The Matchmaker's Plan

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  At least, that was the theory.

  “Ask me something,” he prodded. “Anything.”

  “Are you positive you’ve never had a nickname?”

  “Absolutely certain. At least, none that I remember. But then, I didn’t meet my best friend until college, and by that time, nicknames seemed a little juvenile. The family still calls Ainsley Baby, though, and on occasion, if Miranda’s really mad at me, she’ll refer to me as The Jonathan. But since Jonathan is part of my name, I don’t think it counts as a true nickname.”

  “Scarlett sometimes calls me Pey. But then, she’s at that age where two syllables often qualify as a conversational commitment, so I’m not sure it really counts as a nickname, either.”

  “Guess we’re stuck with Pug, then.”

  He was enjoying this a little too much, in her opinion. “Don’t give up, Matt. I may come up with a nickname for you, yet.”

  His laugh came out throaty rich, deep and sensual, sending a quiver of awareness, unimpeded, down her spine. “I think I’ll call you Sweet Pea when the moment requires an endearment. Doesn’t that have a certain Southern flair?”

  He changed lanes, deftly, efficiently, and yet the motion bothered Peyton, made her feel a twist of queasiness, an unease she’d been fighting ever since they’d arrived back in Rhode Island. She opened her eyes, saw they were approaching the Newport Bridge, which spanned Narragansett Bay in a sweep of engineering grace and beauty. Her stomach contracted with renewed dread. They’d be at Danfair in a matter of minutes. Ten. Fifteen. And then the real charade would begin.

  “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  His concern was palpable. It enveloped her and made her feel as if he could protect her from whatever lay ahead, which was ridiculous. “I didn’t think it was that bad,” he said. “But if you really don’t like Sweet Pea, I’ll think of something else.”

  She managed a smile, grateful that he didn’t swamp her with solicitous questions. Of course, during the past few days, she’d rejected his every attempt to aid her during the “morning” sickness which, for her, obviously, wasn’t confined to the a.m. hours. She’d turned down his offers of Chamomile tea and bland crackers; she’d turned away from his sincerely offered sympathy because she knew that, however well intended, accepting any comfort at all from him would create a breach in her defenses, giving him license to ask personal questions and offer his opinion or advice.

  She wasn’t ready to share the pregnancy with him. Not yet. Not when it meant talking about changes in her body that were still elusive and a little startling even to her. At some point, maybe it wouldn’t matter anymore. At some point, maybe this hormonal swing would stop playing havoc with her emotions. At some point, maybe she’d need his understanding and his help. But not yet. Not now. She scrunched her shoulders, stretched the taut muscles across her neck, then relaxed and exhaled the stress.

  “Okay again?”

  “Yes, thanks.” She had an odd impulse to reach over and pat his hand—his large, shapely man’s hand resting on the console between them—to reassure him that he didn’t need to worry about her. But, of course, she didn’t. Touching him, even accidentally, sparked an electric flash of attraction, a burning beneath her skin. Just the thought of it flooded her with hot desire. Sexual desire. Why hadn’t pregnancy affected that, along with her appetite and emotions? “I’m just a little nervous,” she said, as if that came within a yard of describing her restlessness. “About tonight.”

  “Don’t be. I’ll handle the announcement. The only thing you’ll have to do is collect good wishes and look happy.”

  She let her head roll to the left and caught the edge of his smile. “Thank you, Matt.”

  “For what? Being the guy who gets congratulated and slapped on the back? Or for deflecting all that glory off of you?”

  He was a nice man, she thought, and he was trying very hard to make the best of a bad situation. “For being considerate,” she said, “and kind and more patient with me than I deserved.”

  His gaze swept over her, intensely blue and direct. “We’re in this together, Peyton. You’re going to be the mother of my child. I think that deserves special consideration.”

  The mother of his child. For the first time, the thought brought a whisper of excitement that lingered and promised to stay. They had created a new life. However much she regretted the circumstances, she wanted this baby, loved it wondrously, protectively already. And she felt glad Matt was the father. He was a good man, a gentleman, one of those powerful, solid men who believed in family honor and doing the right thing. He would be a good father, and that would be a good thing for her child. She had to count herself lucky that her first taste of desperate, out-of-control passion had been with this man and not someone far less…perfect.

  “Tell me something you regret,” she asked impulsively. “Something other than…this.”

  They were turning off Farewell Street and onto Spring. Danfair was only a few blocks away. Matt knew the neighborhood, had lived here all his life and she realized his silence wasn’t concentration. It lasted long enough to be uncomfortable, to make her wish she hadn’t asked the question. “I’m the Jonathan of my generation,” he said. “Being born to that sort of privilege doesn’t allow much room for regrets.”

  So there it was. Peyton heard the undertone of self-loathing in his voice, knew this marriage would be his great regret. Oh, he’d never admit it—not to her—and she had no doubt he’d treat her with kindness, patience and due consideration. But he’d never be able to look at her without feeling he’d betrayed his family and his heritage.

  And she would never look at him without knowing she’d betrayed herself.

  The mansions of Newport surrounded them now, scrolling past the car windows in all their glory, some gated and closed, some open to the public, all of them magnificent examples of architecture and opulence from the glory days of the Vanderbilts and the Gilded Age of sumptuous wealth. Danfair was one of the oldest cottages, as these summerhouses had once been called, and for the next nineteen months, it would be her home.

  Her mother must be in a state of wicked glee and agitated delight by now. She was probably beside herself with excitement and plans for how to amplify her daughter’s coup into the one thing she, herself, had always craved…personal status. Connie had been born as far from this life as it was possible to get: from a shabby trailer on the wrong side of the bayou, she’d clawed her way out of poverty, married a man with malleable ambitions and worked beside him from dawn to midnight, pushing, prodding and plotting to create the wealth she believed would bring her everything she’d ever wanted.

  Only to discover that there were still some things money couldn’t buy. Respect. Acceptance. Status.

  All of these were, in Connie’s skewed value system, denied to her by birth. And so she turned her ambition to presenting the appearance of having them, one way or another.

  It was the reason for the O’Reillys’ move to Newport. It was the reason Scarlett was enrolled in a preppie private school with students named Kennedy, Du Pont and Shepard. It was the reason Scarlett was allowed, even encouraged, to date Covington Locke. And it was the reason Peyton had come along when they moved. She’d thought she could protect her little sister. She’d hoped her presence could, somehow, keep Scarlett from being overly influenced by things that weren’t important…except in their mother’s misguided aspirations. Above all, Peyton had wanted to be a good example of independence, generosity and right thinking.

  Instead, in one reckless moment, with one fatal choice, she had thrown away her own plans, mortgaged her own future and lost any claim she had to setting a good example. And to top it off, she’d done the one thing she’d sworn she would never do…she’d accomplished her mother’s life ambition. She was delivering Connie a son-in-law of impeccable breeding and a grandchild who would bear an honored and revered name.

  “There’s something I probably should tell you,” she said, deciding Matt had a right to
know. “It’s about my mother.”

  He sighed. “Will you stop worrying about your mother? I deal with women like her every day. I’ll handle any complaints she may have about the elopement. And once she knows about the baby, she won’t care that we didn’t have a big, fancy wedding.”

  Which only proved he’d never dealt with anyone like her mother.

  But the gates of Danfair were in front of them now, already opened, as if welcoming them home. It was a magnificent house, a pearl set in the midst of emerald lawns against a sapphire sea. Breathtaking and beautiful.

  Except for the distracting line of vehicles parked in front.

  “What is this?” Matt asked aloud, although he sounded merely curious and not as if he expected an answer.

  Peyton could have given him one, though. Her heart sank when she spied her mother’s favorite Mercedes coupé, sparkling gold in the winter sunshine, tucked between a white commercial van and a sleek gray Lincoln. She didn’t need to see the excessively tasteful lettering on the side of the van to know Connie was here with Harold Faulkner, her decorator of choice. And she didn’t have to see what was going on inside Matt’s ancestral home to know that he was about to discover the very improper family he’d married into.

  MATT WAS FURIOUS. Livid. Nearly four hours after the fact, he still felt outraged at walking into his home—Danfair!—and finding Connie O’Reilly and her entourage of decorating assistants wandering around like a gaggle of geese, pointing out problem spots, talking about the need to add color, texture and sophistication—sophistication!—to the rooms. The more he thought about it the angrier he became.

  And he had to get over it.

  In a matter of minutes, Peyton would come downstairs and they’d leave for the New Year’s Eve party. Tonight, of all nights, it was imperative that he be able to act the part expected of him, that he be convincing in his role as a newlywed who was besotted with his wife. And he could have done it…easily, he believed…until Connie O’Reilly had interfered.

  He glanced up at the open landing above, but could still see no sign of Peyton, so he took his cell phone from his pocket and dialed Miranda.

  “Matt!” She sounded animated, happy, backed up by the chatty laughter of a party crowd. “When did you get back?”

  “Around five.”

  “Well, what’s keeping you? Everyone—and I do mean everyone—is waiting for you to get here. The whole room is buzzing about your elopement. You and Peyton are the talk of the town—maybe of the whole state.”

  “I’m waiting on Peyton to get ready,” he said, feeling calmer as a result of making this connection with his sister. “But I called you because when we arrived home, guess who was wandering around Danfair like she owned the place?”

  “Your new mother-in-law?”

  “How did you know?”

  “She asked me if I thought redecorating the house for you and Peyton would be an appropriate wedding present.”

  He almost smiled, imagining that conversation. “And she decided to do it, anyway?”

  “I didn’t feel it was my place to tell her it wasn’t appropriate, Matt.”

  “Why not? This is as much your home as mine.”

  “No, it isn’t. Nate and I have decided to get married on Valentine’s Day and I doubt I’ll even be there that much between now and then. But even if I wasn’t planning on moving out, Danfair is yours, Matt. It always has been.”

  He felt isolated suddenly, alone. “It belongs to all of us,” he replied firmly. “Marriage doesn’t change anything important, Miranda. It just brings in more family.”

  “Don’t be naive. Marriage changes everything. It stands to reason it will change Danfair, too.”

  He couldn’t believe she felt this way. “But what about Mom and Dad? What if they come home and some strange woman has redecorated everything?”

  Miranda laughed. “That strange woman is your wife, Matt. Danfair is now her home, too. She needs to feel some ownership in it, so, of course, she’ll want to make some changes…with or without her mother’s input. And our parents wouldn’t notice—or care—if the whole place was painted peacock blue, inside and out.”

  She was right about that. Charles and Linney weren’t interested in property or possessions. They never had been and they certainly weren’t going to start now. As the oldest, Matt had taken care of the estate business, held ownership in the house for almost as long as he could remember. “No one’s going to paint it peacock blue,” he said, because it was the only solid objection that came quickly to mind.

  “I know that. But, Matt, think about it. Danfair has been like a big playground for a long time. Maybe, now, is the right time to restore some of its dignity. Make it a real home again, for a real family.”

  “Connie O’Reilly won’t be the one to do it.”

  There was a slight pause, a rise in the level of background party noise. “Well, that’s between you and Peyton. Look, get your wife and get down to the coffeehouse. Everyone is dying to hear about this secretive courtship and spur-of-the-moment elopement. Ainsley is congratulating herself all over the place, saying she knew the minute she met Peyton that you’d fall for her, that yours would be a surprising romance.” She lowered her voice confidingly. “Ainsley’s planning an introduction of possibilities for Andrew tonight.”

  “She’s becoming quite the little matchmaker, isn’t she?”

  “I think she’s becoming exactly what she was meant to be. And, as matchmaking goes in the immediate family, she’s three for four. I’m betting our Andy won’t even know what hit him.”

  “I’m betting he won’t even show tonight.” Andy would be leery of his twin’s newest claim to fame and her enthusiasm to include him in her list of successes.

  “He will, too, show…if he knows what’s good for him. I went to a lot of trouble putting this party together and my brothers had better be here.”

  Matt heard Nate’s voice—too low and distant to be intelligible—and then she laughed—almost a giggle. In fact, if he hadn’t known it was Miranda, he’d have said it was a giggle. Definitely.

  “This sinfully handsome man has asked me to dance with him, and I can’t say no. Get down here, Matt. You’re missing all the fun.” She clicked off then, leaving him no longer angry, but with an odd feeling of melancholy. His life had changed. Irrevocably. As had Miranda’s. And Ainsley’s. And, inevitably, as would Andrew’s. Logically, of course, he’d known that, but on some deeper emotional level he’d clung to the belief that somehow, he and his siblings would always have pretty much the same life they’d always had…living at Danfair together, adding spouses and children to their odd little family, simply expanding, never really changing.

  He didn’t understand why he had needed that constant, but now that he saw it as the illusion it obviously was, he felt as if he’d lost his anchor, as if he’d been set adrift on a windless sea.

  He heard a noise. No more than a breath of sound. Then the click of heels on the marble floor above. The whisper of fabric swaying against skin. A soft sigh of movement. Matt pulled himself together, looked up and caught his breath as a scintillating desire flashed through him like fire through dry kindling.

  Peyton moved down the stairs like a dream, her hand drifting on the wide sweep of the banister railing, her head up, crowned with a halo of dark, rich curls that glistened like onyx beneath the light of the crystal chandelier. Diamonds dangled from her earlobes and gleamed like drops of dew in the hollow of her throat. Light winked and blinked with every step, caught and reflected by the sequined fabric of her deep blue gown. Even the cloak she carried draped over one arm shifted colors, shimmering from iridescent green to blue to purple and an occasional glimmer of red. From head to foot, she sparkled like the promise of the new year. Her hazel eyes had picked up a blue cast from the dress, and her lips were tinted a luscious rose.

  There was no hint of a smile, though. Merely a paleness in her cheeks and a stalwart lift to her chin. As if she were about to go into ba
ttle rather than out to a party.

  As she reached the base of the staircase, a wave of pride and protectiveness washed over him, grounding him in his new role as husband and father. Peyton needed him. He had promised to keep his end of their bargain and for the duration of their marriage, he would stand between her and the rest of the world. No one would ever know from his actions that this wasn’t exactly what it appeared to be—a love match.

  Moving forward, he offered her his hand for the last step. She looked at it for a moment, as if undecided, then laid her fingers in his palm. Her skin felt cold and he closed the warmth of his hand around hers. “Nice outfit,” he said.

  “Thank you.” Her voice was barely more than a breath. “I bought it on our shopping trip, remember? So I’d have something suitable for tonight.”

  “I remember sitting in a little pink chair, waiting while you tried on dresses.” He remembered trying to blend into the scenery, feeling uncomfortable among the feminine finery and the women who were there to either buy or sell it. He remembered how small the chair had felt and he remembered wondering what women did that took so long. He did not, however, remember this dress. Nor could he ever have imagined how completely breathtaking she would look in it. “Now,” he offered as an apology for having forgotten, “I realize it was more than worth the wait.”

  A ghost of a smile floated across her lips and vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “I’m really sorry about this afternoon,” she said quickly, as if she’d been practicing the words for some time. “I know you were angry. And you have every right to be. Mother shouldn’t have talked her way into the house. Or brought that annoying Charles with her. I’ll take care of it, Matt. Don’t worry. She’s not going to do anything to this house. I promise.”