Bowing to Betsy (The Matchmaker's Ball Book 11)

by Amelia C. Adams

  “Him?” Was there only one other volunteer? Then why were there so many carriages outside?

  “Well, yes. Him.” Mrs. Morgan chuckled. “This is quite a momentous occasion, and I can see that you’re nervous. It’s all right, my dear. He’s nervous too, but you’ll work it out together. It’s just the first hurdle to overcome in a lifetime, you know, and it will bring you closer together.”

  Betsy was more confused than she’d ever been in her life. “Mrs. Morgan, I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. Fundraisers can be fun, but I wouldn’t necessarily describe them as ‘momentous,’ and why do I need to be close to him . . . whoever he is?”

  Mrs. Morgan’s eyes grew wide. “Fundraiser?”

  “Yes. The fundraiser for the school. You asked me to volunteer—remember?”

  Mrs. Morgan’s hand flew to her chest. “Oh, my goodness. Such a misunderstanding . . . a rather hysterical one, but a misunderstanding all the same. My dear, I didn’t ask you to come here for the school fundraiser. I asked you to participate in my matchmaker’s ball.”

  Betsy felt all the blood drain from her face. “The . . . the matchmaker’s ball?”

  “That’s right.” Mrs. Morgan gestured to the doors of the main ballroom. “The orchestra is just getting settled now, and there’s a lovely refreshment table, and your potential groom is waiting to meet you by the punch bowl.”

  Betsy couldn’t help it. She dropped her basket. “I . . . I couldn’t possibly,” she stammered. “I can’t . . . I didn’t know . . . I haven’t even been thinking about marriage, and it’s the furthest thing from my mind, and I didn’t really want to make banners—I only said I’d come because I didn’t know how to tell you no. And now you want me to get married . . .” She leaned against the wall, feeling short of breath again, but this time for an entirely different reason.

  “I’m so sorry, Betsy. I didn’t mean for this to come as a shock to you—if I’d realized we were miscommunicating, of course I would have clarified immediately. Come over here and have a seat, dear.” Mrs. Morgan led Betsy to a chair in the corner of the foyer, then gathered up her upside-down basket. “My goodness, you really did bring paste. Thank goodness the jar didn’t leak.”

  Betsy fanned herself with her hand. It didn’t do much good, but she kept doing it anyway. “Mrs. Morgan, do you mean to tell me that right now, in that room, is a man who wants to marry me?”

  The woman smiled and nodded. “Yes, there really is.”

  “And does he know . . . well, about my parents?” Betsy lowered her voice as she said the last bit.

  Mrs. Morgan took the chair next to Betsy’s and put her arm around Betsy’s shoulders. “My dear, I well remember your sweet mother. She was one of the kindest women I ever knew, despite her difficult circumstances. I was inspired by her, and now I’m inspired by you. I’ve not spoken to him directly concerning those things, as I believe it’s up to you how and when to discuss it, but I do know he’s the sort of man who won’t care one bit. He has greater character than that.”

  Betsy swallowed. She felt nauseated, and no amount of face fanning was going to resolve it. The door to the ballroom opened and a couple exited, laughing and looking as though they were having a lovely time, and Betsy closed her eyes. “Does he know it’s me? Or is he being surprised just like I am?”

  “He doesn’t know it’s you in particular. He only knows he’s here to meet the young lady I believe would be his ideal match, and that’s you.”

  “I don’t think he’s expecting his ideal match to be so . . . plump,” Betsy said. Oh, if she could just crawl away from here somehow . . . sink into the carpet . . . disappear altogether . . .

  “Honestly, child, you care more about that than he will.” Mrs. Morgan shook her head. “I realize this has caught you entirely off guard, but will you please give it a chance? I truly believe the two of you are well suited, and it would be a shame to pass something like this by.”

  The door to the ballroom opened again. This time, Betsy ignored it. She didn’t want to see another giggling couple pass by—she wasn’t in the mood for giggles. “I’m not even dressed for it, Mrs. Morgan. I was expecting a work meeting—I can’t go to a ball wearing this.” She motioned down at the simple kitchen frock she was wearing.

  “I’ve always disliked dressing up myself.”

  She glanced up, horrified, at the deep male voice and found the owner of that voice standing just a few feet in front of her. It was Bradley Larson, of all people. The man with the dimple.

  He continued, “In fact, I think I could do without a few of these trappings.” He took off his jacket and loosened the top button of his shirt, pulling off his necktie while he was at it. “Much better. What do you think, Mrs. Morgan? How do I look?”

  She beamed at him. “Very handsome.”

  He placed his things on the table nearby, then turned and offered Betsy his hand. “Miss Walters, may I have the next dance?”

  ***

  Bradley felt Miss Walters’ hand tremble as she placed it in his. He’d been nervous about this meeting to be sure, but his feelings didn’t compare with the look of terror he saw in her eyes. How could he make her feel more comfortable when he wasn’t entirely sure he was comfortable himself?

  She allowed him to lead her into the ballroom and onto the floor. The orchestra had started a soft waltz, and he moved into the steps. She followed him without a moment’s hesitation, and for several measures, they didn’t speak, but circled the room in silence. He hadn’t held a woman this close in a very long time, and he was surprised to realize how neatly she fit in the curve of his arms and how comforting it was to have her there.

  At last, gathering up his courage, he said, “Miss Walters, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I did overhear enough of your conversation with Mrs. Morgan to gather that you weren’t exactly planning on being matched tonight.”

  She gave a nervous chuckle. “No, not at all. I thought I was volunteering for the school fundraiser.”

  “Oh. That’s a whole lot different than getting married.”

  “Yes, it certainly is.”

  He swallowed. “The truth is, I’ve had my doubts about tonight too. After I spoke with Mrs. Morgan, I must have come up with a dozen reasons why I should call it off.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like . . . maybe I’m not ready to get married again. Maybe my cabin’s too shabby for a wife. Maybe Joey wouldn’t like her . . . and maybe I’d be offering her a sad sort of excuse for a marriage when I’m not sure I could be a proper husband.”

  Miss Walters blinked. “Those are some fairly substantial reasons. Why did you decide to come after all?”

  “Because . . .” Bradley thought about his answer as he guided Miss Walters past the orchestra. He didn’t know if he could put it into words, but he could try. “Because I didn’t want to miss the opportunity for something that could turn out to be wonderful.”

  She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she was quiet for a few more measures before she said, “And am I a disappointment?”

  He leaned back and looked at her, surprised. “A disappointment? What do you mean?”

  “I mean . . . I’m not as glamorous as some of the other girls here tonight.”

  Bradley glanced around. He saw a lot of satin and feathers and ribbons, but he couldn’t see the girls beneath all that fluff and folderol. He smiled and looked back at Betsy. “I think I prefer cotton to satin.”

  She ducked her head, but he thought he caught a hint of a smile.

  The music came to an end, and he escorted her to the refreshment table, then over to a smaller table off to the side where they could talk more privately. Miss Walters nibbled at her cheese and grapes, not making eye contact with Bradley, and he took the opportunity to study her a bit. He’d always thought she was pretty and kind, but he’d never considered her as a possibility for marriage because he hadn’t been considering marriage at all. Now that he was looking for a wife, he could see sever
al qualities that would suit him quite well—she was compassionate, she had a good sense of humor, and she seemed to get along with Joey. This could turn into something permanent, but there was one fly in the ointment, so to speak.

  “Miss Walters,” he said, leaning forward a little, “I know you must still be in shock, but what are your thoughts about all this? Have you ever considered marriage before?”

  She gave a small chuckle. “Oh, I’ve considered it, but it’s never considered me.”

  He frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, gracious.” She shook her head. “Do I have to say it again?”

  “Say . . . what again?”

  She let out an impatient breath. “The thing that everyone knows, but no one will admit aloud because they’re worried about offending me. Mr. Larson, I’m not exactly shaped like a bride.” She gestured down at herself. “I’m shaped more like . . . the spinster aunt of the bride. The one who sits in the corner of the parlor and makes acerbic comments while all the young people are dancing and having a good time.”

  “I don’t think . . .”

  “And darning socks. Spinster aunts are always darning socks. I don’t know why—it must be some sort of rule. Do you have a holey sock? Give it to your spinster aunt! She’ll darn it for you. It’s what she lives for.”

  Bradley blinked and held up a hand. “Now, I’ll admit, I’ve known plenty of spinster aunts in my time, but not all of them darn socks. Some of them knit scarves. Scarves are also very useful.”

  “Aren’t they, though? Where would our necks be without scarves? Can you imagine all the cold, cold necks we’d experience if it weren’t for those spinster aunts doggedly knitting away for our personal comfort?”

  “Bless those aunts,” Bradley said reverently, and Miss Walters grinned. He took that as an invitation to continue. “Miss Walters, the truth is, I don’t believe a bride has any particular shape. The truth is . . .” He looked down at the table, then back up again. He could feel the edges of his ears growing warm. “The truth is, while we were dancing just now, it felt nice to have you in my arms. If you’ll forgive me for saying so.”

  She didn’t seem offended. Instead, she seemed surprised. “It felt nice?”

  “Yes, it did.”

  “Not like . . . dancing with a couple of pillows tied to a scarecrow?”

  “What?” He looked at her incredulously, then threw his head back and laughed. “Pillows . . . and a scarecrow? How . . .”

  “I don’t know,” she replied, her face now as red as his ears probably were. “I was just trying to think of an analogy, and that’s what I came up with.”

  “Well.” He wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. “You’re going to keep me on my toes, Miss Walters—I can tell that right now. But that brings us back to my question. You weren’t planning to be matched tonight—are you willing to give the idea a chance?”

  She took a deep breath, then pressed her lips together and glanced away. He noticed that those lips were sweetly pink—something he hadn’t expected to notice, just as he hadn’t expected to notice the way she felt in his arms. After a long moment, she turned back to him.

  “So, here we have a man who’s not sure he’s ready to marry again and a woman who’s completely flummoxed by the idea of marrying the first time. What could possibly go wrong?”

  He laughed again. “Does this mean you’re game?”

  “It means that I’m not entirely opposed to the idea, but with the condition that either one of us can back out at any time, that there’s no binding obligation, and that long, awkward silences will likely comprise most of our first several outings.”

  He grinned. “I agree to those conditions. Now, Miss Walters, may I have another dance?”

  “You may, Mr. Larson, now that I’m reassured that you’re not detesting every moment of it.”

  “Oh, no, Miss Walters, I’m not detesting it at all.”

  Chapter Six

  Betsy still had no idea what was happening. She’d gone from being a volunteer to a matchmaker’s project, and now she was circling the floor in the arms of Bradley Larson, who had admitted most adorably with a red face that he enjoyed holding her. Under any other circumstances and with any other man, she would have thought he was mocking her or being completely inappropriate, and yet with Bradley . . . She didn’t know him extremely well, but she did know him well enough to sense that he was being sincere, and that he was trying his best not to be ungentlemanly.

  And she had to admit, it was rather flattering to think that someone might actually enjoy dancing with her . . . and yes, she enjoyed dancing with him, too. His arms were strong and sure, he smelled like pine trees and vanilla, and that dimple . . . She took a deep breath. She’d given far too much thought to that dimple as of late. Such important decisions could not be made based entirely on one’s feelings toward dimples.

  “Where is Joey tonight?” she asked as they twirled past Mrs. Morgan, who looked on like a proud grandmother.

  “He’s playing checkers with Mrs. Stratton. I hesitated to ask, but as soon as she found out where I was going tonight, she all but insisted.”

  Betsy smiled. “I like her quite a bit.”

  “I do too. She’s been an excellent boss, and she’s so good to Joey.”

  “And how are you liking it at the Bar S?”

  “Better than any job I’ve ever had. For once, I feel like I can provide a future for my son.” He paused. “That’s why I decided it was time to consider another marriage. Before now, I wouldn’t have been able to support a wife, but now it seems like the logical next step.”

  “And we must always be logical,” she replied, her tone wry.

  “That didn’t sound at all like I meant it,” he rushed to apologize. “I meant, it’s not right to court if you can’t afford to support a wife, and now that I can . . .”

  “It’s all right, Mr. Larson,” she told him, allowing her smile to show. “I understood what you meant the first time. I just enjoy teasing sometimes.”

  “And I deserved it.” He shook his head, smiling as well. “It looks like you really are going to keep me on my toes, Miss Walters.”

  “I think that’s a very important quality for any potential wife, don’t you? And we’d best start using our Christian names right away. We know it will happen eventually—let’s save some time, shall we, Bradley?”

  He grinned. “Yes, Betsy, I agree. And now may I interest you in a turn around the garden?”

  “You may indeed.”

  She tucked her arm through his as he led the way through the people milling about and into the garden. As the evening air hit her cheeks, she drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Oh, that’s so much better. It was getting warm in there.”

  “It was, and rather crowded, too,” Bradley replied. “Do you suppose Mrs. Morgan matched all those couples just for tonight?”

  “I think she invites some of her married friends as well,” Betsy answered. “I saw the Reverend and Mrs. Bing, Mr. and Mrs. Jackson, and Mr. and Mrs. Redfern inside. They’ve all been married a few years.”

  He nodded. “That makes sense. No point in throwing such a lavish party for only a few people.”

  Betsy took a seat on one of the stone benches along the garden walkway and inhaled again. “I can still smell the rain in the air. I think fall’s coming soon.”

  “That will be something, won’t it? All these mountains covered in fall colors?” He sat down next to her, his knee brushing her skirt, and for a moment, she didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t scoot over any farther—she was already on the edge. He couldn’t scoot any farther—he was on the opposite edge. It was time for one of those awkward silences she’d warned him about.

  “Betsy,” he said after a moment, “is something wrong?”

  “Wrong? No, not at all.” She gave a little laugh. “I’m just . . . warring with myself, that’s all.”

  “Warring with yourself? About what?”

 
“About whether I do or do not enjoy sitting rather close to a man in a moonlit garden at night.”

  “Night would be the only time to sit in a moonlit garden, so I’m guessing it’s the man and sitting rather close that has you concerned.”

  “Yes. And the man would be you.” She stood up and faced the rosebushes, too embarrassed to look at him. “Please keep in mind, I’ve never courted before. I’ve never danced before, or even spent time in the company of a man before . . . I’ve rarely even spoken to men.” She turned around to face him. “Do you realize that my entire vocabulary where men are concerned has to do with lasagna and ravioli?”

  He chuckled and stood up as well. “I think you’re doing a rather fine job,” he replied.

  “If you like this sort of thing!”

  “I just might. You’re different, Betsy—different from any girl I’ve ever known. You’re honest. You’re yourself. You’re not putting on a show. You have no idea how refreshing that is.”

  “That’s me . . . very refreshing. Like the cool glass of water I can offer you to go with your spaghetti. The ice comes all the way from the ice house.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I do say. Mr. Romano brought it to the restaurant here himself, so while it wasn’t imported overseas from Italy, it was imported across the street by an Italian, and that has to mean something, doesn’t it?”

  “It does. I’m very impressed.”

  “As well you should be.” She turned and began to walk along the path, pausing here and there to admire the flowers still in bloom. He fell into step beside her. “Tell me about your wife.”

  He didn’t answer for a moment, and she was worried that she was pushing. But then he said, “Her name was Selina, and we met at her eighteenth birthday party. Her cousin was my good friend, and he invited me to come along to pay his respects. I don’t even remember the first thing I said to her or how she replied—I just remember that we seemed to know immediately that we had found each other. We were married just a few months later, she was expecting Joey a few months after that, and then she passed away when he was four months old.”