Across the vast ballroom, decorated with stunning friezes of fruit cobblers so realistic that it seemed one could almost taste the patterned juices depicted running down the walls, a swirling mass of colorful dresses and elegant male attire intertwined in intricate patterns. The orchestra, consisting of two fiddles, a harp and a bass drum, produced an endless series of Virginia reels.

Wisteria Bozomheave stood on the stairway waiting to be noticed. She was confident that her dress outshown every other frock in the room. The pale violet of her namesake blossom, the dress was covered with tiny yellow flowers embroidered in glowing silk. A deep purple scarf was cinched around her tiny waist and the two ends trailed over the enormous skirt, held out by eleven petticoats studded in whalebone and strengthened with ten-point steel.

She hoped the petticoats wouldn’t get in her way while she was dancing. She also hoped the weather would cooperate; August could be hot in South Carolina, even though this year the mercury had barely reached a hundred for more than a week, and eleven petticoats could become a burden of insupportable weight even for a belle used to them. And of course her shoes were too small; her feet were her one dismay, being larger by far than she wished. Why, they were almost as big as Papa’s pocketknife! Wisteria retaliated against her dismal fate by wearing shoes at least three sizes too small.

She gazed out over the throng from her vantage point on the stairs.

There was her darling Philbert, talking to the Baron. Almondine simpered beside them, waiting for her beau to finish men’s talk and take her dancing. As usual, Almondine’s dress was hideous. The unfortunate green shade made her appear bilious. Wisteria complimented herself on recommending it to her.

No use competing with her future sister-in-law, even though there could really be no competition. Almondine and her sisters, Walnutta and Casheen, took after their mother. When Pierre Goober arrived from New Orleans over twenty years ago, he looked first for a suitable fortune and only then for beauty. Unfortunately, the first was easier to find; the gigantic pecan plantation which he had obtained as dowry was a bit more desirable than the bride he obtained with it. Still, he had made the best of things in typical Gallic fashion; a bustling plantation, a family of one son and three daughters, and a wife conveniently in her grave just after giving him all of these. Philbert was another matter. Although he did not bear any resemblance to a hero of romantic fiction, he was pleasant enough, thought Wisteria. And all those pecans! Acres and acres of them! Yes, a more suitable beau was hard to imagine.

Then Wisteria saw a new face, and her heart stopped beating within her breast.

Must be my stays, she thought absently. That ridiculous Hissy has laced them too tight again.

But it wasn’t her stays; not this time.

A beautiful man, with coal-black curls and piercing blue eyes, a tall and commanding figure with broad shoulders and long legs, stood just behind her darling Philbert.

Well, Wisteria thought, hand on her bosom, this must be what love is like. Funny how it feels just like the time I fell out of that ol’ magnolia tree and landed on mama’s tea table.

The vision of male pulchritude beside Philbert turned and glanced about the room, stifling a yawn behind an elegant hand. He seemed to be trying to determine if any of the females in the room could possibly be worth his time or notice.

His gaze lighted on Wisteria where she stood on the stairway.

Wisteria felt an unmistakable connection, a beam of pure animal magnetism (she had just been reading about Franz Mesmer) joined them across the distance of the long room. She took a deep breath, displaying her heaving bosom to its best advantage, and smiled at his piercing gaze.

He gave an elegant nod. A small grin illuminated his striking features.

Wisteria nodded back, brought her dainty hand to her lips and delicately kissed the tip of one tapering finger. Then, puckering up her lips in a lush bow, she blew a gentle breath on the fresh-kissed finger.

The gentleman’s hand flew up with debonair grace as he plucked the kiss from the air with two fingers.

Wisteria touched the tip of her pink tongue to her pinker upper lip.

Across the room, the stranger took the phantom kiss and touched it to his own lips, his brown fingers clenching so tightly that they were white at the tips. Wisteria blushed and looked away—only to find several adjacent locals watching her actions in fascination. She smiled in distraction.

The man looked dark, dark and dangerous; just the sort of man her mama had warned her against. Wisteria, her mama would often say, don’t you dare fall in love with one of those dangerous, dark men. They’ll break your heart and tear your petticoats, then go off drinking with their cronies. Find you a nice gentleman like your papa, who—this was about where Wisteria stopped listening to her mama and starting thinking about supper, but she was pretty sure she remembered the first part right.

And now here he was, striding toward her through the crush on the dance floor, ignoring all the belles in his path as they fluttered about him like butterflies, striving for his attention.

Wisteria stood alone on the stairway, awaiting her destiny. Her heart fluttered within her bosom, and the regions further down seemed to be dancing in tune to the music. A warm glow suffused her.

At the bottom of the stairs, the tall man paused and bowed the most elegant bow Wisteria had ever seen.

“Your pardon, ma’am,” he began in a rich baritone with quite the oddest accent Wisteria had ever heard, “but I have something of yours and you have something of mine.”

Wisteria’s interest was piqued, not least by the sound of his voice.

“Why, whatever can you mean, sir?” she asked, fluttering each individual eyelash in that manner which only she had mastered. “I haven’t lost a thing that I know of, and I certainly don’t believe I have anything of yours.”

“Oh, but you do,” he insisted. “You have my heart. And I have one of your kisses that escaped from your lovely lips just now. Shall we make the exchange?”

Why, it’s just as romantic as a novel, Wisteria thought.

“Although,” the man continued, “I’m not sure I’ll be able to retrieve my heart in one piece.”

Wisteria felt it coming on and was powerless to stop it.

She giggled.

“Why, you handsome old thing, I don’t know what you mean,” she simpered, wondering where he had been all her life. “I’m not going to listen to another word you say, I declare. You’ll just have to ask me to dance right now, or go away with your foolish talk.”

“I’ve dreamed of dancing with the most beautiful girl in the world, but I never expected it to happen,” he said as he held out his hand to her.

Wisteria brushed the surrounding belles aside with her fan as she descended the stairs and stepped onto the dance floor. One proved a bit recalcitrant; Wisteria was forced to kick her, aiming carefully between the second and third hoops so as not to leave too large a bruise on the slowcoach or, heaven forbid, wrinkle her own dress. At the bottom of the stairs she looked up into the deepest, bluest eyes she had ever seen.

The gentleman was dressed in black and this, in addition to his commanding height, made him stand out in the room like an eagle in a roomful of popinjays. His coal-black curls grew long about his thin, aristocratic face and his heavily-muscled shoulders strained against the elegant fabric of his jacket. Long, slender legs were encased in the finest broadcloth and ridiculously small feet, wrapped in shiny leather, tapped in time to the music.

Why, he looks just like a hero from a Brönte novel, thought Wisteria. Wonder if he has a mad wife locked in his attic, or is pining for his dead love?

Then she decided that, if either of these were true, it made no slightest difference to her.

The gentleman held out a hand and Wisteria slipped her fingers into his.

“Shall we dance?” he asked in the merest whisper, a whisper that ran along her spine like a caterpillar with a thousand feet wearing ostrich-feather slippers.

They moved off across the floor, a path opening before them as if by magic. Wisteria whirled and spun dizzily within his arms, always conscious of the feel of his hard, pulsating hand against her waist. She gazed into his eyes, thinking that at last she knew what love was.

Then the music stopped with a crashing jar.

“Sir,” cried a voice. “Unhand that flower of Southern womanhood this instant!”

Wisteria looked about her, wondering who had shouted and what flower he was referring to in such shocked tones.

Colonel Cottonwood Ashley, of the Charleston Ashleys, stood ramrod straight before the dias that contained the band. The colonel, a veteran of the Mexican War, always proudly wore his old uniform, although there was far less of him to fill it than in years past. His left arm ended at the elbow, an eye was covered by a patch, and the chunk taken out of his nose by an angry armadillo was covered by a sheath of silver alloy that glittered in the bright light. His right leg had been amputated just above the knee and his britches leg was neatly pinned up, displaying the elegantly-carved ivory peg that enabled him to walk. He had run for local office with the slogan “Vote For What’s Left Of Me,” and had won by a landslide.

Wisteria had known the Colonel all her life, he being an old friend of her father Benedict. She wondered what ailed him, and was miffed that he had interrupted her dance with the handsome stranger.

“You heard me, sir,” shouted the colonel again. “Unhand her at once, or by the Almighty I’ll show you how we handle Yankees.”

A gasp of shock and surprise went about the room at the dreaded word. Old ladies fainted and young girls flew into hysterics, while from the veranda, just to Wisteria’s left through the tall windows, there could be heard the sounds of birds dropping from the sky and horses in the distant stables neighing in fright. Young men in the room looked desperately about for weapons, while older gentlemen headed en masse for the brandy bottles on the long buffet table.

To Wisteria’s dismay, her dance partner dropped her hand, separated himself from her slightly.

“Are you referring to me, sir?” he asked silkily, his resonate baritone echoing through the room.

“I am indeed, sir!” shouted the colonel, his eye patch bulging in a most dramatic fashion. “Are you not a visitor from one of those Northern states?”

“I am,” said the gentleman, his voice calm amidst the tumult. “What of it?”

Two ladies, shocked beyond endurance at the ease with which he accepted such a derogatory and inflammatory statement, dropped to the dance floor in a dead stupor.

Wisteria put her hand to her heart. She could feel it fluttering beneath her stays, like a caged bird trying to escape. Surely he can’t be a—, Wisteria thought in terror, her mind stopping short at the dread word. Not a—not one of those! As God was her witness, surely this handsome man wasn’t a—why, surely not!

Philbert forced his way through the crush of people, his responsibility as host foremost in his mind. He knew there could be bloodshed if he didn’t take control.

“Please, folks, there’s nothing to be alarmed at!” he shouted into the deadly silence that had fallen at the gentleman’s shocking admission. “Mr. Beaucoq is a guest of mine, here to bid on this year’s crop of pecans.”

There were sniffs of disapproval. Typical, said the sniffs, of a—one of those, to be here among gentlemen for purely mercenary reasons!

Mr. Beaucoq bowed to Philbert and nodded to the colonel.

“I have the honor to be a member of an old Massachusetts family,” Beaucoq began, his voice as calm as if he spoke of less inflammatory matters. “Several of my progenitors came over on the Mayflower.”

Oh, shoot, thought Wisteria, he would be from one of those nasty states that I can’t even spell! If he had to have the misfortune to be born up thataway, why couldn’t he have had the decency to be from New York? And “progenitors”? Is that some nasty Northern disease or something?

“And, as Mr. Goober has explained, I am here to admire the pecan crop and perhaps be allowed to purchase it,” he continued. “It never occurred to me that my place of birth would be an issue of such controversy.”

A faint scream greeted his words as yet another belle hit the floor. The dance floor was becoming quite cluttered with supine bodies.

“Of course you didn’t,” Philbert drawled, worry puckering his plain but honest face. “You’re not a Southerner, after all. You can’t be expected—”

“He can’t be expected to have any manners,” concluded Mr. Merryweather, of the Savannah Merryweathers, before he slugged back his fifth brandy and shook his head.

“Or any breeding,” agreed Captain Purdew, of the Atlanta Purdews, who had just entered the room from the study where he and some others had been playing whist.

“Or any culture,” added Mr. Scruggs, of the Aiken Scruggs, as he scratched his head.

“I was going to say,” interrupted Philbert, “any knowledge of our ways. Mr. Beaucoq is my guest, and I expect all my other guests to overlook his unfortunate birth and welcome him, for my sake.”

Wisteria gazed at the enigmatic Mr. Beaucoq in wonderment. He was the first Ya—one of those—she had ever seen, and it surprised her that his teeth weren’t sharpened into points, that he had only one head, and that there had seemed no signs of hair on his palms. Indeed, he had seemed quite like other young men of her acquaintance.

This surprised her most of all.

“Miss Wisteria Bozomheave!” shouted Colonel Ashley, of the Charleston Ashleys. “Kindly step away from that—person, before he soils you by his very presence.”

Philbert broke in before any more could be said.

“Miss Bozomheave has done me the honor to accept me as her fiancé,” he said, pride suffusing his simple features. “It is for me to give her such advice, Colonel Ashley, of the Charleston Ashleys, not you.”

Wisteria was gratified at his statement, though a bit put out that he had allowed her to be placed in such an awkward position.

“Why, Philbert Goober, you ole charmer, you,” she simpered, snapping her fan at him. “I can be polite if none of your other guests can. Mr. Beaucoq, sir,” (another lady reached for her smelling salts at Wisteria’s audacity), “shall we continue our dance?” She held out her dainty hand, realizing that her reputation was irretrievably ruined by her action, but somehow not caring.

Mr. Beaucoq bowed to Wisteria, managing somehow to exclude the entire rest of the room from his attention.

“Miss Bozomheave,” he murmured, reaching for her hand and raising it to his lips. Wisteria trembled in mingled fear and delight at the touch. “I am glad that one of Mr. Goober’s guests has manners.”

“He’s of the New Orleans Goobers, you ignorant Yank!” shouted the colonel in fury, his peg leg trembling. “And if you soil that lady once more by your filthy touch, I will call you out, sir, indeed I will!”

Almondine Goober sidled up behind Wisteria and whispered in her ear, “Come with me, dear sister Wisteria, and I shall take you up to lie down until you feel more yourself.”

“I feel entirely myself, thank you,” pronounced Wisteria, treading carefully on Almondine’s slippered toe. “And I wish to finish my dance.”

The band struck up another Virginia reel and the entire floor of dancers stood back as Mr. Lance Beaucoq led Miss Wisteria Bozomheave (of the Charleston Bozomheaves) into the middle of the floor.

Three more old ladies hit the floor as the music struck up. Wisteria stepped over them with particular care, so as not to spoil her slippers, as the measures of the reel caught her.

“Are you really a—one of those?” she whispered to her partner.

“I am,” nodded Mr. Beaucoq.

“Oh, you poor thing.” Wisteria’s heart was touched at the strength with which he endured such a tragedy. “But you hardly show it at all,” she hastened to reassure him. “And, anyway, some of my best friends have, well, very nearly been introduced to, er, people who’ve met people like you,” she concluded, smiling her most special smile.

“Since there are quite a few of us, I’m not surprised,” he murmured. “But I confess I hardly suspected that my birth would be such a problem.”

“Well, don’t be silly.” Wisteria shook her head in surprise. “Of course birth is the most important thing there is, except money. You must have both, you know, or no one of any importance will have anything to do with you. In a pinch, you can do without the money, of course, though I don’t know of anyone who ever has.”

“Ah, but I enjoy people of no importance, and I suspect that you do, too, or you wouldn’t be dancing with me,” smiled Beaucoq, his eyes twinkling in a roguish manner.

Wisteria blushed and fluttered her eyelashes, individually, at his response.

“Why, I certainly do not!”

“Oh? But you are certainly enjoying dancing with me, even though everyone is shocked at your audacity.”

Wisteria didn’t know what “audacity” was, but thought it sounded rather pleasant.

“Well, a lady makes the best of any social situation,” she replied primly.

“And are you a lady?” he asked, smiling to remove the sting.

“Why, of course I am,” she murmured, shocked at his statement. “I am a Bozomheave, of the Charleston Bozomheaves. My papa has more money than anyone hereabouts, and my Grandpa Balthazar has more money than anyone in Charleston. My mother Fanny was a Derriere from New Orleans and my—”

“Please. No more genealogy, I pray. Let us enjoy our dance.” His voice was low and pleasant, and his wide mouth stretched into a grin, white teeth twinkling like stars.

Wisteria nodded.

I wonder what he means by “genealogy,” she thought. As if any of my family ever lived inside a bottle! Well, except for Uncle Beauregard, of course.

The music came to an end as they reached the long windows leading onto the verandah. Wisteria stood back from her partner, snapped open her fan and gazed into the face of the first Yankee she had ever met, hoping he would ask her onto the verandah to chat. She would be better able to flirt with him there.

Flirting was, of course, the only thing a lady could do with a gentleman, unless she was married to him.

She supposed a Yankee could be called a gentleman, but she wasn’t entirely sure.

“Miss Bozomheave, it was a pleasure to dance with you. Will I see you later at supper?” he asked, dashing her hopes of a stroll in the fresh air.

She dimpled. “Why, I can hardly have supper with a Ya—with someone I haven’t been properly introduced to, sir.”

“But you can dance with me?” he inquired with a twinkle in his eye, gazing down at her.

Wisteria felt a stirring in her nether regions that she had never felt before. Indeed, she had never, until now, been precisely sure where her “nether regions” were, but thought that they must be somewhere south of her waist, with all the other body parts that one should never mention. This Ya—this stranger was as unsettling as he was good looking!

“Well,” she began, “my mama always told me that being rude is the worst possible thing to do at a barbeque, and it would be terribly rude not to dance with you, especially since Philbert asked me specially, too. But to have supper with you would be something else again.”

“Then allow me to thank you for your kindness to a lonely stranger, and wish you good-day, Miss Bozomheave.” Mr. Beaucoq bowed and turned away.

“Of course,” said Wisteria, desperately anxious that he not escape just yet, “Philbert is your host, and he did ask me to dance with you, so I suppose that could be considered an invitation. An informal one, but we are at an afternoon barbeque, so that is acceptable.”

Mr. Beaucoq turned back with a wide grin. “Well, then, if everything is acceptable, shall we walk a bit on this charming verandah and discuss—what is it ladies enjoy discussing? You must inform me. I have been somewhat out of touch with polite society. I have just returned from Jamaica.”

“Jamaica!” exclaimed Wisteria in delight. “Oh, I have always wanted to go to Europe! Please tell me about it, at once,” she commanded, taking his arm and waving her fan against the afternoon heat.

Mr. Beaucoq hid a smile behind his other hand and they fell into step together.

“Europe is a delightful place,” he agreed, “but I fear Jamaica is not there. It is an island far south of here, where they grow sugar cane and others crops.”

“Well, a lady doesn’t need to know geometry, does she?” asked Wisteria, not a whit put out at his smile. Gentlemen expected ladies to be ignorant about such “man things,” she knew.

“Or geography either, I daresay,” agreed Mr. Beaucoq solemnly. “I take it you have never traveled?”

“Why, of course I have, you silly!” simpered Wisteria. “I’ve been to Charleston ever so many times, and Atlanta once, and Columbia, and I even went to Savannah! So you can see that I’ve been everywhere important.”

“There are a great many other places, you know.”

“But they aren’t Southern, are they?” asked Wisteria reasonably. “No one could possibly want to go anywhere that’s not Southern, unless they were forced to, by business or something, could they?”

“No doubt you’re right.”

They had reached the end of the verandah and could see and smell the great pits where supper was cooking. Mr. Beaucoq took a deep breath.

“Ambrosia,” he stated unequivocally.

“Possum,” corrected Wisteria, waving her fan to send the smoke away from her eyes. “And squirrel, I think. What do Yan—what do your folks have at their barbeques, Mr. Beaucoq?”

“I fear, Miss Bozomheave, that this is my first barbeque,” admitted her handsome escort with some dismay. “Indeed, it is my first time in your lovely state, although I have spent some time in Virginia. It is, I think, also considered a Southern state?” he finished in an interested tone, as one wishing to be properly informed.

Wisteria sniffed, as she did everything, elegantly.

“Some people say it is, I have heard. But you must agree, it is terribly far away in the wrongest possible direction and I believe, actually next door to a Ya—a Northern state.”

Wisteria gasped, amazed that she was barely able to stop herself in time from committing a horrible faux pas—reminding a guest of her darling Philbert that he was from the improper, incorrect, and totally inappropriate side of the Mason-Dixon Line.

She reminded herself that she must be more careful, as the two of them strolled down the long verandah.