Karen Whittenburg - The Blacksheep's Arranged Marriage

He laughed. “I’m afraid not. She told me flat out to concentrate on developing some charm because I certainly wasn’t going to get anywhere with my dancing.”

“Did your grandmother know she said that?”

Jane Braddock would have taken the shine right off of Miss Blythe’s fancy dancing shoes if she’d known. “No,” he said with a self-effacing smile. “I didn’t want to take dance lessons in the first place. If Miss Blythe hadn’t said that to me, I might never have decided to prove her wrong. Then where would I be right now?” He pulled her closer. “I’d be sitting on the sidelines, watching you dance with some other man and wishing it were me.”

She stumbled and he caught her, setting her back into the shared rhythm of the dance as easily as if she hadn’t missed a step. “Don’t please,” she said so softly he had to bend his head to catch the words. “You don’t have to charm me. Couldn’t we just…dance?”

A stab of remorse whispered through him like a shameful secret. Thea knew his words were false, recognized his charm for the polished insincerity it was, and was offended by it. As she had every right to be. This date hadn’t been his idea, true. But he didn’t for a minute believe it had been high on her wish list, either. She didn’t want him to pretend. She simply wanted the evening to proceed to its natural end with some little bit of dignity.

“That would be my pleasure,” he said because, whether she believed him or not, that much was true.

“YOU WON’T REGRET THIS, Mrs. Fairchild.” Ainsley Danville hugged Ilsa with one hundred percent pure enthusiasm. “I’m very good with people and I have a real knack for matchmaking. Even if I do say so myself.” She drew back, her pretty face flushed with excitement, her blue eyes sparkling with anticipation. “Who do you think should be my first client?”

Ilsa tried not to sigh. “You’ll start in the office and learn about all the paperwork that goes along with this kind of work. And Ainsley, you must keep in mind that discretion is essential. I’d prefer you tell anyone who asks that you’re an associate with IF Enterprises, not a matchmaker. For the record, I seldom, if ever, refer to my business as ‘matchmaking.”’

“I understand completely, Mrs. Fairchild. I am the very soul of discretion.” Her smile bloomed again and Ilsa thought it more than likely the news that she’d hired an assistant would be all over Rhode Island before sundown tomorrow. Perhaps all over New England, as well. But it was done. She’d wrestled with this decision for weeks. Ainsley had been campaigning for the job for nearly a year. Ilsa could only hope having an apprentice would turn out to be a lucky decision, even if it didn’t feel at all like a wise one at the moment.

Ainsley leaned closer. “Tell me, please, Mrs. Fairchild, are you responsible for today’s wedding, too?”

They were both in attendance at the wedding reception for Angela Merchant and Park Overton—now Mr. and Mrs. Park Overton—and Ilsa actually had made an introduction of possibilities for the couple not quite a year ago. But responsible for the wedding? No, she wouldn’t say that at all. “I don’t take credit for weddings, Ainsley. Only for helping someone see possibilities that already existed in the first place. I do hope you’ll keep in mind that no matter how well you do your homework or how sure you are the match you’ve put together is the right one, the whole thing can, and often does, fall apart. Park and Angela are two of the lucky ones. Much of what happens is luck, Ainsley. Once we’ve introduced the possibility of a match, the rest is out of our sphere of influence entirely. So while I don’t believe in taking credit for someone else’s happily ever after, I certainly don’t believe in blaming myself when a match doesn’t work out, either.”

Ainsley nodded, her expression beautifully serious. “I’ll remember that,” she said. “No taking the credit and no taking the blame.” Her irrepressible spirit rebounded with a wide smile. “So how soon can I start? Because I already have someone in mind as sort of a test case. My cousin, Scott, is single and desperately lonely. I have a hunch Julia Butterfield would really like him. He’s sort of rowdy and he’s not a vegan—he eats all kinds of meat—but I think he might change his bad habits if he met the right woman.”

Ilsa kept smiling despite the most pressing impulse to sigh. “First, office procedure, Ainsley,” she reminded her new assistant. “Then we’ll see about letting you work with me on a match.”

“Okay. Gotcha.”

Ilsa reminded herself again that she needed help with her business. And Ainsley had the personality for it. She was cute, she was bubbly, she was optimistic and she had a natural intuition about people, even though it flared a little on the wild side occasionally. But Ilsa did hope this new alliance would work out. She needed an infusion of Ainsley’s enthusiasm. Her own had been flagging lately and this could turn out well for both of them. After all, the whole premise of IF Enterprises was summed up in her own personal motto that Anything Is Possible.

Sipping her glass of wine, Ilsa looked around to see what Peter had done with Thea. They were no longer sitting in the far corner of the room, the spot Thea seemed usually to prefer and which they had occupied since dinner. They might already have left. It was early yet, but…no, there. They were dancing, and despite the fact that Theadosia looked like a maiden aunt, she seemed to be…well, not entirely miserable. Peter didn’t appear to be bored to distraction, although it was hard to tell for sure, and common sense told her he couldn’t be enjoying the evening.

Maybe something would come of this, although she couldn’t imagine what. Or how. Ilsa simply felt badly about her part in putting this mismatch together. Even for just these few hours. She should never have mentioned the impulse to Archer. She should not have heeded his encouragement to follow through on her hunch and set up this one evening of possibility. And she definitely should not have allowed him to use his influence over Peter and his long acquaintance with Davinia Carey to arrange this date with disaster. What possibility could exist, other than in her imagination, between Peter Braddock and Theadosia Berenson? It was a bad idea that just wouldn’t go away.

“Ainsley?” she said on impulse. “What do you know about Thea Berenson?”

Ainsley frowned, studying the question the way she might examine a raw turnip. “Well, some people call her Teddy Bear because she always looks a little fuzzy, if you know what I mean?”

Ilsa did.

“I’ve heard her called a poor, little rich girl, too, but it would be hard to tell that by looking at her. I don’t know what happened to her parents, although it must have been bad because nobody ever mentions them except in hushed-up tones, like it was some big scandal or something. She had a brother, but he died a couple of years ago. Of meanness, my sister said, but I think it was really just a heart attack. No mystery there. The real mystery to me,” Ainsley added as if it were incomprehensible, “is why she still lives with her grandmother who is—pardon my frankness, but I have to be honest—the original Wicked Witch of all New England and possibly the world.”

There was some truth in the statement, but while Ilsa didn’t want to discourage her protégé’s observations, she did want to encourage a temperate perspective of others’ life situations. “Davinia Carey isn’t, perhaps, a warm person, but I believe she has had a rather unhappy life.”

“Well, excuse me,” Ainsley said without apology. “But that’s not a good reason to make Thea miserable.”

Also true.