The Blacksheep's Arranged Marriage

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  “A sister,” Thea said with a wistful sigh. “I always wished I might have had a sister. Do you get to see her often?”

  “Hardly ever. After our mother died, James came for me and Briana stayed with him.” Peter nodded at the third picture in the grouping. “My stepfather. I keep him there to remind me that sometimes the truth we tell ourselves is the biggest lie of all. My mother should have left him before it was too late. She could have. She just didn’t.”

  He felt Thea’s eyes on him and wondered why he’d said that. He’d only ever told his Grandmother Jane why he’d drawn that picture and why he kept it there. “And the last drawing is, of course, my grandmother. I sketched out all of these my first year at Harvard. They’re not great art, but I love them just the same.”

  “That’s what art is, Peter. Emotion on paper. A way to draw feelings.” She looked up at him with a smile. “And you certainly captured your feelings in these sketches.”

  He smiled back because she understood what he’d been trying to say. He smiled because she was easy company, undemanding and thoughtful. He smiled because she looked cute and funny in the new clothes. She’d ripped off the hat the minute they’d walked through his office door and her hair had sprawled out in its usual, ragtag fashion. She’d dropped the shawl across the back of one of the chairs, where it had promptly slid to the floor, unnoticed, of course, by Thea. She’d pulled off the gold earrings and carried them around in her palm, clinking them one over the other without being aware she was doing so. Peter thought the new clothes were a considerable improvement, even if she did wear them with no measurable increase in confidence. But he was on the right track with Thea. She just needed a little more encouragement.

  “I like your new clothes,” he said and was disappointed when the frown returned to her brow and she looked down, her fingers plucking at the dress.

  “You don’t think this is too…red?” she asked, clearly uncertain.

  “It’s perfect, Thea. Trust me.” It wasn’t exactly perfect, but she needed color in her life and he’d thought clothes were a good place to start. “Now that you’ve seen my office, what else would you like to do?”

  Her smile returned like the promise of spring and he thought maybe the clothes had made a difference after all because she looked…pretty. “Don’t you have an apartment here in Boston?”

  “Several whole apartment complexes, as it happens,” he said. “But one apartment that I keep for my own personal use. As a matter of fact, it’s within walking distance of the Commons and this very office building.”

  “Now that is what I consider good planning, Peter.”

  He didn’t know how meek, shy little Theadosia Berenson had become saucy and seductive Thea Braddock over the course of one wedding night, but he figured there were some things about her he didn’t need to understand to appreciate.

  “If that’s where you want to spend the afternoon, Mrs. Braddock, then grab your hat, get your shawl, put your earrings back on and off we’ll go.”

  She seemed a tad reluctant to comply, but she did it anyway.

  ILSA WALKED INTO Neath’s bistro five minutes late and forty-eight hours flustered. “I’m here to meet James Braddock,” she said to the maitre d’ who greeted her.

  With a smile and a bow, he led her straight to where James was seated at a table with a view of the Providence riverfront. He rose at her approach, all charming welcome and handsome smile, and she promptly forgot everything she’d told herself about how this was a casual dinner with an old friend, nothing to be nervous about, nothing to lose sleep over.

  James Braddock meant to court her.

  Ilsa knew that in every granule of her matchmaker’s heart and the knowledge showed in the nervous flutter of a smile she offered as she took her seat and he settled back into his. “I’m late,” she confessed, as if, perhaps, he might believe that was the reason for her breathiness.

  “I would have waited a lifetime,” he said, which didn’t help. “Maybe I already have.”

  Nothing like skipping the preliminaries and dipping straight into the main event, Ilsa thought, but she was determined to get this on a more comfortable footing. If he kept looking at her like that, she’d never be able to eat a bite of her dinner—a sure indicator of heart problems and not the sort medical science could cure, either. “In that case, you must be very hungry.”

  She picked up the menu, holding it firmly in case the shaking going on inside her transmitted itself to her fingers. James had always been able to fluster her, even when they were both married to someone else. It had been innocent then. It wasn’t now. She had been mentally listing all the reasons not to get involved with him ever since he’d made this dinner date a week ago.

  One—he was a bad risk for any heart to take.

  Two—he’d been married and divorced more times than she cared to know.

  Three—he was just a couple of months out of his last relationship, an engagement to a woman almost half his age.

  Four—he had three sons by three different women and although there had been mitigating circumstances in each of those three relationships, they didn’t alter the fact that he wouldn’t win any prizes for his parenting abilities.

  Five—he would never make it past the rather stringent criteria she set for her clients.

  In other words, James Braddock was without a doubt the handsomest, most charming man of her acquaintance and she still would advise any woman who asked her advice about getting involved with him to run as fast as she could in the opposite direction.

  So what had she done when push came to shove?

  She’d accepted his invitation to dinner and spent the entire day in a tizzy of anticipation that would have embarrassed even a lovestruck teen. Ainsley had been no help at all, either, when she’d finally wheedled the information out of Ilsa late this afternoon.

  “You have a date with Mr. Braddock?” she’d said, all tactless youth and callow surprise. “Wow, you’d better be careful, Mrs. Fairchild. I’m not sure you can handle him. It’s a good thing you’re too old to have sex.”

  Ilsa had come very close to firing her apprentice then and there, but she’d actually done something much worse. She’d declared rather hotly that she not only wasn’t too old to have sex, she enjoyed having it on a regular basis. Which was, of course, a bald-faced lie and played perfectly into Ainsley’s devious little plans.

  “Oh,” the little snip had said then with a mischievous grin. “Then be sure to take along some protection in case tonight turns out to be an enjoyable evening for both you and Mr. Braddock.”

  Ilsa’s nervousness had increased tenfold from that point on, throwing her off her normal stride, leaving her jumpy and putting sex smack dab in the middle of this cozy little table, instead of in some far off never-never land where it belonged.

  “Are you ready?” James asked and she slammed the menu shut as if he’d shot her.

  “No.” It came out uncertain and tremulous, not at all like her usual calm, self-assured voice. “No,” she repeated, without any noticeable improvement.

  “Take your time,” he said, looking a little concerned. “We have all night.”

  Ilsa grabbed for her composure and got it firmly in tow. She had decided to have dinner with James. She wanted to have dinner with him. And while she was not too old to have sex, she was thankfully past the age where it had to be the central question around which every enjoyable evening revolved. “Let’s have some wine before we order,” she said, in a calmer tone which translated into a calmer feeling. “And you can tell me what’s been going on at the Hall.”

  “If you’re asking about the newlyweds, we haven’t seen them in three days. Not since the wedding.”

  “Really?” That was definitely a surprising development. “I didn’t think Peter had planned a honeymoon trip.”

  “He didn’t. At least, not any that he mentioned. He and Thea disappeared sometime early Sunday morning. They’re in Boston, but the only reason we know that is beca
use Peter called in from his office and talked to Lara at the Providence office. She said he talked mostly about the project he’s working on, but he did say he and Thea had been shopping.”

  “Shopping,” Ilsa repeated, pondering the implications. “Hmm. Do you think…” But she stopped herself before it could become rank speculation, a futile exercise she usually managed to avoid. “I hope they’re having a lovely time together.”

  He lifted an eyebrow, opened the wine list, and said, “I don’t think that’s very likely, do you, Ilsa?”

  She thought about it while he ordered a carafe of wine. When the waiter was gone and James looked at her for an answer, she smiled, back finally on solid emotional footing. “I believe, James, there are possibilities in every relationship that even I can’t imagine.”

  “I sincerely hope so, Ilsa,” he said, turning the conversation instantly intimate and very personal. “I most sincerely hope so.” His smile was dangerously seductive, and her response to the challenge in it was a rather youthful thrill of discovery.

  When the wine arrived, he tipped his glass to hers and made a toast. “To the possibility, then, that this is merely the first of many evenings you and I will spend together.”

  “The first of many enjoyable evenings,” Ilsa said and clinked her glass to his in celebration.

  IT WAS THE BEST TIME Thea had ever had. The best days. The best nights. The best week. The best time. Ever.

  She made Peter breakfast every morning, which surprised him nearly as much as it did her. But she knew how to cook. She’d spent more time with Sadie and Monroe in the kitchen at Grace Place than she’d ever spent with friends her own age. “You don’t have to do this, Thea,” Peter had said the first day. “We have a very expensive chef on staff at the office. He has nothing to do but cook.”

  But she loved the wifely thrill of getting out of bed while he was still in the shower and setting plates on the table, putting toast in the toaster and pouring two glasses of juice. One for him. One for her. And she loved watching him sit at the table in his suit, with his tie perfectly knotted, his shirt perfectly starched and his jacket draped over the back of the chair. She loved when he downed the last swallow of juice and rose to leave, brushing her lips at the door, murmuring an already distracted, “See you tonight.” She loved when the door closed behind him and she was alone in the apartment with his things. She loved cleaning the kitchen and remembering with dazzling satisfaction all she and Peter did together when he was home to keep her company.

  The days idled by while she sketched people and pets on the Commons and walked away the chill of autumn. She had lunch with Peter twice during the week, meeting him at a sandwich shop near his office, listening while he talked about the work that absorbed his daytime hours. She shopped, too, but only because she knew he would ask, “What did you buy today?” And she’d always have something bright and colorful to show him, something she’d bought because she thought he’d like it, not because she particularly did.

  She wore his clothes more than her own, loving the feel of his shirtsleeves on her arms, the novelty of having so much masculinity surrounding her. She knew the clothes he’d chosen for her were a big improvement over anything she’d ever worn in the past, and she wore them whenever she went out. But she still felt like an impostor in them, as if the wallflower she still was waited to jump out at her from every mirrored reflection.

  Sometimes she put on the wedding gown, which she’d worn the morning they’d left as a matter of both convenience and necessity. She’d stand in front of the mirror in Peter’s apartment and stare at the woman she saw reflected there to try to figure out what it was about the old-fashioned gown that made her feel strong and confident, that made her want to laugh aloud with pure delight at what she saw.

  She did miss her cats and, though she’d never say so to Peter, she missed her grandmother, too. She knew the cats were well cared for at Braddock Hall because she asked and Abbott told her. She worried that Davinia might not be so fortunate at Grace Place. Of course, Monroe and Sadie were good to her and cared about her in their fashion, but Davinia Grace Carey wasn’t the easiest person to love. And even if she didn’t deserve it, Thea loved her.

  Several times during that week, she’d started to pick up the phone to call Grace Place, let Monroe and Sadie and Davinia know she was happy, and perhaps, reassure her own heart that her grandmother was adjusting to life without her. But she didn’t think Peter would like it. He talked sometimes as if she shouldn’t want to have any contact with her former life, and she knew he’d already hired an attorney to start the process of breaking the trust or, at the very least, of removing Davinia as the trustee. Thea didn’t care about the money, although she supposed she ought to want control of what was rightfully hers.

  But she knew, even if Peter didn’t, that having access to her fortune would not buy her one single piece of the happiness she had already found in simply being his wife.

  And all the money in the world wouldn’t prevent this, the best time of her life, from coming to its inevitable end.

  “HELLO, LITTLE BROTHER.”

  Peter had had a feeling even before he picked up the phone that the person on the other end would be Bryce. He knew the family was wondering why he’d left the Hall Sunday morning without a word. He knew, too, they were mystified because he’d brought Thea to Boston with him. And kept her with him. He was a little surprised about that himself.

  “Hello, yourself,” he said, taking the opportunity to get up and stretch muscles that had been hunched over the work station for too many hours straight. “Let me guess. You’re calling because you’ve had enough of that CEO’s chair and think you may want a turn at my spot as lead architect.”

  “Not even close.” Bryce’s voice was playful, as if he didn’t have an ulterior motive, which Peter was certain he did. “Can’t a man call to talk to his brother without being accused of wanting some new responsibility? I’m ready for Adam to get back here permanently and take over this job any time he’s ready, so believe me, I’m not angling for yours. Rumor is you’ll be sitting in Vic Luttrell’s seat when he retires next year and I say, hurrah for you. I certainly don’t want to manage the whole Boston office. I’ll be very happy heading up the new foundation and having a little extra time to teach my son all about sailing and other important things.”

  “Calvin’s already talking like a seasoned deckhand. He may wind up teaching you a few things about sailing…and other things.”

  Bryce laughed. “That would not surprise me. The kid has a memory like a sea sponge. Soaks up everything and repeats it verbatim as often as possible. Lara says he didn’t get that quick wit from his biological parents, so it must be my influence.”

  Peter loved the enthusiasm Bryce was bringing to his new role as a father. Without Lara’s love and little Cal to guide him, he might never have found his own North Star. “And you don’t miss your old playboy days and ways?”

  “Not in the least.” There was only the slightest hesitation. “What about you?”

  Peter skirted the underlying question with a brisk, “There hasn’t been time. I’ve been working every day.”

  “So where’s Thea?”

  “At the apartment, probably. Maybe out shopping. She’s been doing a lot of that.”

  “Shopping, huh?”

  “She’s trying to get the hang of it, I think.” She didn’t seem to be enjoying it much, but Peter saw no reason to mention that.

  “She’s all right, then?”

  He sometimes wished his brothers would just say flat out what was on their mind instead of ducking and weaving all around it. “She seems happy, but then who wouldn’t be happy to be away from Davinia Carey?”

  “Maybe she’s just happy to be with you, Peter.”

  He caught the implication, but shrugged it aside as too much big brotherly concern. “Why wouldn’t she be?” he asked, a grin in his voice. “I’m a nice guy…smarter and better-looking than either of my brothers.”<
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  Bryce didn’t respond to the teasing tone. “You are a nice guy, Peter. That’s why I hope you’ll be careful with Thea. It’s a big responsibility being someone’s hero.”

  “Will you stop worrying about me?” he said, suddenly irritated by the inference. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll worry about something else. Or I would, if it was my nature to worry, which luckily, it isn’t. How’s the project coming?”

  “I have that under control, too.”

  “Great. Gotta go, Bro. Nell is buzzing me. Allen is waiting to see me. I do not know why Adam loves this job. Will we see you and Thea at the Hall for Sunday dinner? Adam and Katie are taking off Monday morning for another month of high adventure—as Katie puts it. They won’t be back again until Thanksgiving.”

  “We’ll be at dinner Sunday,” Peter said, even though the thought of taking Thea home, where all eyes would be on the two of them, made him decidedly uncomfortable.

  “Great. See you then.” Bryce hung up, leaving Peter with an uneasy, edgy feeling.

  THE FEELING LINGERED through the weekend, through the trip with Thea back to Sea Change, and all the way through Sunday’s dinner. Peter still felt unsettled even when they left the dining room and reassembled in the cozy, firelit library—Archer, James, Ilsa, three Braddock brothers and three Braddock wives. There had been nothing in the conversation, nothing in anyone’s manner toward Thea that could have been considered the least bit objectionable. His wife was included into the family as naturally and as easily as he, himself, had been accepted as a nine-year-old boy. The camaraderie Peter shared with his brothers was a little teasing, a little affectionate and a little competitive, as it always was with Adam and Bryce. Katie and Lara accepted Thea and chatted with her as easily as they talked with each other. Not a shred of disapproval met Peter’s gaze, whether he was looking at his father, his grandfather or his brothers. But something pulled at him. There seemed to be something he should know, but didn’t, something he should have done, but hadn’t, something wrong that he needed to fix.