The Forgotten Debutante (Cotillion Ball) Read online

  The Forgotten Debutante

  Becky Lower

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Copyright © 2016 by Becky Louise Lower.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

  www.crimsonromance.com

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-7903-2

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7903-5

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-7902-4

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7902-8

  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.

  Cover art © iStockphoto.com/Jason Doiy.

  This book is dedicated to Aunt Dot. We may not be related by blood, but we are related in spirit. Getting acquainted with you over the past few years has been an unexpected treat. Thank you for enjoying my books, and for being my number one fan. RIP.

  Thank you for purchasing a Crimson Romance novel. Please sign up for our weekly newsletter for information on new releases, contests, discounts and more.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Family Tree

  PROLOGUE

  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

  EPILOGUE

  More from This Author

  Also Available

  PROLOGUE

  New York City

  July 15, 1863

  Releasing a shallow breath, Saffron Fitzpatrick glided down the stairs on slippered feet, avoiding the creaky spots with unerring accuracy from years of practice. She surveyed the hallway and let out the rest of the air from her lungs. All the servants were still in the basement, preparing the noonday meal. If she hurried, she could escape the house undetected. She ran to the back door, her curls bouncing around her head, and let herself out into the yard.

  Heart pounding, she stood, back up against the door, and listened. No frantic footsteps from inside the house meant her break to freedom had gone unnoticed so far.

  After two days of being housebound due to the draft riots, Saffron had tired of heeding her father’s warnings to stay indoors. Even though his motives were sound and he was only trying to protect her from the roaming mobs, she would surely perish from boredom if she spent one more moment inside. Although her intent to breathe some fresh air was dashed because the city was foul with smoke from the fires being set around town, she still cherished the freedom of being outdoors. Her skin erupted in goose bumps at her boldness. She cringed back against the door as the distant shouts came closer.

  But she had a mission: She needed to see Biscuit. She could certainly get from the family brownstone to the carriage house in their backyard without running into any of the rioters, couldn’t she? Talking to a horse beat staring at her bedroom ceiling. Or reading another boring book. Her intent clear, she pushed herself away from the door and ran to the small building.

  She opened the door to the carriage house. Diffused lighting came through the windows near the roofline, and the cool air was filled with a familiar, comfortable combination of hay, horse dung, and leather. Saffron inhaled the scents as she waited for her eyes to become accustomed to the subdued light. Biscuit nickered a nervous greeting. She tiptoed across the brick floor toward the mare’s stall.

  And came to an abrupt halt.

  The apples, which Saffron kept in a bucket to dole out to the horse, were all gone. As were the carrots. Someone had been in the carriage house, and possibly still was. Perhaps one of the marauders had scaled the stone wall surrounding their backyard, and come in here to set the carriage house on fire. But why would he have removed all the produce first? Her heart began to beat erratically, and her hand went to her throat.

  She backed toward the door, hoping if she were quiet, whoever was or had been in the carriage house would not notice her. She’d go back to the house and sound an alarm. Then, armed with the servants, she could return and confront whomever was here. But Biscuit nickered again. If someone was intent on setting fire to the carriage house, Saffron needed to take her horse into the yard first, then call for the servants. She picked up a hayfork and made her way forward, her slippers not making a sound as they moved over the floor. She opened the door to the stall and found what was upsetting her horse, and the answer to why all the good treats were gone. A Union soldier was asleep in the hay next to Biscuit. Lord in merciful heaven! Of all things!

  Even though he was wearing a Union uniform, it didn’t mean he wasn’t a danger to her. She raised the pitchfork high and jabbed his midsection, waking him from his slumber.

  The man squawked and began to backpedal, as she pushed the pitchfork even further into his stomach. She hoped she had enough strength to pierce the heavy wool of the uniform and do some permanent damage to the man. She didn’t want to kill him, only to make him squirm on the ends of the sharp tines while he provided her with some much-needed answers.

  “Who are you?” There—the least important question on her mind was out in the open.

  He threw his hands into the air, as if being taken prisoner. “Private First Class Ezekiel Boone, ma’am.”

  “And why are you hiding out here in my carriage house?”

  He wrenched the pitchfork away from his midsection, stood, and brushed the hay off his uniform. Saffron was at a distinct height disadvantage, and her weapon was fairly useless, but she held on to it for dear life. She noticed other things about the man, as well. He was more boy than man, still filling out, yet already he had a set of broad shoulders that tapered down to a trim waist. Wheat-colored hair the sun had kissed with streaks of light rioted about his smooth-skinned face. And his eyes were green as an emerald.

  “I’m trying to get home to my family.”

  “Is the war over, then? If that’s the case, why are those men in the streets, not but a few blocks from here, rioting at the very idea of being forced into a uniform?”

  He shrugged before answering. “No, ma’am, the war’s not over. And even though it’s not any of your business, my family needs me and asked for me to come home. I have permission to leave the army.”

  “A lot of families need their men back home. But yet they stay and fight, as you need to do. Are you a coward? Could that be the reason why you’re quitting the war?” Saffron couldn’t resist needling him.

  He bristled, then, and tore the pitchfork from her hands, turning it on her. Her gaze slipped from his green eyes to the end of the pitchfork, which he was now holding as a weapon. Maybe she’d pushed him too far.

  “I am no coward. A fool, maybe. But I’ve been elected by my brothers to head back home. And we got permission from the commanding officer bef
ore Chancellorsville for one of us to return.”

  Saffron’s eyes followed the flight of the pitchfork. She might no longer have the advantage of the weapon, but she skewered him with her stare. “And where are these brothers, Private? I don’t see anyone but yourself.”

  Ezekiel turned his head to the wall and muttered something under his breath.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear your answer. What did you say? Where are these brothers?”

  “Dead. Not that it’s any of your business either.”

  Saffron’s eyes filled with tears. “Dead? All of them?”

  “Yes, all four fell at Chancellorsville. That’s in Virginia, in case you don’t study geography. I’m the only one left who can go home and help my daddy.”

  “Where is home?”

  “Upstate New York. I can be there in three days if I can ever get out of the city. What is going on here anyway? All the rioting and the fires? There are armed guards everywhere.”

  Saffron studied him. “It’s the draft riots. President Lincoln issued a federal lottery so we can get this blasted war over with. Every man must serve unless he has three hundred dollars to get out of it or pay for someone to substitute for him. So, of course, the wealthy are being targeted.”

  His gaze slid over her. “And, I take it, you are one of those in the cross hairs? Why are you not in your house, then, under lock and key?”

  She rolled her eyes. And squared her shoulders. Even though she’d lost the advantage of the pitchfork, she would not be intimidated. Not by a gangly young man, anyway, who was hardly more than a boy.

  “I’m here to talk to my horse, since everyone’s left the house today. That’s why. At least I have a reason for being here. Unlike yourself.”

  “I can be gone in a flash if you’ll lend a hand. I need civilian clothes and a horse.”

  Saffron stared at him. Mighty uppity of him, asking for her help. He was nothing more than a common thief. Or he would have been, had she not appeared.

  “So, had I not interrupted, your plan, after you took a nap and ate all of Biscuit’s juicy treats, was that you’d steal her and make your way north?”

  Ezekiel studied his worn-out boots. “Something along those lines, yes.”

  “Well, you can’t have my horse. I’ve owned Biscuit since I was a child.”

  “You’re not much more than a child now.”

  Saffron sputtered. “I’m fifteen, a grown woman. And you don’t seem old enough to serve in the army, so I’m not buying your story yet. Even though you’re in uniform, how can I know for certain you are who you say you are? That you’re not a yellow-bellied deserter from the army? That you’re not a common horse thief?”

  “Maybe I’m not old enough to have served in the army, but that’s where I’ve been for the last three years. I’m only sixteen.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment, the pitchfork still between them. Saffron could read the tension in the young man’s eyes, along with the pain when he referred to his brothers. She sighed and broke the eye contact, swiping her hand over her hair.

  “You’re probably telling the truth. You don’t seem smart enough to make up such an elaborate lie.”

  She noticed his lips twitch up into a smile for the first time. “Thanks, I guess.”

  “My name is Saffron Fitzpatrick. Nice to meet you.” She held out her hand to him, and he finally propped the pitchfork up against the wall. He grasped her hand in a solemn shake.

  “Nice to meet you, Saffron. A pretty name for a pretty girl.”

  She laughed, trying not to notice how her skin tingled from his touch. “Not only can you not manufacture an elaborate lie, but you can’t sweet talk a woman very well, either.”

  He placed a hand over his midsection. “You pierced my stomach with the pitchfork, the marks of which I’ll probably carry for the rest of my life, and even so, I tell you you’re pretty. That’s sweet talk aplenty, in my book.”

  “Well, sweet talk, or lack of it, aside, we have to get you out of here. My brother’s an army recruiter and if he sees you in uniform, trying to get away, he’ll either press you back into service or haul you up for a court-martial. And I’m supposed to be in my room, reading.”

  Ezekiel took hold of her hand. “Will you help me, then? All I need is some civilian clothing, and I’ll be off. I won’t bother you with anything else. And I won’t take Biscuit.”

  Saffron removed her hand from his large, warm one. She needed to come up with a plan, and couldn’t if this young man continued to hold on to her. Helping him get out of town would be a wild adventure, and she so needed an escapade to liven up her weary life. The Civil War had interrupted her plans for a debutante ball, among other things. The least it could do is give her something exciting to relive when her life got boring again. Which would be tomorrow.

  She made a snap decision. “I can get you something to wear, but you won’t be safe in town with the armed guards around. They’re on the lookout for army deserters. We need to get you out of town, and fast. Can you hitch Biscuit to the wagon while I run upstairs and get you some clothes? Jimmy, our stable boy, lives there, but he’s got our other horse at the blacksmith today, so he won’t be in his quarters. I’ll get some of his clothes for you to wear. Then, I’ll take you to the outskirts of the city. But after that, you’re on your own.”

  • • •

  Zeke inhaled a full breath for the first time since he’d awakened in the carriage house to find a pitchfork in his middle. At least if he had to be discovered, it had been by a pretty girl rather than the head of the household with a shotgun aimed at him. He even smiled a bit as he recalled the spunky blonde who’d been so brave with such a flimsy weapon. The pitchfork tines had found their mark on his stomach and left puncture wounds. They weren’t deep enough to do any internal damage, he didn’t think, but he was bleeding.

  Not only did he admire her spunk right away, but he was also drawn to her looks. Yellow blonde hair, and eyes a brilliant shade of blue. Almost the same color as the hyacinths his momma had planted by the front door and which heralded the arrival of spring. He’d never met anyone like the privileged Miss Saffron before. But despite her background and the fact he was no better than the dirt beneath her slippered feet, she’d believed his story enough to help him.

  If he’d had the time, he wouldn’t have minded getting more familiar with her. Maybe take her to a dance or at least a ride around the park. Things he supposed cultured members of society did every day. Instead, the ride they were going to share would be fraught with danger and in a beat-up wagon rather than a carriage. He hitched the horse, the one Saffron called Biscuit, to the crudely built wagon. He hadn’t yet figured out how she was going to get him to the outskirts of town, but he’d take whatever assistance he could get. His need to get home was tantamount to everything else. Even a pretty girl. His daddy was sick, or had been, the last time he and his brothers had gotten a letter from home. Maybe he was even dead by now. His momma and younger siblings needed his help to run the farm.

  When the door opened again, he hid in the shadows until he was assured it was Saffron alone. She was weighed down by a stack of clothes and some food, so he moved in front of her to lighten her burden. In the dim light of the carriage house, she couldn’t see well and ran right into him. Her soft body bumped up against his hard muscles, and the clothes she’d been carrying scattered onto the floor. He reached out to steady her, grasping her elbows.

  The moment his hands were on her, his body responded. Despite his dire circumstances, his manhood sprang to life, the first time such a reaction had been caused by a real flesh and blood woman.

  She stared up at him with a quizzical expression on her face. Maybe she’d experienced the same jolt of energy he had when they touched?

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He let go of her arms as if they were on fire, and bent over to rescue the clothes and hide the bulge in his pants.

  Saffron giggled. “Not your fault. I wasn
’t looking where I was going. It happens all the time.”

  He sifted through the clothing options and found a pair of rough trousers, a lightweight shirt, and a jacket.

  “These will do if they’ll fit.” He began to undo the buttons on his uniform.

  “No, wait!” Saffron stilled his hands, clasping her own over his. “You will not undress in front of me. My mother may have almost given up on me ever being a refined woman, but there are some things even I’m uncomfortable with. Go into the stall and change where I can’t see you.”

  Zeke smiled again as the bolt of energy sailed through the air between them. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And don’t ma’am me. I’m nowhere near old enough to be called ma’am. Call me Saffron.”

  “Didn’t you say you were a grown woman?” he asked with his tongue in his cheek. “And you can call me Zeke.”

  He divested himself of his uniform, his body shaking as he changed into civilian clothes. There would be no going back now. He wiped the remaining blood from his pitchfork wounds on his jacket and then hid the bloody midsection by folding his uniform carefully. He carried the worn, dirty, and tattered uniform out of the stall.

  “What shall I do with this? We’ll need to hide it or bury it.”

  “Let me have it. I have a special hiding place in here that no one has ever found. I’ll put it there for the time being. Now, we must get you out of here. The army has soldiers stationed at every exit from town, so we must be extra vigilant. The only way to be successful is if you ride in the hidey-hole of the wagon.” Saffron lifted the seat to show a narrow empty box.

  “I can’t possibly fit in there.”

  She sent a diabolical grin in his direction, clearly enjoying this twist of events. “Oh, you’re not as big as you think you are. Well, except for your head, which is very full of yourself. I used to love to hide out there when I was a young girl. It’s quite cozy. Come on, climb in, and I’ll take you to the edge of town.”

  He stretched between his shoulder blades and climbed into the small space. He would be doing no more stretching for some time.