Miss Grantham's One True Sin (The Regency Matchmaker Series Book 2) (10 page)

La
, she was mad!

She went downstairs at first light, where she knew she would find him at breakfast with the ABC's. Her heart pounded. She had made a decision. She would ask him. She would ask how he felt about her. There was no other way to be certain. She preferred plain speaking, and so did he. It was best to get their feelings—however nascent—out into the open before their guests began to arrive tomorrow.

She swept into the morning room, where the ABC's sat looking morose. Three places were set upon the table. Three places, not four.

"Good morning, lovely ladies. Where is your uncle?"

"Gone," Alyse said in a sulky voice.

"Gone where?" Marianna asked.

Eleanor shrugged. "He left while we were asleep."

"Yes," Beatrice said. "The coach is gone—”

“Which means a long trip!” Alyce interrupted.

“—and they will not tell us where he went or when he's coming back."

Chapter Seven

L
ONDON

was wretched.

The streets were muddy from the recent rain, fog had shrouded the church spires deep into the afternoon, and the fetid odors drifting in from the Thames seemed to cling to everything. The air was too still. True wished a breeze would blow in from the North Sea. By Jove, how he missed the open ocean!

True hadn't even seen the sea in two months.

It wouldn't be long before he returned to that life, he thought as his coachman maneuvered the vehicle into fashionable St. James's Street. He patted the pocket of his waistcoat and, withdrawing an envelope, threw it onto the seat opposite him. It was a special license, and it was one of the two things he’d come to London to procure. With it, he could wed Marianna Grantham wherever and whenever it was convenient.

Not that True cared where or when—only that the deed were done.

He rapped on the ceiling of the coach, signaling he wished to debark. Out on the street, he made his way to a nondescript shop with a small sign at the top.

"Chancellor and Gale," the sign read. "Jewelers."

Their wares were overpriced, but True didn't mind. The shop traded in discretion as much as it did in jewels. Not many of the baubles purchased there ever made it onto the hands or neck or ears of a wife.

Leaving the shop a half-hour later, True ordered his coach to his town house in Silver Street. The afternoon sun slanted low across the rooftops, and people scurried here and there, heading home for the evening like birds heading to roost. He'd hoped to make it back to Trowbridge before now, for his house guests would already have begun arriving, but the delay could not have been helped. His order from Chancellor and Gale could not be made ready before then, and, with the roads as sodden and rutted as they were, it would take him a good four hours of neck-or-nothing riding to make the journey back to Trowbridge Manor. He would not start until morning.

It was no matter.

Truesdale suspected that his betrothed would take his absence gracefully, as she did most everything. She would give some excuse or other and carry on with her activities as though nothing were amiss. He honestly didn't think she'd mind much. Like a cat, clever and quick, Marianna Grantham would always land on her feet.

He stared out the window as the carriage wove through the crowded, rain-soaked streets. He knew with an experienced certainty that his seduction had been successful. She'd blushed in his arms last night, and she'd run from the room as though the soles of her feet were on fire.

A growl of frustration cleared his lips. Thank God she'd run.

The truth was, when she had finally relaxed against him and begun to kiss him back, True nearly abandoned his wits. Though it was obvious she'd never been kissed, Marianna Grantham had proved to be as apt a pupil at kissing as she was at everything else. Too apt! He snorted. He could still feel the silken strands of her golden hair entwined in his fingers, could taste her sweet mouth on his own hungry lips.

He'd wanted to go on kissing her.

Bloody hell, what he'd wanted to do was to carry her up to his bed!

True shook his head. What had come over him? He'd been rusticating in the country for three months, that's what. It had been too long since he'd enjoyed feminine company, that was all. It was not as though Mary were the most attractive woman in England. Quite the contrary. Her pale looks held little power of fascination. By candlelight, a man couldn't even see she had eyebrows.

Ah ... but with no candles at all . . .

True's mind went a-begging as he imagined how her body might feel beneath his in the darkness, how her voice would sound when drugged with passion. She would smell like a field of dewy flowers ... because they’d have been walking together ... in the rain ... hand in hand ... singing "Greensleeves" ... swimming in the brook ... together ... naked in the brook ...

Out the window, someone whistled a greeting to the coachman, and True shook the images of Mary from his mind with annoyance. Indulging in such fantasies would get him nothing but an ache in the groin he could not easily dispel. Marianna Grantham was not the sort of woman to sing or swim naked in the brook, and she was not the sort of woman to inspire such heated thoughts. She was drab, colorless. And she did not smell of wildflowers and rain, but of starch.

The trouble was, her personality wasn't as colorless as her countenance. The trouble was, he'd been forced to get to know her. She'd become a person to him this past week, a person with dreams and ambitions. Ambitions, he'd come to realize, which were equal in intensity to his own.

Too bad they were all centered on her future position amongst the
ton
. True and she could have been friends but for that.

If he were not careful, he would begin to believe that he truly
liked
the chit, by Jove! He had to remind himself that her shallow focus on gaining a position in Society far outweighed the list of good qualities he had assigned to her. Kindness, cleverness, compassion, none of it mattered. Not when she believed that the upper ten thousand were the only people who really mattered.

He had to concede that she was not what he had at first believed her to be. Where Mary was concerned, True's uncanny ability to instantly assess a person's character had abandoned him. She was not the empty-headed and selfish chit he'd first thought she was, and she was not as high in the instep as her rigid bearing and aroma of starch had led him to believe. Those blue stockings of hers were evidence enough of that. He recalled the painfully ornate things she'd made for her friend Lady Marchman. The stockings were a slyly playful gift and evidence of a delightful wit Mary usually kept hidden away.

Why was she so serious? Why did she feel she had to keep her naturally buoyant personality in check? What had her upbringing been like? What sort of people were her parents?

As the coach made its ponderous turn into a less crowded street, he wondered what she'd think of his brother's town house there in London. Would she find it as vulgarly lavish as he did? When she finally breached the social sanctum of London’s exalted Almack's assembly rooms, would she find the weekly ball as much of a tedious bore as True did? Perhaps she would eventually grow tired of London and retreat to the country. She seemed quite content at Trowbridge Manor, but what if she grew tired of it, too? She might travel. She hadn't complained about her long journey from the islands. He wondered if she had merely endured the trip, or if she actually liked traveling by ship. The Lady Jane, True's largest ship, had fine quarters. He would be proud to show them to her. She would enjoy seeing— He stopped mid-thought. That would never do. As soon as they were wooed and wed, she'd be happy, and he'd be ... gone. For now, he'd set her firmly from his mind.

But True spent the rest of the drive to the town house scowling out the window, thinking of—
what else?
—her.

MARIANNA WISHED TRUE Sin to perdition.

When the guests arrived, the Viscount should have been there to greet them, and she should have been standing beside him. Instead, she’d been forced to play the part of just another one of the guests—though servants had naturally been deferring to her, as they had been doing all week, and none of the guests knew exactly what to make of that. It was certainly enough to arouse their curiosity, however. They all had to be wondering about Marianna's status with the Viscount, but Marianna could hardly announce their engagement without him, especially since she didn't know when—or if—he would be coming back, the bounder!

It was late afternoon, the last of their guests had arrived an hour before, and Marianna hadn't the first idea what to do next. She smiled wanly and looked about the parlor, where most of the guests had now assembled. They sat in groups, talking amongst themselves, and it was clear they were all waiting for Trowbridge to arrive. Marianna sat with Ophelia next to the window.

"I shall strangle him," she whispered through her carefully benign smile.

Ophelia looked up from the letter she was reading and patted her hand. "Do not be too harsh on the boy," she whispered. "He would not have been late on purpose. Probably a broken axle or some such."

"A broken axle, or a broken promise?"

Ophelia lowered the missive to her knee. "He would not. He needs—" She glanced about her furtively and lowered her voice even more. "He needs you too much to cast you to the wolves."

Marianna felt as though that is exactly what he had done. She didn't know any of the guests, and they were all clearly curious about her. They were all Good
Ton
, but—honestly!—she still felt as though they were wolves, circling before the kill. She smiled at a dowager duchess whose raised eyebrows did nothing to calm her nerves.

"This is not what I fancied my introduction to Society would be like."

Ophelia tapped the letter. "It is a pity darling Kathryn and her dear Nigel could not attend. Having someone here you are acquainted with—besides your duenna, of course," she said, meaning herself, "would have made the time pass more smoothly."

Marianna knew the letter was from Lady Blackshire, Ophelia’s grand-niece, whom Marianna had met at Baroness Marchman’s School for Young Ladies under some rather remarkable circumstances. Marianna didn’t know them as well as she’d like, but, like her great-aunt, Kathryn Moorhaven seemed a lovely individual, and Nigel Moorhaven, the Marquis of Blackshire was almost as handsome as Truesdale and seemed just as pleasant. Marianna had enjoyed their company very much, what little she’d experienced. Lord and Lady Blackshire had been on the guest list but they had sent word that Lady Blackshire was increasing and could not travel. She was bitterly disappointed and fervently wished the two of them had been able to attend the house party at Trowbridge, but Ophelia, for her part, was delighted with the news. She had taken out their letter to reread it every five minutes or so, and she had been quite blissfully distracted with thoughts of her coming great-
great
-niece or nephew since the letter had arrived that morning.

Marianna shifted uncomfortably, and said,
sotto voce
, "They are all staring at me."

"A little mystery concerning your connection to the Viscount will not hurt."

"As long as he comes back!" Marianna muttered.

"He will return. Soon," Ophelia added. "Do not worry so. You will give yourself gray hair."

Marianna tried not to worry, but she found that impossible. She had the Trowbridge ruby on her finger, but so far it had gone unseen. She’d been hiding it beneath her reticule or between the folds of her gown. She wished she could have hidden it under a gloves, but the blasted thing wouldn’t fit. She’d been afraid of someone noticing it all day.

She tried not to fidget, tried not to notice the furtive glances cast her way. She knew the guests were all attempting to guess her connection to True Sin. Of course, as members of the
ton
, they were too well mannered to say so. It would have been intolerably forward to come right out and ask. And, by the same code of behavior, she could not volunteer the information, no matter how much she longed to.

Did they imagine she was an impoverished relation? A governess? A housekeeper? Whatever they thought, they all seemed to be awaiting True's arrival to confirm their surmises. They talked of little else but the Viscount, though their conversation somehow felt ... restrained, Marianna thought, as though they all had more to say but didn't for some reason. They must all be wondering where Trowbridge was. Marianna was wondering the same thing.
Blast the man
!

One young man, an ultra-fashionable London tulip wearing a pink striped waistcoat, finally addressed the company, though he looked straight at Marianna. "I say, this is deuced odd. Does anyone know when we shall have the pleasure of the Viscount Trowbridge's company?"

Marianna caught Ophelia's eye and silently beseeched her for help.

Ophelia rose suddenly and, with the kind of flourish only she could produce, declared, "It is deadly dull inside, and the weather is fine. I am venturing outside to stroll the gardens." She looked at Marianna. "Did you not say tea would be served on the lawn today, since the weather is so fine?"

"Oh! Yes ... yes, I did."

“Then I shall stroll the grounds until I hear the bells chime!”

The guests exchanged looks and rose
en masse
. Ophelia led the exodus. Everyone seemed genuinely glad to stretch their limbs after their long journeys, and they followed Ophelia out of doors like rats after the Pied Piper. Marianna lingered, watching their retreat with relief and ducking into the library, glad to escape scrutiny for a few moments.

The library provided not only fine vistas of the gardens through its tall windows but also voluminous curtains to hide behind as one spied on those who strolled there. She perched on the edge of a chair covered in green damask and peered around one of the matching curtains, her eyes fixing upon one handsome gentleman after the other as their deep voices floated to her through the opened windows.

Ophelia, who seemed to knew everyone’s secrets better than they did, had assembled the guest list, which included well-nigh twenty young bachelors, men Ophelia considered the most eligible
partis
amongst the
ton
. The young men were all titled or wealthy she fervently wished the two of them had been able to attend the house party at Trowbridge she fervently wished the two of them had been able to attend the house party at Trowbridge—or both. Most were at least passably good-looking.

And one of them, Marianna knew, would soon be her husband. That had been their plan all along, hers and Ophelia’s. Her fake betrothal to the Viscount Trowbridge was designed to allow her to choose wisely, logically.

Her heart beat hard and fast in her chest, and she felt herself begin to perspire. The next two weeks was the time to divine the bachelors’ true natures. According to Ophelia, as soon as news of Marianna’s broken engagement to the Viscount Trowbridge became public, the
ton
would be fascinated with her. News of her parents’ vast fortune would spread, and the attention of the young lords would be fixed.

Marianna would then have a choice to make. She would have to decide which of them to wed. It was a sound plan.

As soon as the Viscount arrived home, they would announce their betrothal. As Trowbridge's betrothed, Marianna would be off the marriage block. The bachelors on the guest list would know it could do them no good to try to impress her. They would not be displaying false manners or sweetening their words for her benefit. They would be at their ease, behaving naturally—and Marianna would have the entire sennight to observe them. She would see their true colors, and she could decide which one she should marry. Meanwhile, everyone would have time to discover—with a little help from Ophelia—-just how large a fortune Marianna was heir to.

Finally, Truesdale and she would end their betrothal amicably and publicly, and then the object of her affections would have a clear way to courting her.

It was simple. Foolproof. Logical.