The Matchmaker's Apprentice. Karen Toller Whittenburg

      Miranda had paid attention last night.

      Miranda always paid attention.

      Miranda did everything to perfection. If she’d wanted to stop this wedding, none of them would be here now.

      “Ainsley!” The coordinator hissed at her again, propelling her under the rose bower with a firm hand on the back of the organza bustle. Ainsley nearly stumbled, but caught herself and took the first fateful step—with her right foot. “Left foot!” The coordinator’s whispered reminder had her switching rhythm in midstride and coming even closer to losing her balance. If she’d thought that falling flat on her face would do anything more than merely delay the bride’s entrance, she’d go sprawling here and now. She looked back over her shoulder and saw Molly, in her bridal white, hovering in the bride’s room doorway, looking excruciatingly nervous, but committed.

      So the marriage was going to take place, despite Ainsley’s misgivings. She’d done all she could, had said as much as she dared, had hinted at her doubts—as a professional and a loving cousin—to both Scott and Molly with no results. She hadn’t confessed her part in the matchmaking, but she had tried to explain her concern to her siblings. As the three of them typically did, they’d discounted her qualms and assured her there was nothing to worry about. Scott and Molly were perfect for each other. Two peas in a pod. Two nuts in a shell. Two bugs in a bottle.

      Which, of course, was the problem.

      There was nothing for it now, but to hope they would have a brighter future than she could imagine for them. So as the music swelled around her, Ainsley put a smile on her face and did her own version of the bridesmaid’s shuffle—step-pause, step-pause—letting her hips sway just a little under the yards of shimmering lavender organza.

      Miranda, who looked stunning as always, had reached the front and was making her final turn. Eldest brother Matt was standing tall and straight next to Scott. He smiled encouragingly at Ainsley as she reached the midway point. Andrew, Ainsley’s twin, stood next to Matt, looking handsome, but uncomfortable in his tuxedo. He winked at her and her heart sank all over again. Even Andrew didn’t understand why this match was so wrong or why she was so worried about it.

      But no one would listen to her and now it was too late. It had been too late from the minute she’d set up that first, disastrous introduction of possibilities for Scott. Or more probably, it had been too late from the moment she’d confided excitedly to him that she was working for IF Enterprises and he’d asked her, begged her, to set up a match for him.

      And she had.

      Despite Ilsa’s cautioning her from the start that she needed to learn some basic tenets of matchmaking before taking on any clients. Despite knowing on one level or another that she was acting on impulse as much as intuition. She’d been certain, though, that she knew the right woman for Scott. Bubbly, extroverted and warm, Shelby would have been the perfect foil for Scott’s shy, introverted and intellectual self. Ainsley had been positive that once the two met, the result would be an instantaneous attraction and a match truly made in heaven.

      And she hadn’t necessarily been wrong. Just unfortunate in where she’d set up that initial meeting. A bit unlucky with the timing, and tardy in stepping forward to rectify the mistake. Scott wound up at the wrong table in the restaurant and, within an hour, was head over heels in love with a quiet mouse of a woman named Molly…instead of meeting Shelby as Ainsley had intended.

      Two unbelievably short months later, here they were, Scott and Molly, about to be married.

      Two-thirds of the way down the aisle, Ainsley realized how few guests had actually shown up to witness the ceremony. Of course, there’d never been any question of the wedding being anything other than small. Molly didn’t have family, except for her ancient Aunt Beatrice, who was too elderly to travel but who’d sent the couple an enormous soup tureen shaped like a swan. Even Miranda had wondered aloud what use Molly and Scott would have for a soup tureen, since neither of them had any friends. Well, at least, not any close friends, which was why the bridal party consisted of Scott’s four cousins and his two younger sisters.

      Another reason this match was all wrong, Ainsley decided as she reached the front and made her final turn, was that the bridal party was out of balance. There was one more bridesmaid than groomsmen. Miranda had tried to fix the problem because she disliked odd numbers, but Scott’s father—who wasn’t that happy about the wedding to begin with—had declared quite firmly that he wasn’t paying for some stranger’s tuxedo just to even out the bridal party. Scott had said he didn’t care, and Molly had agreed because she and Scott agreed about everything.

      Which was the main reason this marriage was a bad idea.

      Two people shouldn’t expect to be everything to each other. But Molly and Scott seemed to believe it was possible…and perfect. Neither of them possessed much in the way of social graces, so there was little hope either of them would expand the social circle of the other. They were both shy. Both inhibited and unassertive. Between them, they possessed barely an ounce of backbone.

      Scott and Molly had too much in common. Ainsley could see that very clearly. While she wouldn’t go so far as to predict that happiness was an impossibility for them, she could not believe it was very likely, either. They’d grow bored with each other, stifled in the narrowness of their lives.

      Ainsley was only an apprentice matchmaker, but she knew there was a reason opposites attract. She understood that familiarity could, and often did, breed contempt. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that this marriage wouldn’t set the world on fire…or, more important, either one of its counterparts. But no one other than Ainsley seemed concerned.

      Then again, she was the only one who knew what a mismatch she’d inadvertently put together. She was the only one who felt guilty for bringing about this ill-fated romance.

      Emily, the older of Scott’s two sisters and still young enough to consider her curly red hair a curse, looked worried as she reached the end of the aisle. “Molly tore her dress,” she said to Ainsley in a whispered aside as she stepped into the maid of honor’s place. “She stepped on her train.”

      A bad sign.

      Ainsley looked toward the entrance, where Claire, Scott’s baby sister, was starting her walk down the aisle, scattering rose petals over the carpet. Claire was also a redhead and, at eleven, too old really for the role she was fulfilling with such exaggerated care…dropping two petals on this side, three petals on that side. Molly had wanted a flower girl and there was no one else. The ring bearer—Molly had wanted one of those, too—had been easier to find. They’d borrowed Calvin Braddock, the five-year-old son of Bryce and Lara Braddock, who, if not close friends of either Scott or Molly, were at least considered friends of the Danville family. Ainsley could see Cal’s white-blond cowlick darting back and forth behind the purple smock of the wedding coordinator, who seemed to be trying to keep the boy from dashing down the aisle.

      The music was too loud at the front of the church to hear what was happening at the back. Ainsley was surprised to see a sudden collective stir of activity. The congregation—at least, the dozen or so Danville relatives seated in the first few rows—grew restless and began turning around in the pews to see what was going on. Even Scott, who’d spent the entire processional so far staring anxiously at his shoes, looked up.

      “I got to tell the groom somethin’!” Calvin’s little-boy voice broke through the lull between the final chords of Pachelbel and the opening chimes of Wagner’s “Bridal Chorus.” “She told me to tell him!”

      Cal pulled free of the wedding coordinator’s grasping hands and ran, tuxedo tails flying, down the aisle, dashing past Claire in a move that knocked her off her feet and scattered her rose petals in one thick, damp clump. “She ’loped!” Calvin shouted as he caught sight of Scott at the altar. “The bride ’loped!”

      Scott went pale with alarm, but it was Matt who moved forward to calm the ring bearer and ask for a more coherent explanation.

      “Catch your breath, Calvin,” Matt said soothingly. “And start