The Inconvenient Bride Series 1-3

by Sharon Ihle

  Suddenly unsure of herself, forgetting whether she ought to bow, curtsy, or offer her hand, Shylo slowly rose up from the settee as the woman drew near.

  "Miss Folsom, is it?" the matron asked in a haughty tone as she eyed Shylo from head to toe. "I don't believe I recall seeing your name on the invitation list for this reception. Perhaps you've made a mistake."

  Jolted as she realized the woman was planning to throw her out, Shylo fell into her role. "Reception? My goodness. Have I come at a bad time?"

  "You're not here for the reception?"

  "Oh, goodness, no. I have a message for Mrs. William K. Vanderkellen."

  The woman's demeanor took on pompous proportions. "I'm Victoria Vanderkellen. What is it?"

  Never one to do anything halfway, Shylo had figured early on that if she was going to tell one of New York's leading society matrons a lie, it might as well be a whopper. She smiled broadly and offered her gloved hand. "Let me introduce myself properly. My aunt Frances was a Folsom, and is now—as I'm sure you must know—Mrs. Grover Cleveland." She shook the woman's hand, pleased to see the startled look in her eyes.

  "The First Lady is your—"

  "My aunt Frances. She and the president have been visiting my family upstate in Buffalo." Shylo knew this was true because she'd read it in the newspaper. "When Uncle Grover found out that I was planning a quick shopping trip in Manhattan, well, he just insisted that I stop by and introduce myself to you and your husband."

  By now it was the Vanderkellen woman who looked as if she'd seen a naked man. Shylo smiled indulgently. "Please forgive me for barging in on you like this," she said, running another bluff. "I had no idea you'd be entertaining. Perhaps I can stop by again tomorrow if I have time on my way to the train station."

  "Oh, no, I won't hear of your going off this way." Victoria reached for Shylo's hands and clasped them between her own. "Please stay. We've having a wonderful reception for the Greek envoy and several of his compatriots." She glanced at Cassie, who was still perched on the edge of the settee. "If your friend would like—"

  "Oh, don't worry about Miss McBride. She's my traveling companion, and quite content to busy herself with her little bag of sewing." She turned and smiled at Cassie. "I shan't be long, Cassandra."

  "Then you'll stay and join us?" Mrs. Vanderkellen asked.

  Shylo's pause was practiced, giving her the opportunity to glance down at her beautiful new dress. She had chosen the outfit carefully, knowing she couldn't afford to waste what little money she and Cassie had left on imported fabrics, velvet, or silk. Her royal blue suit of sateen was stylish yet plain, a lovely little day dress that Cassie's nimble fingers could turn into a ball gown later, if necessary.

  She sighed dramatically. "Perhaps I should go. I'm not really dressed for a formal occasion. Had I known—"

  "You look wonderful just the way you are. Shall we?"

  Shylo smiled sweetly. "If you insist."

  As the women walked toward the ballroom, Victoria told her about the other guests. "You did say you were Miss Folsom, didn't you?"

  "Yes, but please call me Shylo."

  "And you may call me Victoria, if you like." Dropping her voice even lower, she went on. "You wouldn't believe the assortment of unattached Greek men we have with us tonight. I'm a little jealous of you single ladies—some of these gentlemen are shockingly handsome."

  Shylo had been studying the papers well enough to know exactly what the woman was hinting at. It was practically sport in New York for young heiresses to marry Europeans, and the more titled the man, the better. Rich men and their titles didn't interest Shylo, though. Presenting herself to her mother—and in her own highfalutin' territory, no less—did. But she had one other little thing to take care of first.

  When they reached the ballroom doors, Shylo bade the hostess to slow her steps. "Excuse me, Victoria, but I wonder if you'd mind doing me a little favor before you start introducing me around."

  "Of course, dear. What is it? Would you like to freshen up a bit first?"

  "No, but there is something that makes me feel a little, oh, I don't know... uncomfortable." She had the woman's attention and hoped she could capture her sympathy as well. Shylo wasn't terribly concerned about the repercussions when the Vanderkellens discovered she wasn't related to the president, but if she could avoid having to explain that little bit of chicanery to her mother, who might not be terribly pleased to see her again to begin with, their reunion would go ever so much better.

  "I'd really appreciate it if you'd introduce me as just plain Shylo Folsom. To mention my connection to the president would make me feel, well, pretentious at the least, but my main concern is those single men you were telling me about." She bit the inside of her lip to keep from laughing. "You'd be surprised how many of them try to take advantage of my position."

  Victoria looked dismayed. "Oh, I never thought of what you must endure as, you know. You're sure?"

  "Oh, yes. I'm sure." Relieved to have that out of the way, Shylo reminded herself of the rules of etiquette she'd memorized as Victoria led her toward a small group of guests. A few of those handsome, "unattached" men stood out from the crowd, but Shylo barely glanced their way.

  While Victoria Vanderkellen began her introduction into New York society, a distracted Shylo scanned the crowd for the woman who'd abandoned her daughters sixteen years before, shortly after the second, Cassie, was born.

  * * *

  In a corner not far from the doorway, Dimitri Adonis watched as his hostess stepped back into the ballroom. A new guest accompanied her, a simply dressed and rather unassuming-looking young woman who didn't appear to be weighing the bank account of each man her gaze fell upon. She seemed to be a refreshing change from the American females he'd come across during the few days he'd been in the States. Refreshing... and intriguing. Perhaps he would seek her introduction instead of waiting for her to make her way through the crowd.

  "Dimitri. There you are." Aristotle Kotsala swept by a tuxedoed waiter, removed two glasses of champagne from the man's silver tray, and never slowed his stride as he offered one of the drinks to his nephew. "How do you think to do business with the Americans if you are hiding in corners? Come, join us."

  Dimitri smiled as he accepted the champagne, amazed at the old man's unending supply of energy. Ari, who liked to think of himself as Dimitri's uncle even though the relationship was distant, and by marriage rather than blood, came alive at these gatherings, working the crowds like a fishmonger along the ancient quays of Piraeus. Dimitri, on the other hand, was bored and more than just a little uncomfortable.

  Ari's gray eyes glistened, and his nose wrinkled with enthusiasm as he touched his glass to his nephew's. "Yamas! Or to be more American, I'll say, 'Bottoms up!' To our successes—mine with the businessmen, yours with the ladies."

  Dimitri accepted the toast, though his enthusiasm for either enterprise was slim, at best. There was certainly a need, and a rather urgent one, to stir up interest and procure a goodly amount of capital if the Adonis import business was ever to get back on its feet again.

  After what his uncle Niko, his true uncle, had done, there was really no choice. On the very day that Dimitri's father died, Niko had raped the business of its assets and fled the country, leaving Dimitri and his widowed mother to pick up the pieces with precious little means at their disposal. It was a business Dimitri had virtually no interest in, but as the only child of George and Anastasia Adonis, putting the company back in order was expected of him. It was his duty.

  Uncle Ari knew how much it pained Dimitri to leave the University of Athens, even for this brief trip.

  Because of that, Ari had been the first with an offer of help, although because of the man's own adverse financial condition, that help had been strictly of an advisory nature. But he had been unfailing in that capacity. For those reasons, if no other, Dimitri raised his glass to him in salute. "To success, wherever and however we may find it."

  Ari downed his champag
ne in one swallow, grinned, and wriggled his eyebrows. "Come with me, my son. I have three rich young American women who wish to meet you. You must smile on the one you like best, show her your good teeth, and she will be yours, no problem."

  Dimitri laughed. "What did you tell them this time, Uncle Ari? That I am a prince, son to King George no less?"

  "Would I tell such lies?" Ari smoothed his handlebar mustache. "Hmmm... now that I think back, could be yes, I maybe mentioned something about a title. My memory—it is not so good these days."

  Again Dimitri laughed. Ari's strategies were so outrageous. "And what, dear uncle, shall I do when one of those American beauties finds out that I have no title or money? What if her father should take it in his head to shoot me as a rakehell?"

  Ari shrugged. "No problem. A man as handsome as you just naturally has a way with the ladies. One look at you, and the woman you choose—one who will be richer than God, of course—will forget about all but you. No father will shoot his daughter's love. Come, I show you."

  Dimitri was amused, but he held back. He wasn't even slightly interested in getting married to anyone, much less an American woman of "fine breeding."

  This was his first trip to the States, and from what he'd seen so far, the heiresses and aristocrats here were spoiled, demanding, and much too artificial for his tastes. Ari might consider a marriage between him and an American heiress as the most lucrative and least difficult way of regaining the Adonis fortunes, but Dimitri was not at all convinced.

  "Come," Ari repeated. "You must remember that it is just as easy to marry a rich woman as a poor one. A bride of great wealth awaits you in this room. I feel it in my bones. Come now, you choose."

  Dimitri rolled his eyes. He'd rather have pledged his troth to a Turkish peasant than face the rest of his life with one of the women gathered in this mansion, but he decided to relinquish his hold on the corner. After all, they hadn't traveled all this way just for a change of scenery. He and Ari had pooled their assets to make this trip, gambled with what was left of the family business in the hopes that American money would help make the Adonis empire whole and healthy again. The least he could do was pretend to go along with all of Ari's stratagems—even this ridiculous matchmaking idea.

  Maybe, Dimitri mused, if he looked as if he were actively seeking a bride, his uncle would turn his concentration wholly on the businessmen, thereby securing the financial backing they sought without an unwanted wedding. After that, Dimitri figured on hiring someone to run the family business so he would be free to pursue his archaeological career once again.

  "All right," Dimitri said, sounding resigned as he set his glass on a small marble table. "Take me to the slaughter."

  Ari chuckled and rubbed his hands together, but before they could move toward the center of the crowded ballroom where most guests were milling around a circular buffet table, she came into view: the lovely, unassuming young woman who had caught Dimitri's eye earlier.

  Up close she was even lovelier, her smooth peachy complexion unfettered by powders and rouges. Her manner was surprisingly humble, too, making her seem a little tentative, almost as if she felt out of place or was uncomfortable. The way she looked on the outside was the way Dimitri felt on the inside.

  He tapped Ari's shoulder, pointed at the girl in the royal blue, and said, "I choose her."

  Ari's bald head swiveled in her direction, and then he furrowed his brow. "She does not look so wealthy, my son, nor do we know anything of her. At least wait to choose until I can, how do you say, learn of her assets?"

  "I can see her assets, and I like what I see." Dimitri glanced at his uncle and winked. "I choose her."

  As she and Victoria Vanderkellen neared yet another group of strangers, Shylo prayed once again that she would finally be looking into the green eyes of the mother she hadn't seen in so long. How could she not be here? Shylo had learned through reading old newspapers that Victoria Vanderkellen and Colleen McBride—now Broussard—were the closest of friends. One would never dream of giving a party without inviting the other. Colleen just had to be here.

  Then, out of nowhere, Shylo felt the man's gaze upon her. It was a probing, penetrating stare that made her feel intimidated, exposed somehow. She tried to talk herself into meeting the challenge she felt but was terrified that he might be able to see through her and know her for the impostor she was. As she and Victoria drew closer to the man, Shylo tried desperately to think of a reason to excuse herself.

  Then it was too late.

  Chapter 2

  "...and these two gentlemen," Shylo heard Victoria say, "are businessmen from Greece. I'm sorry to say, sirs, that since I've met so many new people this evening, most of them with terribly difficult names, I seem to have forgotten yours."

  "There is no need to apologize, Mrs. Vanderkellen." The man's voice seemed like velvet to Shylo, deep and smooth. "My uncle and I can make our own introductions."

  "I do appreciate that." Victoria touched Shylo's shoulder. "Will you excuse me, dear? I see that some new guests have arrived, and I must welcome them. I'm sure these gentlemen will keep you entertained, even if I can't tell them what a very special guest you are." Then she glided away.

  The Vanderkellen woman had been alluding to Shylo's connections since she'd walked into the ballroom, sometimes tossing Washington, D.C., or mention of the White House into her conversations. Although the innuendos embarrassed Shylo, they did have a desirable effect. Most of the guests seemed to be duly impressed with her unnamed "credentials," even though none of them could figure out quite how she fit into political society.

  But right now the only thing she gave a hoot about was the impression this man had formed—and why he was staring at her in such a blatant manner. Before Shylo could summon the courage to stare right back at him, that velvet smooth voice caressed her ears again.

  "I am Dimitri, and this is my uncle, Aristotle Kotsala."

  Not quite prepared for the confrontation, Shylo forced herself to turn to the older, shorter, and far less threatening stranger. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Kotsala. My name is Shylo Mc—Folsom."

  Ari reached for her hand and shook it lightly. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss McFolsom."

  "It's Folsom," she said, quickly covering the blunder. "Shylo Folsom."

  "Shylo. What a very interesting name." That voice again, pensive, thoughtful, tasting her name rather than simply enunciating it. "Does Shylo mean something special?"

  His tone beckoned her. Shylo suddenly had no will of her own, no thought but to obey him. She glanced up, and for one long, stunning moment she forgot who she was, whom she was pretending to be, and why. He was an aristocrat, that much was for sure. No one could possibly look the way he did and be anything less than royalty. Dimitri's features were godlike, carved in classical Greek fashion with bold, dark sweeps. Topping that perfect face was a head full of blue-black hair that fell in thick waves, then rolled into a mass of curls just below his ears and at the collar of his shirt. Preoccupied by the man's terrifyingly good looks, Shylo forgot all about her previous fears. She dared a glance into his eyes—and froze.

  She'd never seen black eyes before, certainly none as dark or luminous as the ones looking back at her, but it wasn't just their color that had her thoroughly trapped; it was what they had to say to her. Those eyes were cool yet hot at the same time, both confident and deeply perceptive, glimpsing through her layers as if their owner knew that just plain Shylo McBride fresh off a Kansas farm lurked beneath the cheap sateen and pile of cumbersome curls.

  Seeking relief from his probe, she managed to force her gaze downward to his mouth. This part of him, too, was carved in classic Greek fashion, the bottom lip full, the top finely etched, with an enticing dip at the center. As she stared at that fascinating mouth, wondering briefly how it would feel pressed against her own, those perfectly formed lips spread into a grin.

  "Perhaps my question was too personal." Dimitri knew that his command of English was a lot better than hi
s grasp of American manners and mores. Concerned that he'd offended the mute woman, he lifted both of her hands and carefully kissed her fingertips. "I am new to your country, and not familiar with many of your customs. Please forgive me."

  "Oh, n-no, there's nothing to forgive." Now that she was finally able to speak again, Shylo's voice sprang up from the pit of her belly, loud and unladylike. She had to get a grip on herself and the peculiar warm way this man made her feel—which was not easy, since his lips had all but set fire to her fingers right through her gloves.

  She took a deep breath and softened her tone. "I mean to say that I don't mind you asking about my name. My mother's people are from Tennessee..." Shylo paused long enough to glance around the room in search of that very woman, came up empty again, and went on. "Anyway, she just liked the sound of the word Shiloh, I guess, but spelled my name different, S-h-y-l-o, so I wouldn't be getting confused with a battle."

  Dimitri smiled broadly, showing off a pair of dimples as chiseled and perfect as his swarthy features. "Shylo is a lovely name, and if I may say so, you are a very lovely woman."

  His pronunciation of "woo-man" added to the melodic way he rolled his r's, had Shylo nearly quivering. She thought Victoria Vanderkellen had been exaggerating mightily when she'd said there were some "shockingly handsome" men gathered in her ballroom, but now that she'd laid eyes on this one and heard him speak, Shylo thought the woman had grossly underrated at least one of her guests.

  But whether he was handsome or not, she couldn't afford to be distracted by this man. She was supposed to be thinking with her head, not her fluttering female heart. Hadn't she learned from the way her mother had run out on her father in search of "a better life" that drooling over handsome men or even falling in love with one was a complete waste of time? Of course. Above all else, she had to remember those rules and never let her head be turned, not even by this magnificent specimen of manhood.