Page 1 of The Bourbon Bride

one

Paige

Ifbeingfedtothe wolves will guarantee my freedom, I’ll gladly offer myself up as a sacrifice every time. That’s the only reason I am wearing a poofy white dress and standing on the threshold of an antiquated tradition to please the woman who dictates every stage of my life. It’s always a possibility thatthiswill be the last demand and I will finally have the control I so desperately crave for my own life. Or it could all be wishful thinking. It’s a gamble I take for the potential reward, even when I more often than not end up disappointed.

“You ready, sweet pea?”

I look up into Daddy’s lightly wrinkled face and give him a nervous smile.

Am I ready? Heck no. I just spent thirty minutes hyperventilating and trying not to get nervous sweat all over the bodice of this vintage Christian Dior dress.

I’m so not ready, I could easily slip out of Daddy’s reach and pull a Homer Simpson becoming one with a hedge to disappear.

In fact, I would rather strip naked and swim in the fountain at Forsyth Park than walk down those stairs.

I sigh. I’m so far from ready, but this debutante ball is rolling and Mama will murder me, with a sugary sweet smile on her face while she does it, if I don’t walk down these stairs into that party right on cue.

“Of course. Lead the way.”

It’s not that I’m worried about walking in heels or a giant dress; cotillion classes cured that in my teens. I’m also not worried about being in front of a large audience; Mama cured that issue by forcing me into a short-lived pageant career and untold volunteer hours leading history tours in period-correct clothing.

No. What I’m actually worried about is being the daughter my mama wishes I were. The perfectly poised, sweet as sugar, obedient little doll she can dress up, who’s willing to follow every instruction to the letter. That’s the daughter she has always wanted, and I’ve always been a little too quick to object or question her, a little too opinionated and desperate to find my own way.

“You look beautiful, my darling. Your mama and I are so proud. Thank you for doing this.”

Daddy gives me a quick squeeze and holds out his arm for me to take. He understands my desire to not be here at The Abyss, making my debut to society like a proper Southern belle, yet we’re both just pawns in Mama’s society chess game and have no say in the matter.

I lift my chin and put on the expected demure smile. My white gown rustles with my steps as we descend the stairs into The Abyss and look out at the sea of black-tie and ball gowns.

I leveraged the unusual location for my debutante ball, insisting that it had to be here or nowhere if Mama was going to make this happen at all, and she finally gave in, which is a miracle in itself. It’s the most exclusive nightclub in Savannah, at the very least, which seemed to pacify her indignation at not using our family’s historic antebellum home-turned-boutique-hotel called The Mansion. That would have been her preference, as it would show me off along with our property which is the jewel of Savannah. Unlike the tarnished rhinestone I often feel like, given Mama’s frequent criticisms.

Mine is the last ball of the season, Mama insisted. It’s done up even more lavishly than the over-the-top affair Margot Declan, the mayor’s eighteen-year-old daughter, put on last month. I declined to be a part of the International Debutante Ball in New York in January, so Mama made her one chance at showing me off count. It’s a waste of money if you ask me, but there are some things I can’t convince Mrs. Caroline Thackery Fairchild of, and my not debuting was one of them.

“Look at all the gaudy wealth in one room, Daddy,” I whisper through my perfect smile like a ventriloquist. Fun fact: Mama made me study ventriloquism when she was pushing me to do pageants as a kid. I put my foot down with the dummies, but it didn’t stop her from purchasing one anyway. I finally gave that creepy thing away to the granddaughter of my favorite doorman at The Mansion a few years back.

“You’d think they would have something better to do than gawk at the spinster deb on her entry to society.”

Daddy chuckles next to me. “My darling, you are not a spinster. You’re just stubborn and wanted to push your mama to her brink when it came to the timing of this event.”

At twenty-one, I’m ancient in the debutante scene. Mama wanted me to be the epitome of a proper Southern belle and make my debut at eighteen, but I managed to push it off to the last possible year, using my time as a college student as my excuse. Even Daddy was willing to fight on my behalf against Mama’s wishes for that outcome. It’s true I wanted the best my education could give me, and attending charity functions or balls and parties every week would just distract me from my studies. Make no mistake, as soon as I graduated last May, she already had a planner filled with events, balls, and charity functions I was required to attend leading up to the fall debutante season.

“Presenting Miss Paige Kore Fairchild, escorted by Mr. William Edward Fairchild,” the emcee announces as we hit the bottom of the stairs.

I curtsy and we take a stroll around the room, presenting me to those in attendance like a juicy morsel offered up for all. A ball of dread tightens in my stomach as I feel the scrutiny from the gathering of the Southern social elite. I’m a bit player in this game, shown off as a pretty possibility for some eligible bachelor under the guise of tradition. The band strikes up a waltz and Daddy leads me through the steps flawlessly. I’ve been in dance classes for over a decade to ensure I wouldn’t embarrass Mama on just such an occasion. Faces blur as we whirl around the floor, but I still feel the stares and it makes my skin crawl. I tighten my smile, using it as my armor.

Necessary evils, I think to keep from bolting right out of the room. It’s necessary to keep Mama pacified if I want to live a reasonably free life.

“Not so bad, right, sugar?” Daddy says through his own tight smile.

Like me, he prefers not to be in these very public showcases, but he’s also at the mercy of Mama and proper Southern decorum. The waltz ends and we make it around the room and finally finish our promenade. He hugs me tight and kisses my cheek like the proud Southern papa he is.

“I’m going to find your mama and make sure she doesn’t bother you the rest of the night.” He kisses my cheek and beams proudly.

I smile back. “Now the hard part is over, so the real party can begin,” I reply, accepting a champagne flute from a waiter. He shares a secret smile with me, kisses my cheek, and turns to go. I watch as he leaves and expertly cuts off Mama as she heads toward me. He redirects her to greet guests and I’m free from whatever critique she had for me from my trip around the ballroom. I probably missed a step or didn’t smile brightly enough.

I sip my champagne, barely holding back from chugging the entire glass. Relief courses through me when the music volume increases and the people in attendance begin to lose interest as the free booze flows. Savannah high society has a minuscule attention span, and though I’m the heiress to a multimillion-dollar empire, I’m not exactly hot gossip or so very different from many others in the same position. My family name and combined assets keep them hanging around, always waiting for me to screw up royally, but I’m boring. I play by the rules, I make my parents proud—most of the time—and I would never so much as dare to taint the Fairchild family name. I know what would happen if I do, as some cousins twice removed have experienced. There’s more than one reason I’m the sole heir to the family fortune despite having a large family tree.

“Paige, that dress is gorgeous! I thought you would have to wear something horrible your mama picked out ages ago.” I turn to the familiar voice and smile at Alex, my best friend.

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