If that were not true, you would have both our heads – because you love him madly, even if you will never admit it.”
“Well it seems to me,” Juliana interrupted smugly as she smoothed her gown, “that it is about time you worried about finding a paragon for yourself, if Jack fails to catch your fancy. Or spinsterhood will not be a choice but a result of your lack of purpose.”
Sarah winced; she knew her sister was right. It was becoming harder to believe that the appropriate man would ever find her. Though consciously, she refused to give it much thought, she knew her opportunities were slim, and at 20, her time was running out.
Sarah returned to her room and stood looking wistfully at her reflection in the mirror. The dress she had chosen to wear to her sister’s birthday ball was a subdued, though popular, puce color which emphasized her elegant neck and collarbone by bringing a more rosy hue to her pale skin. The expensive silk gown with its empire waist hung in soft folds around her tall, slender figure. The neckline was modest by the day’s standards, but Sarah still felt overexposed in the low-cut bodice with cap sleeves that displayed her attractive bosom and slender arms.
Ah, the perfect spinster, thought Sarah, troubled that the image so disturbed her this evening. Her cheeks suddenly flamed and her large blue eyes narrowed beneath thick, dark lashes. She smoothed the gathered skirt over her slim hips, letting her hands rest there. Why did the classic but demure reflection suddenly dismay her so? Had Juliana’s cutting remarks finally found their target?
“Weareasdi fferentasnightandday,”she sniffed, trying to dismiss the uneasiness she felt. And it was most certainly true.
Juliana, with her wickedly slanting green eyes, her luxurious mane of golden hair, her petite yet voluptuous figure, and effusive tongue, was on a mission to ensure that every single male, young or old, fell victim to her charms. And by the number of anxious suitors, it was not hard to judge that she had succeeded.
Lady Juliana used every weapon in her considerable arsenal of charms to attract and hold a male’s attention, while Sarah fought with the same sense of purpose to keep them at bay. She, too, had succeeded, and it was by far the meaner feat, for the older Tremont was as darkly beautiful as her sister was fair. But whereupon Juliana was tiny and used her size to arouse protective instincts in the other gender, Sarah was tall and carried herself with a regal reserve that made all but the most confident males ill at ease.
Sarah chose to disguise her slender yet wellrounded figure with plain gowns that did nothing to accentuate her exceptional coloring. Eyes as deep as a tropical sea, glossy chestnut hair and an English pale but healthy complexion were deemphasized by the tasteful but undistinguished gowns she preferred.
With a disgusted sni ff, Sarah escaped her reflection and sought to dismiss the disturbing feelings that threatened her composure. The whole idea of arousing the baser instincts of addle-pated overgrown fops revolted her anyway. Let Juliana say what she wished. Sarah wanted no part of any man who would be swayed only by her comeliness or her skillful manipulations.
Or did she? a small voice asked, as she pulled on elbow-length kid gloves while moving from her bedroom into the upstairs hallway. But there was not time to think about the answer for her mother and father were walking toward her on their way to the grand staircase.
“Are you ready to welcome our guests?” Sarah’s tall, dignified sire called out as he and his lovely, petite wife moved closer. They were Alex Tremont and Catherine Woods Tremont, the Duke and Duchess of Weston, and more attractive members of the ton, Britain’s high society, could hardly be found. “It appears that your sister is planning to make her grand entrance after everyone has arrived,” Weston smiled indulgently, smoothing his white stock and yellow damask waistcoat over which he wore a fine dark blue tailcoat. White silk breeches, stockings and kid boots completed his attire for the celebratory evening. “I have a feeling she intends to break a few new hearts this evening. Far be it from me to spoil her fun on her birthday.”
“You look lovely, darling,” Sarah’s mother greeted her as she affectionately linked arms with her firstborn. As usual, she was a vision, this time in emerald silk, a stunning diamond and emerald necklace enhancing her slim neck and attractive bosom. “Are you looking forward to the party?” Her sweet voice held no trace of the disquiet Sarah knew her mother must be feeling about her daughter’s disinterest in the heady social whirl of the ton that most highborn females enjoyed above all else.
Not wishing to upset her, she smiled down at the still beautiful older woman, replying, “I am sure we shall all have a lovely time. Your parties are the most wonderful of all.”
“Good evening, Farnam,” Weston called as he caught sight of the butler at the foot of the wide staircase.
“Good evening, Your Graces, Lady Sarah,” Farnam replied, smiling stiffly, the picture of the perfect butler in his somber, but well-fitted, uniform. “Everything is ready and Silas informs me that our first guests are about to arrive.”
“Thank you, Farnam. We will receive them in the ballroom,” the Duke said as he escorted his wife and daughter into the softly-lit and ornately decorated ballroom off the tiled foyer.
As Sarah entered through the double doors, a wave of nervousness enveloped her, despite her assurances to her mother. How she disliked these occasions where batting eyelashes, profuse giggling and graceful dancing seemed to be the extent of the expected performance of a young female. With an inward sigh, she steeled herself for the difficult evening to come.
As Farnam had said, everything was ready. The string quartet was tuning up for a waltz, the servants were putting finishing touches on the serving table and the room fairly gleamed – from the newly waxed parquet floor to the three identical crystal chandeliers that hung like sculptured ice overhead.
“I do so love our parties, Alex,” the Duchess said breathlessly as they took their places near the door. “They always remind me of what fun we had when you and I were courting.”
“Harrumph,” replied Weston, in mock consternation. “It reminds you of the fun you had, you mean. You played me for a fool while I watched you dance with every rogue in the countryside. My heart still aches when I think of how you spurned me.”