“No, you won’t.” He took a step toward her. “Either you go get in the shower or I’ll put you there myself. Your choice.”
With a blink and another blush, she spun on bare heels and scurried off. Peter experienced a twinge of disappointment that she hadn’t put up more of a fuss, but then if she had, where would he be? Backpedaling his way out of a meaningless threat, that’s where. He was fairly certain putting a lady in a bathtub and turning on the shower was not on the list of things a gentleman should do.
So he slipped out of his sodden shoes, frowned at the cats lined up on the bed watching his every move, put his leg through the open window and made the small, but defiant, leap from the house onto the nearest oak branch.
THEA TURNED OFF the shower and stepped out of the tub, listening for Peter’s voice calling for help. All she heard was the steady rhythm of the rain on the roof and the normal drip…drip…drip…drip of the showerhead. Grabbing a towel, she dried herself off, aided by a body temperature that rose alarmingly every time she thought about Peter Braddock in her bedroom. He could be right on the other side of the bathroom door. The idea sent a shiver of excitement through her naked body.
Or maybe she was just cold.
Or maybe Peter wasn’t in the bedroom at all. Maybe he’d escaped while he had the chance.
Or maybe he was lying at the foot of the oak tree with a broken leg.
She hurriedly towel-dried her long, ropy hair, then scrubbed the terrycloth down her legs, swiped it across her back, over her hips, and pulled it once down the front. Now all she had to do was…dress.
She’d brought no clothes with her into the bathroom, too scattered by Peter’s threat to put her in the shower himself to think that far ahead. So what to do? He might have fallen, might be waiting for her to notice he wasn’t back and come to his aid. He might have gotten stuck in the tree—she knew it wasn’t easy to get back through the window with a struggling kitten in hand. He might need the ladder. Or an ambulance.
Deciding this was no time to be squeamish over showing a little skin—and it wasn’t as if she’d been decently dressed when she fell on top of him, or since—Thea wrapped the towel around her and opened the door. “Oh.” The sight of Peter, sitting on the windowsill, a lot wetter even than he’d been before holding a scraggly, unhappy kitten in his arms, startled the word right out of her. “You made it.”
He looked up and a raindrop rolled down his cheek, dropped off his chin onto the cat, who mewed in devout misery. “Don’t sound so surprised,” he said. “Although, you might have warned me that your Ally cat would be somewhat averse to being rescued.”
Thea forgot about her lack of clothes, forgot about the way she looked, forgot that she was coming fresh from the shower to the feet of a man who shouldn’t be in her bedroom, even in her fantasies. Stooping in front of him, she touched his sodden shirt, saw the pulled threads, the scratches on his neck, the beaded evidence of blood on his hands. “She scratched you. I’m so sorry.”
“To be fair, I probably scared her out of a good three lives out there.” He gently stroked the top of the cat’s wet head. “I think she was expecting you and when I grabbed her, she went kind of wild for a minute.”
Thea didn’t know what to say, how to properly thank him. So she just took Ally out of his hands and cuddled the soggy ball of fur against her towel-covered breast as she offered Peter an apologetic gaze. “You’re nearly as soaked as she is.”
He looked down at the puddle spreading under him, then lifted his shoulder in a wry shrug. “Maybe you could bring me a towel?”
She nodded, stood, started to comply, stopped. “Why don’t you just hop in the shower and warm up a little bit? You can’t go home like this.”
“I don’t think I have much of a choice, Thea.”
“I have a hair dryer,” she said, eager to do something, anything to help. “I’ll blow some of the moisture out of your clothes while you shower. That way, at least, you won’t get your car all wet.”
“You could let me borrow a towel to put on the seat.”
“I don’t have that many towels. I’ll just get the hair dryer and then the bathroom’s all yours.”
“Thea, I’ll shower when I get home.” But she didn’t listen, just carried Ally with her into the bathroom, wondering as she went what would happen if she threatened him as he had threatened her. What a silly thought. Nothing would happen. Except he’d probably laugh at her for making an idle, impossible-to-carry-out threat and she’d be embarrassed anew. As if she could force Peter into her shower. As if she had the courage to even say such a thing to him. As if she wouldn’t be overcome with shyness at the mere thought of him undressing in her bathroom.
But he couldn’t go home soaked to the skin like he was. If he died of some horrible weather-related illness, she’d never forgive herself.
“Okay,” she said coming out of the bathroom with the hair dryer and walking straight to the bed. “The bathroom’s all yours. Just open the door and put your clothes out when you’re ready and I’ll work on drying the worst of the rain out of them while you shower.”
She could hardly believe the words came out so easily, as if she sent men in to shower every day of the week. “I laid out a couple of towels for you and there’s shampoo and soap and…everything.” The heat scalded her cheeks, but she didn’t look at Peter, didn’t take the chance of seeing him appalled by the thought of sharing her shampoo, her soap…the towels she used.
“I don’t think this is a good idea, Thea.” But he stood up, still dripping. “What if…someone…comes to the door?”
She risked a glance at him and decided he was the handsomest man she’d ever seen soaking wet. Of course, as he was the only man she’d ever seen soaking wet, she supposed being the handsomest wasn’t a particularly great honor. “My grandmother never comes to my room, Peter. Ever. No one comes to my room.”
He looked like he was going to protest, or say he was sorry or something equally dreadful, so she bent down to plug in the hair dryer cord. And the next thing she heard was the sound of his footsteps as he crossed the room, followed by the closing of the bathroom door.
The cat mewed in her arms and Thea set her down on the bed, shooing away Ally’s curious friends by turning on the dryer and giving the shivering kitten a quick blow-dry. She didn’t hear the bathroom door open again, but when she went to gather Peter’s clothes, they were in a soggy pile outside and the shower was running full-blast. Lifting the topmost piece of clothing—his slacks—she carried them to the bed and draped them loosely across the footboard. Then she straightened the cord, turned the dryer on high, and aimed the heated air at the pants.
The blast of heat steamed up around her and she tried to concentrate, tried not to think about Peter, using her shower…her soap…her shampoo. But she knew she’d never be able to step into her own shower again without imagining him there, without remembering how she’d dried his clothes while he was naked just on the other side of that door. Nothing had happened. Nothing had even come close to happening, but she knew that for many nights to come, she’d fall asleep in her bed with the memory of how it had felt to be held close in his arms, how it felt to imagine him in her shower—in her bed.
And when she was alone, she would admit that it had felt good. Unbelievably good.
Of course, she’d never tell him that. She’d never even let on that she remembered. She wouldn’t want to do or say anything to embarrass him and, even as kind as Peter was, she knew he would be embarrassed later when…if…he recalled their first and only date. So she’d keep the memory to herself, take it out like a treasure when she was lonely or blue, smile to herself at the thought of him climbing out the window in the rain to rescue her silly cat.
The cord tangled and, when she reached down to straighten it out again, the towel slipped and Thea barely caught it before it fell. Silly cat, indeed. What was her excuse for piddling around, drying his clothes, when it hadn’t even once occurred to her she needed to put
on clothes, herself? Knotting the towel back in place, she turned off the hair dryer and set it on the floor.
She’d taken only two hurried steps toward the closet, though, when the bathroom door opened and Peter looked out. Steam wisped out around him and he fanned the door a little, revealing a towel wrapped around his waist and glimpses of his damp, hairy chest and the scratches Ally had made across his shoulders and neck.
“How’s it coming?” he asked, smiling easily, as if they weren’t both half-naked and pretending they weren’t.
“I was just going to get…”
Thea felt a puff of air and looked toward the window, to make sure it was closed.
It was.
But the door to her bedroom was not.
Davinia Carey stood there, like a wrathful god, her white hair contrasting with the severe black dressing gown she wore like a judge’s robes, her eyes as cold and hard as granite as they took in the scene.
Thea’s heart jerked and dropped like a rock.
Behind her, she heard Peter step out to stand with her and wished with all her being, she could find the courage to shield him from her grandmother’s great displeasure.
But she knew already it was too late to save him.
And she was years too late to save herself.
Chapter Five
Archer entered the library, depending a little more than usual on the support of his cane. Three heads lifted as he walked into the room, three faces tried—and failed—to mask their low spirits. He sought Peter’s gaze first, but the green eyes, so like his own, so like James’s, turned away after the barest touch of a glance. Embarrassed. Archer didn’t know what he could say to make his grandson understand he wasn’t disappointed in him. If anything, this whole sorry mess had shown what a strong character Peter truly possessed.
“Dad?” James stood, a dozen questions threaded through the single word.
“May I get you something to drink, Archer?” Ilsa stood, too, overly anxious to help, feeling guilty over something that hadn’t been her fault, worrying over consequences that had never been in her power to prevent.
“Thank you,” Archer said and moved to sit in his favorite chair, one nearest the fire. “A little brandy would be nice.”
He used the cane for support, until he was settled into the comfortable cushions of the wingback chair, then he hooked the curved handle of the cane on the arm of the chair and leaned his head against the tapestried seatback. He looked again at Peter, but got only a hesitant response, another cutaway glance, the brief flicker of a strained smile.
“Here you go.” Ilsa handed him a glass with just enough brandy to coat the bottom a deep, rich gold.
It wasn’t much liquor, but for a man his age it would be plenty to coat his belly with warmth and lend him a bit of courage. The next few minutes doubtless would not hold much pleasure for any of them. “Thank you, my dear.” Archer took a sip of the liquor and cupped the glass between his palms before he looked at each of them in turn. James still showed the tense jaw and narrowed brow of anger; Ilsa’s lovely face reflected the worry of a friend who badly wants to set things aright; Peter wore the defeated look of a young man determined to do the right thing no matter the personal cost. “I’ve been with Davinia,” Archer said, although they all knew full well where he’d been and why. “Miles Jordan, her lawyer, was present most all of that time and we—”
“Lawyer?” James bit out the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. “Don’t tell me that crazy old woman thinks she can sue us over this.”
Archer cautioned James with a mere lift of his brow. “Her lawyer was there because she plans to change her will.”
Peter looked up, met Archer’s eyes. “She’s going to cut Thea out of her inheritance, isn’t she?”
At Archer’s nod, Peter got up and paced restlessly to the north window. He was taking this too personally, Archer felt, but in two days no one had been able to convince him he was not to blame.
“So what?” James stated the words Archer had thought himself at first. So what if Thea didn’t inherit anything from her grandmother? She had money from her father’s estate, money from her half brother’s estate, money from the Berenson chain of jewelry stores. “She doesn’t need the Grace fortune,” James continued. “Elizabeth Carey married Berenson to get out from under her mother’s thumb. She would have seen to it that her child’s future didn’t depend on the whims of that old harridan.”
“Her name is Davinia Carey,” Archer said. “She may be old and we may not agree with her moralistic views, but she is not crazy and in this household at least, we will continue to speak of her with respect.”
“I don’t see why. She’s accused Peter of everything from lying to her face to taking advantage of her granddaughter, to ruining the girl’s life. She first demands an apology, then refuses to allow Peter to make one, even though I see no reason he should apologize to her or anyone else. She’s cloistered Thea away as if this was Victorian England, not America in the twenty-first century and then she commanded you, Dad, to appear before her this afternoon to explain why you’re not as outraged as she is. Frankly, I don’t think the woman gives a damn if we respect her or not.”
Archer swirled the brandy in his glass, wondering if he and Jane would have been better parents to their only child had they been a little less strict, a lot more relaxed and a bit more respectful of his right to his own opinions. Perhaps had they known the tremendous losses James would suffer early in adulthood—the loss of Lily, his first love, then only a few years later, Mariah, his second wife, and then Catherine, Peter’s mother—maybe they would have loved him a little more and expected a little less. He and Jane had done better in parenting their three grandsons. But Archer believed James was a good man. There was no doubt he loved his sons and was trying to make amends for his failure to be a good father when they were young. Still he was too quick to anger, too hasty in taking offense, too eager to go on the defensive here, instead of allowing Peter to choose his own battles. “We will be respectful, James, because we are gentlemen and because to do anything less is not only a poor reflection on this family, but also nonproductive.”
“Did you see Thea?” Peter asked, maintaining his observation of the gardens beyond the library windows.
“For a moment.” Archer sighed, acknowledging at least to himself, that in some ways Davinia was inexcusably and rigidly old-fashioned. “She tried to give me a message for you, but she was…interrupted.”
Peter looked back at Archer. “A message?”
“I believe she wanted me to tell you she’s sorry.”
Peter’s jaw flexed with his tension. “Do you think Mrs. Carey would allow me to talk to Thea?”
James made a scoffing sound. “Give it up, Peter. She’s made it clear she doesn’t want you to step foot on her property ever again or make any attempt to contact Thea at any time in the future. I believe the old bat…excuse me, I mean, Mrs. Carey…has formed the outrageous opinion that you’re not good enough for her granddaughter.”
Archer caught the flicker of doubt in Peter’s eyes and wished James had not made that particular point. For a moment, too, he was angrier with Davinia Carey than James could ever be. But anger would not resolve this situation, nor would it help Peter accept that he was good enough for Thea. For James. For any and all of the people he still believed judged him for his illegitimate past rather than his legitimate present.
“I want to talk to her. Thea.” Peter looked from Archer to Ilsa. “Can you arrange something, Mrs. Fairchild?”
Ilsa wanted to help. It was written all over her face. “I don’t know, Peter,” she said. “I can try.”
Peter nodded, understanding the subtle nuances of dealing with a woman like Davinia Carey. Archer was proud of him for that. Like it or not, there were rules they all had to play by. Whether they agreed with the rules was unimportant. It was simply the way their world worked. “Thank you,” Peter said and turned back to contemplating the garden and who kn
ew what multitude of imagined sins. Peter had come into the family already wounded by life. He was still too ready to believe that was somehow his fault.
“Peter?” Archer reclaimed his grandson’s attention, even though he did not want to say what had to be said next. He was afraid Peter would take it as a personal challenge and not as simply the best and only way to proceed. “I believe we’ve done all we can. Davinia lives by an outdated and rather outlandish set of principles. She has chosen to believe the worst of both you and Thea, no matter who tells her otherwise. That’s unfortunate for Thea, as she obviously is distressed to have disappointed her grandmother and to have involved you. However, you’ve tried to explain, you’ve offered an apology for your part of the misunderstanding. I think this has to be an end to it. Especially considering you didn’t do anything wrong in the first place. There just isn’t anything more to be done. Thea will have to deal with her grandmother on her own now.”
There was no discernible change in Peter’s stance, but the hands he held clasped loosely at his back clenched and released…and clenched again. Archer knew what that meant. Peter wasn’t through with Davinia Carey.
Maybe if he had said the words differently…but Archer had learned over the years he wasn’t responsible for someone else’s choice. Peter had to choose for himself and learn the lessons those choices held for him. But that didn’t stop Archer from wishing devoutly that he’d never asked Peter to take Thea out on Saturday or any other time. Blame was pointless, though, in this case, where one person had so much influence over another. Davinia wielded considerable power over her granddaughter and now, consequently, over Peter.
Archer tapped the snifter with a finger gnarled by age and arthritis, and decided he shouldn’t withhold the rest of the information he had learned this afternoon at Grace Place, either. “It does appear that Davinia has managed over the years to tie up all of Thea’s assets in a trust which cannot be breached until she’s of age…in this case, not a day before her thirtieth birthday.”
The Blacksheep's Arranged Marriage Page 8
