Karen Whittenburg - The Blacksheep's Arranged Marriage

She cocked her head to listen, sure he was teasing her, wishing he would either go off and dance with someone else or be content to sit out the dances, wondering why he’d agreed to spend this intolerable evening with her in the first place. She’d noticed the covert glances of other wedding guests, knew most of them were looking at Peter with sympathy and admiring him for being too much of a gentleman to ditch his sad sack of a date and enjoy himself.

Thea wanted to tell him she’d honestly tried to override her grandmother’s insistence that she accept his invitation. She wanted to say that just because his grandfather had coerced him into escorting her, didn’t mean she expected him to entertain her. But then, slipping in between her melancholy thoughts, finding a foothold in her memory, the melody and lyrics of the song registered as familiar and coaxed a slow smile across her lips.

“You say it best,” the lead singer crooned, “when you say nothing at all.”

She glanced up at his face, hoping he wasn’t making a joke at her expense. It had happened before. Not with Peter, but…Nothing in his expression suggested anything other than a kind attempt to let her know it was okay, that she didn’t have to say anything at all. His smile—the one that was tucked in at the corners of his mouth and reflected in the true green of his eyes, was merely approving and, perhaps, just a little bit hopeful.

And without a second’s warning, she was locked with Peter in a moment that meant something only to the two of them. He was teasing her and, for the first time in her life, Thea felt she was in on a joke. An amazing sense of belonging flooded through her, her throat lost its strangling tightness, and she laughed aloud. Softly, uncertainly…yes. Under her breath for the most part, but still a laugh that came right from the very heart of her.

Peter laughed, too, and looked…well, satisfied. “So, Theadosia,” he said. “May I please have this dance?”

“Yes, thank you,” she replied, feeling that somehow those three words were really all she needed to say.

IT WASN’T THE BEST TIME Peter had ever had at a wedding. That would have been Bryce’s and Lara’s wedding last month, with Adam’s and Katie’s wedding three months before that, running a close second. But tonight wasn’t the worst time he’d ever had watching someone else get married, either. That would have been Christina Ephraim’s wedding when he was fifteen and so hopelessly infatuated with the bride—his English tutor and drama coach and a sophisticated, beautiful older woman, besides—he’d very nearly embarrassed himself along with the whole Braddock family by sobbing out his heartache during the ceremony.

Luckily, his grandmother had sensed his distress and developed a dizzy spell that required him to step outside with her until her equilibrium—and his composure—returned. He’d always loved Grandmother Jane for that, and because she’d never said a word about it afterward, even though he knew she didn’t have dizzy spells. Ever.

Yes, that was definitely the worst wedding he’d ever attended. Tonight, with Thea? Not even close. In fact, if he could just get her to relax a little, they might both actually start to enjoy the evening.

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.”