Karen Whittenburg - The Blacksheep's Arranged Marriage

Follow your impulse.

She let the possibility float as she watched Thea look everywhere but at the man who was holding her at a respectful distance, doing his best to initiate some conversation. And having little success with it, too. Ilsa caught sight of James, moving through the crowd toward her. Stopping to chat along the way, but catching her eye to let her know she was his destination.

Her heart picked up a silly rhythm of anticipation and she tried to force her thoughts back to Peter and Thea. Thea and Peter.

But James came closer and she began to smile without having any intention of doing so. For the moment, at least, she’d just have to set aside her reservations about a match for Peter Braddock and concentrate all her energy on not falling victim to his father’s considerable charm.

Peter tried on half a dozen shirts before he found the right one.

He didn’t want to look too formal, because that might make her uncomfortable. He didn’t want to look too casual, because that would make him uncomfortable. He didn’t want to wear anything too plain and have her thinking he’d dressed down in an attempt to match her, because that could be awkward, as well. But finally, he buttoned up the green Armani silk shirt and grabbed the matching tie, looping it around his neck and tying it in a neat Windsor as he trotted down the stairs, his jacket slung across his arm.

He did not want to be late for this date. No, sir.

What he wanted was to skip it altogether.

But he was descended from a long line of gentlemen and standing up a lady just wasn’t anything a Braddock would ever do. Even if he wanted to. Even if his grandfather hadn’t specifically asked him to do this one small favor for an old family friend. Peter couldn’t see that Davinia Carey was anyone’s friend, but that was beside the point. His grandfather had asked him, and Peter couldn’t refuse—wouldn’t even dream of refusing—this single, simple request.

So he would escort Theadosia Berenson—the nightmare date of all time—to Angela Merchant’s wedding and pretend there was no place he’d rather be and no one else he’d rather have at his side.

It was a small enough price to pay for all the Braddock family had given him. A home, when he had nowhere else to go. A family, when the only one he’d known fell apart at the seams. A name to take pride in, when he was marked by shame and scandal. He owed everything to Archer and Jane Braddock. And to his father, James. They’d saved his life, made a man of him. And a gentleman, at that.

Which was the reason Thea would never know she wasn’t his dream date for the evening.

He took the last two steps in one bouncy stride, loving the savvy click of his heels as they struck the marble floor.

“Peter?”

Slinging his jacket across his shoulder, he walked quickly to the door of the library, where Archer and James sat before a fire, the first of the season though—it seemed to Peter—more for ambiance than warmth, even now. An ivory chess set was on the table between them, the game clearly heating the normal father and son tensions. James had been at Braddock Hall for nearly five months now, longer than any of his sons could remember him staying in the past and, having recently broken his engagement, he was in the restless stage of being newly single again.

Peter recognized the signs, knew his father didn’t miss Monica as much as he missed the idea of himself with the young and beautiful Monica. But it was a good thing the relationship had ended when it had. Peter didn’t have any use for women like the ones his father invariably chose, and Monica had been the worst of the lot. So far.

“Where are you headed?” James asked, studying the chessboard before carelessly moving his pawn.

“To Newport. Angela Merchant’s wedding is this afternoon at four.” He smiled at his grandfather, proud to have been asked to perform this one small good deed. “I’m on my way to pick up my date.”

Archer didn’t smile back, looked slightly guilty even as he moved to block James’s bishop.

“Which beautiful blonde are you taking to this wedding?” James frowned absently as he studied the chessboard and Archer’s bid to check. “The lovely Lindsay? The delicate Daphne? The ethereal Emily?”

“Today,” Peter said in his most courtly tones. “It’s my privilege to be escorting Miss Thea Berenson.”

James’s frown turned dryly cynical. “Fine, don’t tell me who you’re taking.”

“I’m escorting Thea,” Peter repeated. “I’m picking her up at Grace Place and taking her to the wedding. As my date.”

James looked up then, his eyes—so like Peter’s own—narrowed suspiciously. “You asked Thea Berenson to be your date to Angela Merchant’s wedding?” he said incredulously. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

“No, sir,” Peter said, offended by the question, even though he knew most everyone would think what James was clearly thinking now. It was one thing to dance with someone like Thea at a social gathering. That was considered the mark of a gentleman. But to ask to escort an acknowledged wallflower to an event, to make it into an actual date, was another thing entirely. In the unwritten laws of chivalrous behavior, it was considered misleading, unkind and nothing a gentleman would ever do unless he had a genuine interest in the lady. Which, of course, Peter didn’t. But Archer had made the request and Peter wasn’t going to apologize to anyone for acceding to it. “I not only asked,” he told James with an easy smile, “but was accepted. That’s usually a prelude to a pleasant evening, as I fully expect this one to be.”

James looked at Peter thoughtfully, then his gaze swiveled to Archer. “Is this your idea of a joke? Thea Berenson? Come on, Dad. You don’t honestly think she and Peter could ever…”

“I honestly think Peter should go now before he’s late,” Archer said, with an upward glance that barely met Peter’s eyes before skittering away. “Davinia is a stickler about punctuality.”

Peter frowned, wondering at his grandfather’s odd tone. Surely, Archer didn’t believe Thea was that bad. She wasn’t much to look at, true. She didn’t have much to say for herself, either. And she wore clothes more suitable for a prim nineteenth century schoolmarm than a twenty-first century debutante. But Peter had never thought she was as hopeless as most people seemed to think. He’d certainly never thought of her as the ugly duckling some of his friends considered her to be.

Which didn’t mean he was looking forward to the evening. Quite the contrary. But he didn’t think it would be unbearable, either, as his father clearly did. And he didn’t believe Thea had any misconceptions about his reason for asking her out. They were attending the event together because their grandparents had decided they should. End of story. “Grandfather’s right. I should go. It wouldn’t do for a Braddock to be late for a date…no matter who it is or what the circumstances.”

“Peter,” James said, his gaze narrowed firmly on Archer. “I think you ought to know that your grandfather has been engaging in some match—”

“—hopeful contemplation,” Archer interrupted firmly, “that you and Miss Berenson will have a perfectly lovely evening. And that you will be, as you always are, a perfect gentleman.”

“I believe you can safely count on that.” Peter tossed the keys to his BMW roadster and caught them with confidence. “It’s the one thing you can always count on your grandsons to be. Good night, Dad. Grandpop,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast.”

Peter turned and started out, then paused to flash a grin over his shoulder at James. “Oh, and Dad, watch out for your queen. Looks like Grandpop is just about to turn her into a damsel in distress.”