The Blacksheep's Arranged Marriage Read online

  A whisper of excitement stole through Ilsa for no good reason. “I’m surprised she didn’t at least stay for the wedding.”

  Archer chuckled. “She would have if James hadn’t been adamant about her leaving sooner rather than later.”

  “A lover’s quarrel, perhaps?”

  “More like an unholy war. He was unhappy with her from the start and I never thought he’d go through with the marriage, anyway. But the important thing is, Ilsa, that James is no longer engaged to be married and I think this could be the perfect opportunity to make an introduction of possibilities for him.”

  That Archer had illusions of making a match between her and his son was no secret to Ilsa. What she hadn’t bargained for was the unexpected thrill of anticipation she felt at the possibility. “I believe I’ve said this to you before, Archer, but matchmaking is not a precise science and does hold more than its fair share of disappointments.”

  He smiled, undaunted. “One of the wonderful things about being an old man, is that fear of disappointment isn’t much of a determent. But there, I don’t wish to embarrass you. I simply would like to give you this bonus check before I go out there and persuade my new granddaughter-in-law to shuffle once around the dance floor with me.” He extended the envelope to Ilsa again with a look that asked her to take it without further protest.

  “Keep the check, Archer,” she said. “At least until we see if I can even come up with a suitable possibility of a match for Peter. At the moment, I’m beginning to doubt my own better judgment.”

  Archer regarded her for a moment, then tucked the envelope back into his jacket pocket. “As I occasionally have told my grandsons, ‘Trust your instincts. God gave them to you for a reason.’ Or as Janey put it so much more eloquently, ‘Follow your impulse. You never know when one may turn out to be exactly, exquisitely right.’ And now, Ilsa, my dear, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a beautiful bride, who is, I believe, saving a dance for me.”

  Ilsa watched him, marveling at what a courtly appearance he made as he moved through the crowd, never asking for the space to maneuver with his cane, but rather commanding it by the simple measure of a smile here, a word of greeting there. Her glance turned again to Peter, dancing now with Thea Berenson. A duty dance. Anyone looking at the mismatched couple could see that. Peter was nothing if not a gentleman. And Thea was, to her core, a lady.

  Follow your impulse.

  She let the possibility float as she watched Thea look everywhere but at the man who was holding her at a respectful distance, doing his best to initiate some conversation. And having little success with it, too. Ilsa caught sight of James, moving through the crowd toward her. Stopping to chat along the way, but catching her eye to let her know she was his destination.

  Her heart picked up a silly rhythm of anticipation and she tried to force her thoughts back to Peter and Thea. Thea and Peter.

  But James came closer and she began to smile without having any intention of doing so. For the moment, at least, she’d just have to set aside her reservations about a match for Peter Braddock and concentrate all her energy on not falling victim to his father’s considerable charm.

  Chapter One

  Peter tried on half a dozen shirts before he found the right one.

  He didn’t want to look too formal, because that might make her uncomfortable. He didn’t want to look too casual, because that would make him uncomfortable. He didn’t want to wear anything too plain and have her thinking he’d dressed down in an attempt to match her, because that could be awkward, as well. But finally, he buttoned up the green Armani silk shirt and grabbed the matching tie, looping it around his neck and tying it in a neat Windsor as he trotted down the stairs, his jacket slung across his arm.

  He did not want to be late for this date. No, sir.

  What he wanted was to skip it altogether.

  But he was descended from a long line of gentlemen and standing up a lady just wasn’t anything a Braddock would ever do. Even if he wanted to. Even if his grandfather hadn’t specifically asked him to do this one small favor for an old family friend. Peter couldn’t see that Davinia Carey was anyone’s friend, but that was beside the point. His grandfather had asked him, and Peter couldn’t refuse—wouldn’t even dream of refusing—this single, simple request.

  So he would escort Theadosia Berenson—the nightmare date of all time—to Angela Merchant’s wedding and pretend there was no place he’d rather be and no one else he’d rather have at his side.

  It was a small enough price to pay for all the Braddock family had given him. A home, when he had nowhere else to go. A family, when the only one he’d known fell apart at the seams. A name to take pride in, when he was marked by shame and scandal. He owed everything to Archer and Jane Braddock. And to his father, James. They’d saved his life, made a man of him. And a gentleman, at that.

  Which was the reason Thea would never know she wasn’t his dream date for the evening.

  He took the last two steps in one bouncy stride, loving the savvy click of his heels as they struck the marble floor.

  “Peter?”

  Slinging his jacket across his shoulder, he walked quickly to the door of the library, where Archer and James sat before a fire, the first of the season though—it seemed to Peter—more for ambiance than warmth, even now. An ivory chess set was on the table between them, the game clearly heating the normal father and son tensions. James had been at Braddock Hall for nearly five months now, longer than any of his sons could remember him staying in the past and, having recently broken his engagement, he was in the restless stage of being newly single again.

  Peter recognized the signs, knew his father didn’t miss Monica as much as he missed the idea of himself with the young and beautiful Monica. But it was a good thing the relationship had ended when it had. Peter didn’t have any use for women like the ones his father invariably chose, and Monica had been the worst of the lot. So far.

  “Where are you headed?” James asked, studying the chessboard before carelessly moving his pawn.

  “To Newport. Angela Merchant’s wedding is this afternoon at four.” He smiled at his grandfather, proud to have been asked to perform this one small good deed. “I’m on my way to pick up my date.”

  Archer didn’t smile back, looked slightly guilty even as he moved to block James’s bishop.

  “Which beautiful blonde are you taking to this wedding?” James frowned absently as he studied the chessboard and Archer’s bid to check. “The lovely Lindsay? The delicate Daphne? The ethereal Emily?”

  “Today,” Peter said in his most courtly tones. “It’s my privilege to be escorting Miss Thea Berenson.”

  James’s frown turned dryly cynical. “Fine, don’t tell me who you’re taking.”

  “I’m escorting Thea,” Peter repeated. “I’m picking her up at Grace Place and taking her to the wedding. As my date.”

  James looked up then, his eyes—so like Peter’s own—narrowed suspiciously. “You asked Thea Berenson to be your date to Angela Merchant’s wedding?” he said incredulously. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

  “No, sir,” Peter said, offended by the question, even though he knew most everyone would think what James was clearly thinking now. It was one thing to dance with someone like Thea at a social gathering. That was considered the mark of a gentleman. But to ask to escort an acknowledged wallflower to an event, to make it into an actual date, was another thing entirely. In the unwritten laws of chivalrous behavior, it was considered misleading, unkind and nothing a gentleman would ever do unless he had a genuine interest in the lady. Which, of course, Peter didn’t. But Archer had made the request and Peter wasn’t going to apologize to anyone for acceding to it. “I not only asked,” he told James with an easy smile, “but was accepted. That’s usually a prelude to a pleasant evening, as I fully expect this one to be.”

  James looked at Peter thoughtfully, then his gaze swiveled to Archer. “Is this your idea of a joke? Thea Berenson? Come on, Dad.
You don’t honestly think she and Peter could ever…”

  “I honestly think Peter should go now before he’s late,” Archer said, with an upward glance that barely met Peter’s eyes before skittering away. “Davinia is a stickler about punctuality.”

  Peter frowned, wondering at his grandfather’s odd tone. Surely, Archer didn’t believe Thea was that bad. She wasn’t much to look at, true. She didn’t have much to say for herself, either. And she wore clothes more suitable for a prim nineteenth century schoolmarm than a twenty-first century debutante. But Peter had never thought she was as hopeless as most people seemed to think. He’d certainly never thought of her as the ugly duckling some of his friends considered her to be.

  Which didn’t mean he was looking forward to the evening. Quite the contrary. But he didn’t think it would be unbearable, either, as his father clearly did. And he didn’t believe Thea had any misconceptions about his reason for asking her out. They were attending the event together because their grandparents had decided they should. End of story. “Grandfather’s right. I should go. It wouldn’t do for a Braddock to be late for a date…no matter who it is or what the circumstances.”

  “Peter,” James said, his gaze narrowed firmly on Archer. “I think you ought to know that your grandfather has been engaging in some match—”

  “—hopeful contemplation,” Archer interrupted firmly, “that you and Miss Berenson will have a perfectly lovely evening. And that you will be, as you always are, a perfect gentleman.”

  “I believe you can safely count on that.” Peter tossed the keys to his BMW roadster and caught them with confidence. “It’s the one thing you can always count on your grandsons to be. Good night, Dad. Grandpop,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast.”

  Peter turned and started out, then paused to flash a grin over his shoulder at James. “Oh, and Dad, watch out for your queen. Looks like Grandpop is just about to turn her into a damsel in distress.”

  THEA CREPT ALONG THE tree limb, keeping a firm grip on the branch with one hand and pausing every few inches to scoot the down comforter bundled beneath her so she wouldn’t scratch her bare thighs on the rough bark. She’d jerked the comforter from her bed without a thought as to how slippery it would be, just as she’d climbed out on this limb without stopping to consider that she was a wee bit underdressed for tree climbing. But it was too late for second thoughts at this point. She was several feet up in the old oak, straddling the down-filled comforter for all she was worth and wishing she had never rescued the calico kitten from an untimely end in the first place.

  Ahead of her and one narrow branch above her head, the kitten yowled out a fearful screech of a sound. “Would you quit that, Ally?” Thea said softly. “If Grandmother finds us in this tree, it’ll cost you at least eight of your nine lives, and you don’t have that many left.” It would mean a stern lecture for her, too, but Thea didn’t imagine the kitten would care much about that. As dearly as she loved all of her pets, none of them seemed to appreciate the sacrifices she made in order to keep them in the manner to which they’d become accustomed.

  Inching forward just a bit farther, she lifted a tentative hand up to the little calico, which fuzzed and arched her back in fright, before backing up another few inches along the tree limb.

  “Come on, Ally. I’m here to help. Honest.” She coaxed the kitten with low, soothing tones, as she hugged the comforter with her thighs and scrooched farther along the oak branch. “How many times do we have to go through this drill before you trust me to get you back inside?”

  The kitten meowed plaintively, her tawny eyes rounded in distress, her claws clenched on the tree like tiny anchors. Thea calculated the distance from where she was to where the kitten was, and back to the attic window from where she’d started this rescue mission. Grace Place, her grandmother’s childhood home, loomed large and sullen beside the leafy old oak, the open attic window the only inviting element in the otherwise hulking structure. But a home was more than stones and mortar. Grace Place was all the home Thea had ever known, her grandmother all she knew of family. The house really wasn’t so bad. It had potential and someday, when her grandmother was no longer around to protest every change, Thea imagined it would look very different with gardens of bright flowers and shutters painted a soft cream, instead of stark black. Inside the house, she’d replace the heavy draperies with open-weave curtains, which would welcome every drop of sun, warming the rooms with natural light, instead of conserving every degree of artificial heat within by keeping the outside weather out.

  But someday wasn’t today.

  Today was Angela Merchant’s wedding day and, if Thea didn’t get this silly kitten out of the tree, get herself inside and dressed, she was going to miss one of the biggest social events of the season. Not that she’d mind in the least. But her grandmother wouldn’t hear of such a thing, which meant Thea was going to the wedding, by gum or by golly.

  If only Davinia hadn’t decided that this time Thea required an escort….

  Like a bad omen, she heard the distant throb of a powerful engine and her heart picked up the throaty rhythm, adding in a ragged, anxious beat. Peter Braddock was on his way to get her. By the sound of it, he was nearly at the gate, which meant he’d be ringing the front bell in ten minutes. Or less.

  She entertained a fleeting thought of staying up in the tree and hoping no one would find her. But that was merely wishful thinking. Monroe always found her, no matter how well she thought she was hidden. Thea frowned meaningfully at the kitten. “This is it, alley cat. Either you come with me now, or you’ll have to get yourself down. What’s it to be?”

  She extended her arm as far as possible and coaxed in low, persuasive tones, “Here, kitty, kitty. Come on, kitty….”

  The calico seemed to sense her last chance and, crouching low on the limb, made a tentative move toward Thea’s outstretched fingers. “That’s right,” Thea coached. “Just a little bit farther…”

  The low purring of the sports car’s engine slowed, indicating it had reached the gate. Peter was probably buzzing in even now and once the gates swung open, it wouldn’t take him two minutes to reach the house. Thea knew it was now or never, so she made a grab for the cat. Catching hold of one furry leg, the whole scrabbling, scratching ball of fur came tumbling into her arms and tried to climb her shoulder. “Stop it, Ally,” she said, trying desperately to calm the kitten and maintain her grip on the tree branch. But her balance was off and the down comforter was slip-sliding dangerously. All Thea could do was hold on to the cat as she tipped to the side and fell, shielding the kitten with a last-minute hunching of her shoulders.

  She hit the ground in a rolling thud, thankfully cushioned by the soft bulk of the down comforter, and clambered to her feet, still holding on to the kitten and ignoring the sharp ache in her hip. The engine had revved again, preparatory to sweeping around the curving drive to the house, and she knew her window of opportunity was fading fast. If she didn’t get in the house immediately, Peter Braddock was going to drive up and see his date for the evening clad only in her silk slip. Leaving the comforter pooled at the base of the tree, Thea made a wild, limping dash for the back of the house, praying fervently that Monroe had left the door to the servants’ quarters unlocked and that Peter Braddock would turn out to be extremely nearsighted.

  PETER CAUGHT A GLIMPSE of a scantily clad female form—a rather nice form from what he could see—running around the corner of the house as he drove up. Funny. He’d heard that the only females at Grace Place were old Davinia, Thea and the elderly retainer’s plump wife. Apparently, though, there was at least one slim, young and attractive woman on the household staff. Either that, or one of the groundskeepers had invited his girlfriend over for a little afternoon delight. Wouldn’t Mrs. Carey have a fit if she knew about that? She’d probably string the man up by his thumbs and post him by the front gates as a warning to anyone else with lascivious appetites who might step foot on her property. Thea’s grandmoth
er seemed a regular tyrant, a throwback to another era, an idealist who believed the restraints and restrictions of Victorian England still had a place in twenty-first century America.

  Peter turned off the engine of the car, pocketing the keys as he stepped out onto the paved drive. He’d always felt a deal of sympathy for Thea, caught in a life she surely wouldn’t have chosen for herself. There were rumors about Thea’s mother, Davinia’s willful and rebellious daughter. Peter didn’t know if the rumors were true or if, in fact, they had anything to do with the tight rein Davinia held on her only surviving grandchild. He didn’t have a clue as to why Thea allowed herself to be governed by her grandmother’s outdated ideas and ideals. It wasn’t as if she had no other recourse. Everyone knew she had considerable assets of her own.

  Not that it mattered to him one way or another. He had no intention of giving Thea or her grandmother any grounds for complaint. Not tonight or at any time in the future. He couldn’t imagine even a single circumstance under which he’d be tempted to behave as anything other than a perfect gentleman with Thea. She wasn’t exactly his idea of a temptress.

  The idea of Thea as femme fatale made him smile as he loped up the steps and pushed the doorbell, half expecting to be admitted by a butler straight out of the old Addams Family television series. But the liveried man who opened the thick wooden door looked more like Santa Claus than Lurch. “May I help you?” the butler said.

  “I’m Peter Braddock.” Peter offered the information with a smile. “I believe Ms. Berenson is expecting me.”

  “Miss Thea isn’t quite ready, sir, but Mrs. Carey would like to greet you in the parlor.”

  Disguising his reluctance to be greeted, Peter stepped inside the cavernous foyer and blinked in the dusky, dusty light. Grace Place, on first impression, did not live up to its name. Although as his vision adjusted to the gloom, he could see the house might once have been something spectacular. Dual stairways curved up on either side of a large entry and the chandelier hanging from the ceiling was quite simply massive. If lit it would undoubtedly illuminate the entryway with a crystalline light.