The Blacksheep's Arranged Marriage. Karen Toller Whittenburg

low, soothing tones, as she hugged the comforter with her thighs and scrooched farther along the oak branch. “How many times do we have to go through this drill before you trust me to get you back inside?”

      The kitten meowed plaintively, her tawny eyes rounded in distress, her claws clenched on the tree like tiny anchors. Thea calculated the distance from where she was to where the kitten was, and back to the attic window from where she’d started this rescue mission. Grace Place, her grandmother’s childhood home, loomed large and sullen beside the leafy old oak, the open attic window the only inviting element in the otherwise hulking structure. But a home was more than stones and mortar. Grace Place was all the home Thea had ever known, her grandmother all she knew of family. The house really wasn’t so bad. It had potential and someday, when her grandmother was no longer around to protest every change, Thea imagined it would look very different with gardens of bright flowers and shutters painted a soft cream, instead of stark black. Inside the house, she’d replace the heavy draperies with open-weave curtains, which would welcome every drop of sun, warming the rooms with natural light, instead of conserving every degree of artificial heat within by keeping the outside weather out.

      But someday wasn’t today.

      Today was Angela Merchant’s wedding day and, if Thea didn’t get this silly kitten out of the tree, get herself inside and dressed, she was going to miss one of the biggest social events of the season. Not that she’d mind in the least. But her grandmother wouldn’t hear of such a thing, which meant Thea was going to the wedding, by gum or by golly.

      If only Davinia hadn’t decided that this time Thea required an escort….

      Like a bad omen, she heard the distant throb of a powerful engine and her heart picked up the throaty rhythm, adding in a ragged, anxious beat. Peter Braddock was on his way to get her. By the sound of it, he was nearly at the gate, which meant he’d be ringing the front bell in ten minutes. Or less.

      She entertained a fleeting thought of staying up in the tree and hoping no one would find her. But that was merely wishful thinking. Monroe always found her, no matter how well she thought she was hidden. Thea frowned meaningfully at the kitten. “This is it, alley cat. Either you come with me now, or you’ll have to get yourself down. What’s it to be?”

      She extended her arm as far as possible and coaxed in low, persuasive tones, “Here, kitty, kitty. Come on, kitty….”

      The calico seemed to sense her last chance and, crouching low on the limb, made a tentative move toward Thea’s outstretched fingers. “That’s right,” Thea coached. “Just a little bit farther…”

      The low purring of the sports car’s engine slowed, indicating it had reached the gate. Peter was probably buzzing in even now and once the gates swung open, it wouldn’t take him two minutes to reach the house. Thea knew it was now or never, so she made a grab for the cat. Catching hold of one furry leg, the whole scrabbling, scratching ball of fur came tumbling into her arms and tried to climb her shoulder. “Stop it, Ally,” she said, trying desperately to calm the kitten and maintain her grip on the tree branch. But her balance was off and the down comforter was slip-sliding dangerously. All Thea could do was hold on to the cat as she tipped to the side and fell, shielding the kitten with a last-minute hunching of her shoulders.

      She hit the ground in a rolling thud, thankfully cushioned by the soft bulk of the down comforter, and clambered to her feet, still holding on to the kitten and ignoring the sharp ache in her hip. The engine had revved again, preparatory to sweeping around the curving drive to the house, and she knew her window of opportunity was fading fast. If she didn’t get in the house immediately, Peter Braddock was going to drive up and see his date for the evening clad only in her silk slip. Leaving the comforter pooled at the base of the tree, Thea made a wild, limping dash for the back of the house, praying fervently that Monroe had left the door to the servants’ quarters unlocked and that Peter Braddock would turn out to be extremely nearsighted.

      PETER CAUGHT A GLIMPSE of a scantily clad female form—a rather nice form from what he could see—running around the corner of the house as he drove up. Funny. He’d heard that the only females at Grace Place were old Davinia, Thea and the elderly retainer’s plump wife. Apparently, though, there was at least one slim, young and attractive woman on the household staff. Either that, or one of the groundskeepers had invited his girlfriend over for a little afternoon delight. Wouldn’t Mrs. Carey have a fit if she knew about that? She’d probably string the man up by his thumbs and post him by the front gates as a warning to anyone else with lascivious appetites who might step foot on her property. Thea’s grandmother seemed a regular tyrant, a throwback to another era, an idealist who believed the restraints and restrictions of Victorian England still had a place in twenty-first century America.

      Peter turned off the engine of the car, pocketing the keys as he stepped out onto the paved drive. He’d always felt a deal of sympathy for Thea, caught in a life she surely wouldn’t have chosen for herself. There were rumors about Thea’s mother, Davinia’s willful and rebellious daughter. Peter didn’t know if the rumors were true or if, in fact, they had anything to do with the tight rein Davinia held on her only surviving grandchild. He didn’t have a clue as to why Thea allowed herself to be governed by her grandmother’s outdated ideas and ideals. It wasn’t as if she had no other recourse. Everyone knew she had considerable assets of her own.

      Not that it mattered to him one way or another. He had no intention of giving Thea or her grandmother any grounds for complaint. Not tonight or at any time in the future. He couldn’t imagine even a single circumstance under which he’d be tempted to behave as anything other than a perfect gentleman with Thea. She wasn’t exactly his idea of a temptress.

      The idea of Thea as femme fatale made him smile as he loped up the steps and pushed the doorbell, half expecting to be admitted by a butler straight out of the old Addams Family television series. But the liveried man who opened the thick wooden door looked more like Santa Claus than Lurch. “May I help you?” the butler said.

      “I’m Peter Braddock.” Peter offered the information with a smile. “I believe Ms. Berenson is expecting me.”

      “Miss Thea isn’t quite ready, sir, but Mrs. Carey would like to greet you in the parlor.”

      Disguising his reluctance to be greeted, Peter stepped inside the cavernous foyer and blinked in the dusky, dusty light. Grace Place, on first impression, did not live up to its name. Although as his vision adjusted to the gloom, he could see the house might once have been something spectacular. Dual stairways curved up on either side of a large entry and the chandelier hanging from the ceiling was quite simply massive. If lit it would undoubtedly illuminate the entryway with a crystalline light.

      “This way, please.” The butler walked with a slight hitch in his step to the far side of the foyer, where he opened an ornately carved wooden door to reveal a dim room decorated in a style that hadn’t been fashionable for forty years. “Mr. Peter Braddock is here for Miss Thea,” he announced, then stepped aside so that Peter could enter the parlor, which was just as dreary as the foyer, if not more so.

      Davinia Carey sat like the proverbial spider, in a web of ruffled cushions on a dark green velvet settee. Her hair was crimped and upswept into a tight knot atop her head. It was as black as a raven’s wing, which made her face look unnaturally pale in the gloomy light. “Good afternoon, Peter,” she said in a voice that made him feel he wasn’t standing quite straight enough.

      Peter wasn’t easily intimidated, but Davinia Carey always made him nervous, as if she was both judge and jury, as though she knew that beneath his GQ facade he was merely a pretender to the throne. “Hello, Mrs. Carey,” he replied in a voice that betrayed not one iota of his feelings. “It’s very nice to see you again. I hope you’re feeling well today.”

      She sniffed, a sound as eloquent as any words. “Have a seat, Peter.”

      He glanced around and chose a straight-backed Queen Anne, which was as uncomfortable as it looked, but had the advantage of being a respectable distance from the settee. For some reason, he found himself remembering the night of his first formal dance. He’d been a gawky, awkward kid, barely thirteen,