The Blacksheep's Arranged Marriage

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 grandmother 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.

“This way, please.” The butler walked with a slight hitch in his step to the far side of the foyer, where he opened an ornately carved wooden door to reveal a dim room decorated in a style that hadn’t been fashionable for forty years. “Mr. Peter Braddock is here for Miss Thea,” he announced, then stepped aside so that Peter could enter the parlor, which was just as dreary as the foyer, if not more so.

Davinia Carey sat like the proverbial spider, in a web of ruffled cushions on a dark green velvet settee. Her hair was crimped and upswept into a tight knot atop her head. It was as black as a raven’s wing, which made her face look unnaturally pale in the gloomy light. “Good afternoon, Peter,” she said in a voice that made him feel he wasn’t standing quite straight enough.

Peter wasn’t easily intimidated, but Davinia Carey always made him nervous, as if she was both judge and jury, as though she knew that beneath his GQ facade he was merely a pretender to the throne. “Hello, Mrs. Carey,” he replied in a voice that betrayed not one iota of his feelings. “It’s very nice to see you again. I hope you’re feeling well today.”

She sniffed, a sound as eloquent as any words. “Have a seat, Peter.”

He glanced around and chose a straight-backed Queen Anne, which was as uncomfortable as it looked, but had the advantage of being a respectable distance from the settee. For some reason, he found himself remembering the night of his first formal dance. He’d been a gawky, awkward kid, barely thirteen, and still terrified he would do something to embarrass the whole Braddock family. He’d made himself sick worrying about the dance and what he should or shouldn’t say to the pretty girl who was his date, until Grandmother Jane had taken him aside and offered her wise counsel. “Some day, Peter,” she’d said. “You’ll meet the woman who will be your wife and you’ll realize that her opinion of you truly matters. This is not that day, so stop worrying, relax and simply do your best to have a good time.”

Well, today was not that day, either. And with the thought, he offered Davinia Carey a warm and kindly smile. “I’ve never been to your home before,” he said easily. “Grace Place is an impressive estate.”

“It’s nothing to what it was when I was Thea’s age. This house is not as old as Braddock Hall, but my great-great-grandfather, Davis Madison Grace, spared no expense in building it.”

Which didn’t keep it from looking like a very poor relation now, Peter thought but didn’t, of course, say aloud. “I believe Grandfather mentioned this was your childhood home.”

The sniff again. This time expressing nostalgia, perhaps, or some old regret for days gone by. “My coming-out ball was as grand as any party ever given at The Breakers, I can assure you. Ask your grandfather. He’ll remember.” She paused, her eyes narrowing on him. “Grace Place will belong to Theadosia one day.”

He didn’t know quite how to respond to that, but she seemed to expect a reply, so he said, “Lucky Thea.”

“Luck has nothing whatsoever to do with it, Peter. She was born an heiress.”

The slight stress on the word was, he felt, not only intentional but intended to remind him that he hadn’t inherited the Braddock name and its privileges at birth. He had, in fact, spent the first nine years of his life believing he was the son of another man, a poor man, and hadn’t even been acknowledged as a Braddock until he was nine. A lot of people knew that. It wasn’t exactly a secret. But no one had ever pointed it out to him in such a coldly calculating way. Davinia Grace Carey was telling him he was not good enough for her granddaughter and it was all Peter could do not to challenge her on it. As if Thea had suitors climbing the walls of this monstrous old house in the hope of winning her heart. Or at least her fortune.

He held the old woman’s gaze and didn’t politely look away when it grew uncomfortable. “As I said before, lucky Thea.”

She drew herself up at that and a haughty smile curved along her thin lips, making her look even more like a spider in no particular hurry to immobilize her prey. “I see that we understand each other, Peter. I’m not sure what Archer had in mind in setting up this assignation between you and Thea. Do you know?”

Peter breathed deeply to maintain his composure. “I believe he hoped we would have a pleasant evening.”

“Be that as it may, Thea has been brought up as a lady and I do expect you to treat her as such. You will have her home at a reasonable hour. Not a moment past midnight, and in the same virtuous condition as when she walks out the door with you.”

It was becoming very clear why Theadosia Berenson attended social functions alone or accompanied by this harridan of a chaperone. Peter resolved then and there that tonight he would keep Thea out at least five moments past midnight, even if he was so bored by that time the seconds dripped like molasses. “I assure you, Mrs. Carey, my grandmother taught me to be a gentleman at all times, even under the most tempting of circumstances. Believe me, there’s no need for you to worry. Thea will be perfectly safe with me.”

Davinia frowned at him, obviously unconvinced of his sincerity, but then her gaze went past him to the doorway. “Theadosia,” she said. “Come in. How many times do I have to remind you it’s not polite for a lady to hover in a doorway? Come in, come in.” She extended a veiny hand. “You look lovely, dear. Doesn’t she, Peter?”

Lovely wasn’t the word for it. Thea looked bedraggled and miserably self-conscious. Her dress fit badly, at best, and covered her from high neck to midcalf in a dreary beige. Her hair was its normal mousey-brown, and looped haphazardly into a frazzled topknot that already showed signs of slip-sliding toward her left ear. The double strand of pearls she wore was too long to be stylish and too big to be simply a nice touch. Matching pearl earrings, too large for her pointy little face, studded her earlobes and were all but lost behind the black-frame glasses that sat halfway down her nose, which obscured her thick-lashed and luminous eyes. Neither jewelry nor glasses did anything to enhance her overall appearance. But if lying to a lady wasn’t in any Gentleman’s Handbook, diplomacy certainly was.

Peter rose instantly to his feet and offered her a warmly approving smile. “Hello, Thea,” he said. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you. I’ve been looking forward to this evening for days.”

She ducked her head and said, “Hello, Peter,” in a voice so soft it practically evaporated on contact with the air.

“Stand up straight,” Davinia commanded and Thea straightened like a marionette. “Remember who you are, tonight, Theadosia. Peter has assured me he will take very good care of you.”

For a second, Peter caught a glimpse of life in the eyes behind the heavy-rimmed glasses, a flicker of amusement as out of place in Thea’s brown eyes as the ray of sunlight tentatively creeping in through a crack in the draperies. “Okay,” Thea said in her meek and whispery voice and he decided all he’d seen was a reflection in the lens of her glasses.

“Shall we go?” He was suddenly anxious to get her outside, away from the gloom and suffocating presence of her grandmother, away from the weight of expectations that seemed to press down about them from all directions. “I put the top up on the car so your hair won’t get blown all out of…place.” He paused, wishing he’d left the top down. She might like to have the wind blowing through her hair for a change, and it wasn’t as if her hairstyle relied much on staying in place as it was. “But if you’d prefer, I can put it down again.”

“Certainly not,” Davinia said firmly. “I’ve never understood why anyone would have one of those convertibles in the first place. They’re dangerous and I can assure you, Peter, that Thea does not wish to arrive anywhere, particularly at a formal affair, looking as if she’s had her head in a wind tunnel.”

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.