Summer Rainault opened and closed her fan nervously, glancing around at the ball-goers with serious green eyes. A red curl brushed her bare shoulder as she turned her head, the weight of the pinned up tresses tipping her chin up. Ordinarily, she would be almost completely at home in this kind of setting, whether the location was Atlanta or London, but tonight was different.
Tonight she would meet her affianced, Philip Hubert, for the first time. She had always known she would marry to the family’s advantage, with little consideration for her own desires, but she had strongly hoped it would at least be someone she knew. Alas, the War (and General Sherman’s inexorable advance, which she wasn’t supposed to know about) had set everybody’s plans awry.
It was still annoying to be traded off (rather like a slave herself, she thought mutinously) for ships, without so much as a by-your-leave. She couldn’t even count on gracious Southern manners from Philip Hubert. It was enough to make a girl turn suffragist. Not that the British had any notion of women’s rights, Queen or no Queen.
Turning to gaze out over the crowded ballroom once again, she spotted her father, talking animatedly with another gentleman while making their way through the mass of society. Behind them trailed a tall, dark, slightly sardonic looking young man, whose eyes were so vividly blue she could see the color from several feet away. Hastily she smoothed her hands down the pale green skirts of her ballgown and stood up as straight as possible.