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.”
Peter drew back slightly to look at her. “You took dancing from Miss Blythe, too?”
She made a face and ducked her head as she nodded. Her voice, when it came, was quieter even than before, shyer and softer. “I was in your class once.”
He wanted to remember, to call up some long forgotten memory of Thea at what age? Seven? Eight? He hadn’t been more than ten or eleven when his grandmother had enrolled him at Miss Blythe’s. Just for the fundamentals, Grandmother Jane had said and, true to her word, she hadn’t pushed him beyond the essentials of learning the basic steps. He could conjure up a mental picture of Miranda Danville, her blond braids dangling across her shoulders, as she told him to count his steps! He could recall Angela Merchant, her blond curls bouncing down her back, insisting he’d stepped on her toes on purpose! He could remember a whole chorus of pretty little girls, who knew, even then, who they were and who weren’t at all sure this rough and tumble boy belonged in their social strata—even if his newly acquired name was Braddock. They’d changed their minds and found him immensely acceptable by the time adolescence rounded their bodies and added an alluring charm to their flirtation skills.
But he didn’t remember Thea.
“I didn’t take classes with Miss Blythe for very long,” he said, as if that excused it. “I wasn’t exactly star pupil material at that time in my life.”
“You were a natural, even then,” Thea stated. “Even Miss Blythe thought so.”
He laughed. “I’m afraid not. She told me flat out to concentrate on developing some charm because I certainly wasn’t going to get anywhere with my dancing.”
“Did your grandmother know she said that?”
Jane Braddock would have taken the shine right off of Miss Blythe’s fancy dancing shoes if she’d known. “No,” he said with a self-effacing smile. “I didn’t want to take dance lessons in the first place. If Miss Blythe hadn’t said that to me, I might never have decided to prove her wrong. Then where would I be right now?” He pulled her closer. “I’d be sitting on the sidelines, watching you dance with some other man and wishing it were me.”
She stumbled and he caught her, setting her back into the shared rhythm of the dance as easily as if she hadn’t missed a step. “Don’t please,” she said so softly he had to bend his head to catch the words. “You don’t have to charm me. Couldn’t we just…dance?”
A stab of remorse whispered through him like a shameful secret. Thea knew his words were false, recognized his charm for the polished insincerity it was, and was offended by it. As she had every right to be. This date hadn’t been his idea, true. But he didn’t for a minute believe it had been high on her wish list, either. She didn’t want him to pretend. She simply wanted the evening to proceed to its natural end with some little bit of dignity.
“That would be my pleasure,” he said because, whether she believed him or not, that much was true.
“YOU WON’T REGRET THIS, Mrs. Fairchild.” Ainsley Danville hugged Ilsa with one hundred percent pure enthusiasm. “I’m very good with people and I have a real knack for matchmaking. Even if I do say so myself.” She drew back, her pretty face flushed with excitement, her blue eyes sparkling with anticipation. “Who do you think should be my first client?”
Ilsa tried not to sigh. “You’ll start in the office and learn about all the paperwork that goes along with this kind of work. And Ainsley, you must keep in mind that discretion is essential. I’d prefer you tell anyone who asks that you’re an associate with IF Enterprises, not a matchmaker. For the record, I seldom, if ever, refer to my business as ‘matchmaking.”’
“I understand completely, Mrs. Fairchild. I am the very soul of discretion.” Her smile bloomed again and Ilsa thought it more than likely the news that she’d hired an assistant would be all over Rhode Island before sundown tomorrow. Perhaps all over New England, as well. But it was done. She’d wrestled with this decision for weeks. Ainsley had been campaigning for the job for nearly a year. Ilsa could only hope having an apprentice would turn out to be a lucky decision, even if it didn’t feel at all like a wise one at the moment.
Ainsley leaned closer. “Tell me, please, Mrs. Fairchild, are you responsible for today’s wedding, too?”
They were both in attendance at the wedding reception for Angela Merchant and Park Overton—now Mr. and Mrs. Park Overton—and Ilsa actually had made an introduction of possibilities for the couple not quite a year ago. But responsible for the wedding? No, she wouldn’t say that at all. “I don’t take credit for weddings, Ainsley. Only for helping someone see possibilities that already existed in the first place. I do hope you’ll keep in mind that no matter how well you do your homework or how sure you are the match you’ve put together is the right one, the whole thing can, and often does, fall apart. Park and Angela are two of the lucky ones. Much of what happens is luck, Ainsley. Once we’ve introduced the possibility of a match, the rest is out of our sphere of influence entirely. So while I don’t believe in taking credit for someone else’s happily ever after, I certainly don’t believe in blaming myself when a match doesn�
��t work out, either.”
Ainsley nodded, her expression beautifully serious. “I’ll remember that,” she said. “No taking the credit and no taking the blame.” Her irrepressible spirit rebounded with a wide smile. “So how soon can I start? Because I already have someone in mind as sort of a test case. My cousin, Scott, is single and desperately lonely. I have a hunch Julia Butterfield would really like him. He’s sort of rowdy and he’s not a vegan—he eats all kinds of meat—but I think he might change his bad habits if he met the right woman.”
Ilsa kept smiling despite the most pressing impulse to sigh. “First, office procedure, Ainsley,” she reminded her new assistant. “Then we’ll see about letting you work with me on a match.”
“Okay. Gotcha.”
Ilsa reminded herself again that she needed help with her business. And Ainsley had the personality for it. She was cute, she was bubbly, she was optimistic and she had a natural intuition about people, even though it flared a little on the wild side occasionally. But Ilsa did hope this new alliance would work out. She needed an infusion of Ainsley’s enthusiasm. Her own had been flagging lately and this could turn out well for both of them. After all, the whole premise of IF Enterprises was summed up in her own personal motto that Anything Is Possible.
Sipping her glass of wine, Ilsa looked around to see what Peter had done with Thea. They were no longer sitting in the far corner of the room, the spot Thea seemed usually to prefer and which they had occupied since dinner. They might already have left. It was early yet, but…no, there. They were dancing, and despite the fact that Theadosia looked like a maiden aunt, she seemed to be…well, not entirely miserable. Peter didn’t appear to be bored to distraction, although it was hard to tell for sure, and common sense told her he couldn’t be enjoying the evening.
Maybe something would come of this, although she couldn’t imagine what. Or how. Ilsa simply felt badly about her part in putting this mismatch together. Even for just these few hours. She should never have mentioned the impulse to Archer. She should not have heeded his encouragement to follow through on her hunch and set up this one evening of possibility. And she definitely should not have allowed him to use his influence over Peter and his long acquaintance with Davinia Carey to arrange this date with disaster. What possibility could exist, other than in her imagination, between Peter Braddock and Theadosia Berenson? It was a bad idea that just wouldn’t go away.
“Ainsley?” she said on impulse. “What do you know about Thea Berenson?”
Ainsley frowned, studying the question the way she might examine a raw turnip. “Well, some people call her Teddy Bear because she always looks a little fuzzy, if you know what I mean?”
Ilsa did.
“I’ve heard her called a poor, little rich girl, too, but it would be hard to tell that by looking at her. I don’t know what happened to her parents, although it must have been bad because nobody ever mentions them except in hushed-up tones, like it was some big scandal or something. She had a brother, but he died a couple of years ago. Of meanness, my sister said, but I think it was really just a heart attack. No mystery there. The real mystery to me,” Ainsley added as if it were incomprehensible, “is why she still lives with her grandmother who is—pardon my frankness, but I have to be honest—the original Wicked Witch of all New England and possibly the world.”
There was some truth in the statement, but while Ilsa didn’t want to discourage her protégé’s observations, she did want to encourage a temperate perspective of others’ life situations. “Davinia Carey isn’t, perhaps, a warm person, but I believe she has had a rather unhappy life.”
“Well, excuse me,” Ainsley said without apology. “But that’s not a good reason to make Thea miserable.”
Also true.
“Why do you think Thea allows someone else to make her miserable?” Ilsa asked, interested in gaining someone else’s insight. “If, indeed, she is.”
“Oh, how could she not be?” Ainsley said. “I can’t imagine why she stays at Grace Place when she can afford to buy a place of her own.”
“Maybe her money is tied up in trusts and she can’t touch any of it until she’s older.” Ilsa had a file on Thea—a woefully thin one—but of course, the financial information was private, so all she could do was speculate along with Ainsley. “That’s very possible.”
“She could get a job. She has a degree from Wellesley, you know. I don’t know what she studied, but she could get a job at a museum or something. I sure wouldn’t live in that dark old house with that old…” Ainsley let the intended epithet trail away. “With her grandmother,” she finished and Ilsa gave her full marks for being a quick learner.
“Maybe,” Ilsa said, “Thea is afraid of what will happen if she leaves.”
“Maybe with good reason.” Ainsley frowned, obviously still studying the oddness of Thea’s life. But then, like the sun coming out, her blue eyes went wide and she turned back to Ilsa, the light of conspiracy in her smile. “Holy Toledo, Mrs. Carey didn’t hire you to make a match for Thea, did she? I mean, who would you ever find to match up with her?”
A good question, if not quite an accurate observation. “There’s someone for everyone, Ainsley.”
“He’ll have to be a true Prince Charming,” she said, her attention returning to the couples on the dance floor, as if she thought she could spot a match for Thea just by looking. “And maybe very nearsighted.”
Ilsa let her gaze travel back to where Peter and Thea were still dancing. Not talking. Or looking at each other. But something in the way he held her, something in the way she moved in his arms, something about…
No. Ilsa knew she had to be imagining that indefinable something she felt when she saw Peter with Thea. They could never, in a million years, find the true heart of the other. Even if they were inclined to look.
“Ilsa?” Ainsley’s voice had softened to a thoughtful musing. “Have you ever felt that maybe Thea and…”
She didn’t finish the thought, left it dangling in the air between them, but the quicksilver clench of knowing caught Ilsa unaware. Peter. Ainsley felt it, too. That something Ilsa hadn’t been able to name.
Which didn’t mean either one of them were right about it.
“Davinia has not hired me to find a match for Thea,” Ilsa said truthfully. “Nor would she. Ever.”
Ainsley smiled, secretively at first, but then with blinding self-confidence. “Would you mind if I worked on a possibility for Thea?” she asked. “On my own time, of course, and I won’t actually do anything. I’ll just sort of think about it, look around for a nearsighted prince of a guy, ponder possibilities in my head. Would that be okay?”
Ilsa knew she should say no. Flat out. But Ainsley couldn’t, just by thinking and wondering and imagining, do any harm. Truthfully, she couldn’t do any worse than Ilsa had already done if she set out full-tilt to find Thea a match. “As long as you keep in mind that even a matchmaker can’t work miracles.”
“Gotcha,” Ainsley said, although a miracle was clearly what she had in mind.
Chapter Three
Peter didn’t ask again if she wanted him to put down the top of the convertible. He just did it.
He didn’t ask if she wanted to head down to Point Judith, either. He simply turned the Beemer in that direction and drove.
He didn’t offer much in the way of conversation, just asked if the wind was too much, if she felt chilly, if she didn’t think this was one of those nights when the earth and the sky were in perfect accord.
To which she answered, respectively, with two separate shakes of her head and a singular nod. She didn’t say that the wind felt glorious on her face and in its wild fling with her hair. She didn’t say that she loved the faint nip of autumn in the air and the brewing fragrance of a distant storm. She didn’t confess that she, too, thought this was one of those perfect nights, which, in some mysterious alignment of nature, occasionally happened in a New England autumn. And she especially didn’t say that ensconced
in the deep leather seat, her head resting against the headrest, her feet flat on the floor, sitting as close as she ever sat to another person and riding through the dark with the night rushing over her in an endless sensual wave, felt daring and somehow, extraordinarily brave.
Thea didn’t want to spoil the moment with words for fear Peter would remember who he was with, turn the car around and take her straight home. So she just closed her eyes and let the sensations weave their way through her with all their myriad pleasures.
When he stopped the car and shut off the engine, she heard the Atlantic chanting its rhythmic poetry to the rocky shores around Point Judith. She kept her eyes shut, recognized their location from the road they’d traveled and from the pulsating blink of the lighthouse which crept beneath her lashes and lightened the darkness every few seconds. The scent of the ocean surrounded them, more ancient than the forest primeval, its song as familiar and as soothing as a heartbeat.
“Thea?” Peter’s voice was soft as the night, almost as if he thought she really might be asleep.
“Peter,” she replied to let him know she was awake and aware, even if her eyes were still closed. There, in a darkness of her own making, she could drink in the fantasy of being alone with him, imagining for the space of a single breath that he wanted to be here with her, that he planned to kiss her senseless in full view of a million stars, that he had brought her here on this special night to make love to her with the eternal ocean as witness.
“We’re at Point Judith Lighthouse,” he said.
“I know. Did you get lost?”
“No.”
“Point Judith isn’t exactly on the way to Grace Place.”
“No, it isn’t.”
She nodded and the thought flitted through her mind that she might have read Peter wrong, that it was possible he hid a lecherous soul beneath his handsome face and gentlemanly manners. No matter how she dressed, or acted, or how hard she tried to make herself invisible, there were still men who thought they could take advantage. But Peter could have any woman he wanted. He was Hollywood handsome, deathly charming and rich as Croesus. He could have no design on her fortune or her figure. He probably didn’t even realize she had a figure beneath the shapeless clothes she wore.
The Blacksheep's Arranged Marriage Page 4