The Blacksheep's Arranged Marriage

Peter thought she might prefer that to looking as if she’d combed her hair with an egg beater, but since Thea didn’t contradict her grandmother, he didn’t think it was his place to step in and do it. Gentlemen, as a general rule, minded their own business.

He started to take Thea’s elbow, but thought that if she didn’t faint from nervousness at his touch, her grandmother might slap his hand with a ruler and remind him that a gentleman never touched a lady without permission. He hedged his bets by moving to the doorway and sort of urging Thea along by example. “Good evening, Mrs. Carey,” he said.

“I do hope you have an enjoyable evening,” the old woman called after them.

But Peter was almost positive she didn’t mean a word of it.

Chapter Two

“Would you like something else to drink?” Peter asked as considerately as if it were the first time he’d posed a similar question instead of the eleventh or twelfth. “More punch, maybe? Or a soda?”

Thea tried to think of a witty reply, some way of refusing his offer that wouldn’t be completely flat and uninteresting. Peter had been so nice, had tried so hard, right from the minute he’d opened the door of his car for her and offered for the second time to put down the convertible’s top. She’d wanted to flash a saucy smile and say, “Yes, please, I love the feel of the wind in my hair. I’ve always thought I’d enjoy driving a convertible. What about letting me test-drive this one? I promise I’ll pay for the speeding ticket, if we get caught.”

But she hadn’t said that. Not even close. She’d mumbled a simple, “No, thank you,” which had pretty much been the extent of her contribution to the conversation throughout the evening, with the occasional “Yes, thank you,” thrown in for variety.

“Would you like to sit here?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Shall I ask the waiter to get you another piece of wedding cake?”

“No, thank you.”

“Are you cold? Would you like to borrow my jacket?”

“No, thank you.”

“Do you want to dance?”

“No, thank you.”

“No, thank you,” she said now because as much as she wanted to say something else, anything else, she simply couldn’t seem to get both brain and tongue working in sync. And, too, she couldn’t bring herself to swallow another mouthful of punch. She was practically swimming in it already. The virgin punch, of course, the one made of sweet fruit juices and some fizzy water, served to the younger guests in lieu of champagne. Peter hadn’t even asked her preference on that count, just indicated to their waiter that they’d both have the punch. Which meant either her grandmother had given him a stern warning about the dangers of drinking and dating, or he’d just assumed she didn’t touch anything stronger than root beer and since she didn’t, he wouldn’t, either.

Or he might simply be afraid of what would happen if she got a little alcohol in her. She’d overheard her grandmother’s embarrassing instruction to him to return her to Grace Place “in the same virtuous condition as when she’d walked out the door.” With a soft sigh, Thea acknowledged there wasn’t a chance in ten million the evening could end any other way. Alcohol or no.

“Dinner was good,” she said, because the Peking duck had been cooked to perfection, and because she was determined to make at least one remark without being prompted.

He smiled, seemingly pleased she’d made even that small effort. “Yes, it was,” he agreed. “I heard they brought in a hot new chef from the West Coast just for the occasion.”

Thea thought “bringing in a chef” smacked of flaunting one’s wealth, something no descendent of Davis Madison Grace would ever consider to be in good taste. “Imagine how far they had to go to find the duck,” she said.

Peter blinked. And then he laughed, startling Thea with the pure sensual pleasure contained in that one throaty sound. She felt the heat of a blush rise in her cheeks, wondered if she’d actually said something amusing or if he was just being polite. Either possibility seemed equally disturbing and produced the exact same effect…freezing her ability to speak all over again.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if they flew them in special delivery from Beijing,” Peter said with a grin. “Her dad once told me he would spare no expense when it came to Angela’s wedding.”

Thea knew Peter and Angela had once been an item in the society columns, and it was no secret that the Merchants had hoped for a match between their family and the Braddocks. There had even been rumors late last year that Peter and Angela were unofficially engaged. Of course, there had been rumors before. About all of the Braddocks. But Thea had mainly only paid attention to the ones about Peter. He was closer to her age, twenty-seven to her twenty-five, and of the three brothers, she liked him the best.

Not that he would know this.

She took a deep breath and decided that as this was likely to be her only date ever with Peter Braddock, she ought to make a legitimate attempt to talk to him. No matter how difficult it was to open her mouth and say the words.

She did know how to talk and she never lacked for conversation when it was just her and her menagerie of pets. She’d been on dates before, too. Not many, true. Fewer, in fact, than she could count on both hands, but enough to know the rudiments of dialogue with a man. If she asked the right question, he’d start talking, then she’d mostly just have to nod and listen from there on in. She was good at listening. It was just getting the conversation started that caused her all the problems.

She wished she had said, yes, and let him walk to the bar and fetch her a soda. At least, then, she’d have had a few minutes to think about what she could say when he got back. But she didn’t drink sodas. Bad for her teeth, her grandmother said. Bad for her skin. And no matter what she thought of to say when he returned with the soda, she’d be preoccupied in trying to hide the fact that she wasn’t drinking the soda she’d requested he get for her.

Thea shifted in her chair and smoothed her beige silk skirt over her knees. She knew she looked lifeless and drab in the dress, knew it was hardly the height of contemporary fashion, knew even if she were wearing the gorgeous dress Miranda Danville had on at this very moment, she’d still look like the misfit she was. Peter must be wishing he could be anywhere else, with anyone else, doing anything other than sitting with her in this ungainly silence. He had to be counting the minutes until he could take her home.

But none of that bothered her as much as knowing that if she didn’t say something soon, the evening would be over and he’d never know she actually had something to say.

“Wait just a minute,” Peter said, interrupting her fierce struggle to conquer her inept silence. He leaned close and her senses were suddenly filled with him. His scent was a breezy blend of good soap and men’s cologne; his roughly handsome face was near enough for her to see the sensual green of his eyes and the slight scar on the bridge of his otherwise perfect nose; his breath on her skin was warm against her cheek and as soft as a caress; his hand was firm and persuasive as he stood and urged her up out of her chair; his smile was as seductive as a kiss. “You have to dance with me now, Thea. Listen to that. They’re playing our song.”

She cocked her head to listen, sure he was teasing her, wishing he would either go off and dance with someone else or be content to sit out the dances, wondering why he’d agreed to spend this intolerable evening with her in the first place. She’d noticed the covert glances of other wedding guests, knew most of them were looking at Peter with sympathy and admiring him for being too much of a gentleman to ditch his sad sack of a date and enjoy himself.

Thea wanted to tell him she’d honestly tried to override her grandmother’s insistence that she accept his invitation. She wanted to say that just because his grandfather had coerced him into escorting her, didn’t mean she expected him to entertain her. But then, slipping in between her melancholy thoughts, finding a foothold in her memory, the melody and lyrics of the song registered as familiar and coaxed a slow smile across her lips.

“You say it best,” the lead singer crooned, “when you say nothing at all.”

She glanced up at his face, hoping he wasn’t making a joke at her expense. It had happened before. Not with Peter, but…Nothing in his expression suggested anything other than a kind attempt to let her know it was okay, that she didn’t have to say anything at all. His smile—the one that was tucked in at the corners of his mouth and reflected in the true green of his eyes, was merely approving and, perhaps, just a little bit hopeful.

And without a second’s warning, she was locked with Peter in a moment that meant something only to the two of them. He was teasing her and, for the first time in her life, Thea felt she was in on a joke. An amazing sense of belonging flooded through her, her throat lost its strangling tightness, and she laughed aloud. Softly, uncertainly…yes. Under her breath for the most part, but still a laugh that came right from the very heart of her.

Peter laughed, too, and looked…well, satisfied. “So, Theadosia,” he said. “May I please have this dance?”

“Yes, thank you,” she replied, feeling that somehow those three words were really all she needed to say.

IT WASN’T THE BEST TIME Peter had ever had at a wedding. That would have been Bryce’s and Lara’s wedding last month, with Adam’s and Katie’s wedding three months before that, running a close second. But tonight wasn’t the worst time he’d ever had watching someone else get married, either. That would have been Christina Ephraim’s wedding when he was fifteen and so hopelessly infatuated with the bride—his English tutor and drama coach and a sophisticated, beautiful older woman, besides—he’d very nearly embarrassed himself along with the whole Braddock family by sobbing out his heartache during the ceremony.

Luckily, his grandmother had sensed his distress and developed a dizzy spell that required him to step outside with her until her equilibrium—and his composure—returned. He’d always loved Grandmother Jane for that, and because she’d never said a word about it afterward, even though he knew she didn’t have dizzy spells. Ever.

Yes, that was definitely the worst wedding he’d ever attended. Tonight, with Thea? Not even close. In fact, if he could just get her to relax a little, they might both actually start to enjoy the evening.

Well, okay, so true enjoyment might be a stretch, but at least he’d have a better time if she wasn’t so quietly miserable. He’d never spent this much concentrated effort on a date before and would have been angry about her lack of response if it hadn’t been Thea. It wasn’t that he felt sorry for her—something about her didn’t allow for pity. It was more that he wanted to put her at ease, wanted her to have a good time, wanted this night to be a pleasant evening for her to remember.

Before at other social functions, he’d danced with her because common courtesy demanded it. He’d tried to be charming because he thought her life was a tad lacking in the charm department. But now that he’d been inside Grace Place and felt Davinia Carey’s suffocating disapproval firsthand, he wanted to go beyond courtesy and easy charm to show Thea a good time. That seemed important now that he knew he would soon have to take her back to a dark, dreary place where she was told to stand up straight and reminded at every turn to act like a lady. A place where smiles and laughter were probably scarce, and bestowed even less often than any genuine approval.

So if she didn’t find talking to him an easy thing to do, he had to consider that a personal challenge, not as some great flaw in her. And as long as they were dancing, the lack of conversation didn’t feel so cumbersome. It was obvious she was nervous. And shy. And trying to juggle who knew how many edicts from her grandmother about how she should behave. It wouldn’t surprise him in the least if Davinia had spies posted around the country club even now, watching Thea, waiting to report any untoward act or unladylike behavior. No one deserved to be treated that way and he really would have liked to ask Thea why she put up with the old tyrant.

But that would only put her in an even more awkward position and probably put the kiss of death on any further conversation for the night.

As if that would be so different from now.

The best he could do was allow her her silence. So he merely pulled her a little closer and marveled at how well she danced. She always seemed so uncomfortable in social settings, so ill at ease with herself and others, but on the dance floor, she moved almost…well, gracefully. Sometimes, like now, when she forgot for a minute to be self-conscious, she floated in his arms like a feather. “We dance very well together, Thea,” he said, surprised to realize it was true.

She missed a step and looked up at him, clearly startled and blushing at the compliment, which brought a pleasing hint of color to the smooth ivory skin beneath the oversized glasses. “Oh,” she said. “Then I must be doing it wrong.”

“No, you must be doing it right.”

She shook her head, still looking up at him, and he noticed, maybe for the first time, that her eyes were a warm, rich coffee-brown, fringed with a smudge of dark lashes. “If I’m doing it correctly, no one’s supposed to notice.” She bit her lip, as if so many words in one sentence were a faux pas. “According to Miss Blythe.”