The Matchmaker's Plan

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  He’d figured out very quickly—after his first solicitous “How are you feeling?”—not to ask any more questions. She obviously wasn’t in the mood to talk, with her head listing against the passenger-side window, her hands limp and pale in her lap. His suggestion that the seat could be made to recline met with a look that squelched further offers of assistance. She obviously wasn’t in the mood for helpful opinions or sympathetic gestures, either.

  So he made none.

  Once they’d traversed the long driveway and reached the house, he intended to go around, open her car door and offer a helping hand into the house, but she was out of the car before him and ahead of him going up the porch steps. The second he’d unlocked the front door, she’d pushed it open, run to the bathroom and locked herself inside. He’d followed, waiting in the hallway in case she needed help, although he was certain she’d rather suffer than unlock that door and ask for his assistance. But he didn’t know what else to do, so he hovered there in the hallway, feeling guilty for no reason and helpless for more reasons than he could name. In a few minutes, he heard the thunder of water sluicing from the tap and into the tub and smelled the first fragrant burst of bath salts. Apparently, she planned to stay in there for a good long while.

  Not exactly the way he’d pictured his wedding night.

  Of course, calling it a wedding night was a misnomer. And thinking of it that way was…well, dangerous. Peyton didn’t feel well. At the restaurant, her skin had turned as pale as milk in a matter of seconds. All the way home, she’d looked fragile, shaky, and so vulnerable, he ached to take her in his arms and reassure her that she wasn’t in this alone, that somehow, it would all turn out right.

  But, of course, he wasn’t sure it would turn out all right. And touching her would be…well, dangerous. Because she didn’t want to be touched. And because touching could be so easily misinterpreted as something more than it was. And because he wanted to start out their relationship with as few complications as possible.

  Which was about the dumbest thought he’d ever had. Their relationship was a complication. It was nothing but complications. Period. There was simply no other way to describe it.

  The sound of rushing water stopped as abruptly as it had begun, but steam seeped beneath the door, filling the hallway with the heated scent of bath salts, and an alluring, almost suffocating sense of intimacy. Matt stood, like a voyeur, listening to the splash as Peyton eased into the water, hearing, or imagining he heard, the slow, soft sigh she released as the fragrant warmth enveloped her body.

  Her naked body.

  He turned abruptly, taming by sheer willpower the embarrassing rush of heat that had coursed through him in a whirlwind of unasked-for, unanticipated desire. What was wrong with him, anyway? Standing in the hallway, listening to Peyton getting into a bath. Imagining her there. Imagining—even for only an instant—getting into the bath with her, doing things he felt ashamed to admit he could even think about at a time like this.

  She was pregnant. She was sick. She’d just married a damn Yankee.

  Thinking of this marriage in any other terms, remembering even the smallest details about the night and the passion that had gotten them here was…well, dangerous.

  So he walked down the hall and into the bedroom where he’d earlier placed her suitcase. His, of course, was in a bedroom on the other side of the house. There was a lot to be said for the layout of this house and the privacy it afforded. No one would ever know they’d spent their first nights as husband and wife on opposite ends of the house. Exactly what he’d had in mind when he’d called Rob and asked to use the house. He hadn’t wanted to stay at a hotel where they’d share a room for the sake of appearance. That would have been difficult, at best, and he’d wanted Peyton to feel comfortable on this odd honeymoon.

  Or at least no more uncomfortable than could be helped.

  So, this arrangement had turned out just the way he’d planned it.

  Which was about the only thing today that had gone the way he’d planned. The wedding chapel wasn’t as it had been pictured in the brochure and, in daylight, appeared to be on the shabby side of respectability. The organ music had sounded tinny and off-key. The flowers, except for Peyton’s single lily, had been artificial and muted with dust. And Matt had stood there, repeating the minister’s words, trying to focus on the seriousness of what he and Peyton were doing, and the only thing he could think of was that the man had the biggest nose he’d ever seen.

  Not what he’d ever imagined he would be thinking about during his wedding.

  But then, he’d never actually imagined himself getting married.

  Walking back down the hall, holding his breath as he passed the bathroom door so he wouldn’t catch the scent of the bath salts again, he walked straight to the front door and outside. The December air felt icy cold in his lungs and chilled him through, but the night was clear and bright with stars. He stayed outside on the porch for several long minutes, just breathing in and watching the exhaled air float up toward the stars. Then he jumped the steps and jogged over to lock the rental car. Noticing Peyton’s lily lying cold and forgotten on the dash, he retrieved it and carried it inside. He found a vase in the kitchen and sank the stem as far as it would go into warm water. The lily seemed to perk up almost immediately, so maybe the rest of the evening could be salvaged to some extent as well.

  His original plan for after the ceremony—dinner out, a drive across the Rainbow Bridge to view the falls at night, then a leisurely return to the house, set in its dark, sleepy vineyard—hadn’t come off as he’d imagined, either. He’d thought that after a big meal and a long drive, they’d both be tired enough to talk only a little and then go to their separate bedrooms, hopefully already a bit closer to the friendship they’d each said they wanted this marriage to become.

  That had been a good plan.

  Except that Peyton was in the bathtub, soaking her squeamish tummy, and he was not only keyed up, colder than an icicle, but starving. The curried sea bass was nothing but a tantalizing thought that made his stomach clench with hunger. Opening the refrigerator, he smiled, thankful Miranda wasn’t the only one of the Danvilles who could plan ahead. He’d asked Evelyn and Rob—this was, after all, their house and vineyard—if they’d give him the name of someone local who would stock the house for him before his and Peyton’s arrival. They’d told him not to worry, they’d take care of it, and they’d obviously done more than simply instruct someone to get a few groceries. There was wine, champagne, juice, mixers, all kinds of fruit, an assortment of cheese, crackers, chilled, cooked shrimp with cocktail sauce and various covered dishes, marked with instructions and ready for the oven. Reaching for the one marked Veal Scallopini he remembered Peyton’s reaction to the mere mention of food at the restaurant and decided maybe he should avoid putting anything in the oven and thereby unleashing smells that might upset her stomach all over again.

  Crackers. Hadn’t Miranda always insisted the twins eat plain crackers when they’d had a touch of stomach upset? And cheese? Hadn’t he read somewhere that milk products were soothing for stomach ailments? It sounded reasonable, so he put together a tray of cheese and crackers, debated about the shrimp, but there again, it was fish. So he settled on just the crackers and cheese, poured himself a glass of wine, and got a bottle of mineral water for Peyton.

  He added the lone lily in its crystal vase to the tray and carried it carefully into the other room. It took a few minutes to rearrange the logs already stacked in the fireplace, but only a small adjustment to the gas to get a nice fire blazing behind the screen. He crouched there for a few minutes, soaking in the warmth and feeling rather proud of the accomplishment, as he didn’t, ordinarily, have occasion to light a fire. Or fix a tray of food, for that matter. It occurred to him how privileged his whole life had been. Unless he counted the seemingly constant absence of his parents.

  His child would not feel that lack. Ever. Matt was determined to be there for his son or daughter. No matte
r what sacrifice he had to make. Had already made.

  Married. He was married.

  By now, Ainsley, Miranda and Andrew would know. He’d sent them each a note, stating that he’d eloped with Peyton O’Reilly, that he’d fill them in on all the happy details later, that they could expect to greet their new sister-in-law on New Year’s Eve, but until then, he’d appreciate a little privacy. He knew his siblings. They’d be dying to dial his cell phone, but they’d respect his request.

  He wasn’t so sure what the O’Reillys would do when they received the note he’d written to Rick. Peyton didn’t know about that. Not yet. But Matt had felt, as a gentleman, it was his responsibility to inform her parents of the elopement. He’d sent word to his parents as well, although it could be days before they received the message. All in all, he felt he’d done everything he could to smooth the path ahead for Peyton, soften the surprise, and give the impression that their elopement might have been impulsive but not unplanned.

  He breathed her in—the fragrances of bath and woman wrapped around one another in a subtle, intoxicating scent—even before he heard the scuff of her feet against the carpet and looked up to see her. She stood just inside the room, a white robe swaddling her from ankle to chin, the fleecy lapels folding back to reveal a small vee of creamy breastbone and framing the slender curve of her neck. Her hair was damp and curly, caught up on top of her head with a clip that left tendrils twirling loosely about her nape, spiraling around her face. She had her hands nestled inside the long sleeves, had one sleeve tucked cozily inside the other, like a chenille muff. Her feet were bare and her face, too, wore only the rosy warmth of a hot bath.

  His heart caught, beat once, skipped another beat, then settled again into a steady rhythm. In all his planning, he hadn’t once imagined her looking like this. Or that he would feel such a surge of pure, melting temptation in the simple tilt of the smile that graced her prettily bowed lips.

  “A fire,” she said as if it were an extraordinary thing. “I love fires in December.”

  “As opposed to fires in other months?” he asked, smiling, too.

  “Winter isn’t particularly cold in Louisiana, so I never even lived in a house with a fireplace until we moved north. But when I was a little girl, every year a couple of days before Christmas, Dad would put up this cardboard setup—for Santa, you know—and I’d pretend the flames were real and gather my dolls and stuffed animals in front of it so they’d be warm while I conducted these elaborate Christmas tea parties.” The slight dip of her chin apologized for the nostalgia. “After December, the cardboard fire-place went back to the attic, the dolls went back on the shelf, and I went back to coloring pictures at my little table in the restaurant while Mom and Dad worked.”

  He turned to the fire, wary of the heat he was feeling in just looking at her, cautious of his sudden empathy with the lonely child she had been. “Are you feeling better?” he asked, pushing to his feet, away from the warmth.

  “Much,” she said brightly. “Is there anything to eat?”

  He gestured at the coffee table and the tray. “I brought a bottle of mineral water for you, but if you’d rather have some tea or broth, I’ll make some.”

  “Tea or broth,” she repeated, her nose crinkling in dismay. “I was hoping for something a little more…substantial.”

  “Well, there’s plenty of crackers.”

  “Crackers,” she repeated, nose still wrinkled.

  “And cheese,” he quickly added.

  “And cheese.”

  “You don’t like cheese?”

  “I do,” she hastened to assure him. “It’s just that…Please don’t misunderstand. I love this house, tucked in its little vineyard, and it was super nice of your friends to let us use it while they’re away and I really am glad we aren’t staying in a hotel…”

  “But…?”

  Her shoulder lifted in a tiny shrug. “But right now I so wish we could call room service.”

  “You’re hungry?”

  “Starving.” She bent down and snagged a sesame-seed cracker, nibbled at the edge, then, for some reason, dropped the rest of it into the robe’s deep pocket. “I guess there isn’t a lot of food in the house, though. Tomorrow, maybe, we should go to a grocery store and stock up.”

  “Stock up.” Now she had him repeating words. “If we had room service and you could order anything you wanted, what would it be?”

  A dreamy look came into her eyes. “Mmm. Spring rolls, or maybe lettuce wraps for starters. Turtle soup…definitely. And bread, preferably sourdough. Then something with pasta…linguine, maybe. In red clam sauce.”

  “Not white clam sauce,” he clarified, amazed at this transformation in her appetite.

  “I prefer red.”

  “No dessert?”

  She hesitated, dropped her chin. “I was thinking ice cream…and a piece of apple pie. Maybe a strawberry milk shake, too. Oh, and bread pudding. White-chocolate bread pudding.”

  Now he was starting to feel a little sick. “Are you sure—?” He stopped himself mid-sentence, because it seemed almost about as bad to mention her earlier state of distress as to ignore it. “You’ll be pleased to learn there is more substantial food in the refrigerator. Unless you think you’d be wiser to stick with just crackers and cheese.”

  She was gone before the last words were out of his mouth, and he heard the pad of her feet on the tile of the kitchen floor. “Wow,” she said as the refrigerator door suctioned open. “Did you do this, Matt?” she called.

  He downed his glass of wine in one long swallow before he followed her to the kitchen and stopped in the doorway. “No. The food is compliments of Evelyn and Rob. I did ask them to have someone stock a few groceries for us, but they, obviously, felt we’d require a little more sustenance than I originally had in mind.”

  She went on surveying the contents of the fridge. “There’s veal scallopini in here. And lasagna. And Cornish hens. And croissants. And two or three kinds of salad. And fruit and…oh, my…” Her voice faded into a nearly orgasmic sigh as she shuffled dishes. “Someone’s made a clam sauce. I bet there’s linguine around here someplace.”

  “Red clam sauce?”

  “White,” she answered. “My favorite.” With that contradiction, she lifted her head and teased him with her smile over the refrigerator door. “Exactly how long is this honeymoon going to last, anyway?”

  “Seven months plus one year,” he replied without thinking…and was immediately sorry when the teasing smile vanished.

  “Let me rephrase,” she said pointedly. “How long are we staying here?”

  “I thought we’d go home late afternoon on the thirty-first, and make our big announcement that night at the New Year’s Eve party at Nate’s coffee-house, although I suspect everyone will know by then, anyway.”

  “Let’s eat some of this shrimp.” She pulled the bowl from the shelf and closed the refrigerator door with a bump from her hip. She had a good-size pink shrimp halfway to her lips, when she stopped cold, offered up a rather startled look. “What do you mean, everyone will know by then?”

  “News like this travels fast, Peyton. Ainsley has always had trouble keeping a secret. And with something this exciting, I expect Miranda will be just about as bad. They may have the news spread all the way to the Atlantic seaboard by the time we get home. I certainly expect it will be all over Newport.”

  “You told your sisters we were eloping? And…and they believed you?”

  “I didn’t tell them, Peyton. I wrote notes.” He paused. “Why wouldn’t they believe me?”

  Color heightened in her cheeks. “I thought we’d agreed not to say anything until we were married.”

  “And I thought we’d agreed to pretend that this elopement was a romantic impulse.”

  “After the fact. How can we say it was an impulse when you told everyone before it even happened? The whole point of an elopement is the element of surprise.”

  “The whole point of an elopement is to g
et married. And I didn’t tell everyone. I wrote notes to my sisters and brother, and one to each set of parents.”

  “You wrote a note to my parents?”

  Grabbing control of his rising frustration, he crossed the room, poured himself another glass of wine and swallowed a third of it in one quaff. It had been one hell of a day. “I wrote to your father, actually, to apologize for stealing off with his daughter and bypassing the formality of asking for her hand in marriage, but assuring him that we were crazy in love and couldn’t wait to be wed.”

  The bloom in her cheeks took on a temperamental heat. “You actually wrote the words crazy in love and couldn’t wait to be wed? To my father?”

  He focused on not crushing the stem of the glass as he sucked down another third of his drink. It was a very good wine and deserved more careful enjoyment. Unfortunately, frustration zapped that pleasure, too. “I don’t remember the exact way I worded it, but something to that effect, yes.”

  Tossing the solitary shrimp back into the bowl, she ducked into the fridge and came out with a bottle of apple juice. “You know, when I found out I was pregnant, I didn’t think giving up alcohol would be any great sacrifice. I realize now I could be wrong, and I think it’s very rude of you to be drinking that wine in front of me. If I have to give up even an occasional glass, you should have to, too.” A thrust of her left hip closed the door for the second time and she marched out of the room, the bowl of shrimp in one hand, the bottle of juice in the other, and her chin so high it was a wonder she could see where she was going.

  This Peyton he recognized, although he wasn’t clear about just what he’d done to bring about her return. He did, however, very purposefully refill his glass before he went after her. “I didn’t want your family thinking something bad had happened when you didn’t arrive in Baton Rouge as planned. There’s no cause to worry them unnecessarily. Writing a note was the reasonable, proper thing to do.”