Miss Grantham's One True Sin (The Regency Matchmaker Series Book 2) (12 page)

“—at Almack’s! And then you would not marry her.”

“The Honorable Lydia Northam isn’t as starched-up as her title suggests. I offered. But she did not want to marry me—not that I would gone through with it, anyway, and—” Suddenly, True frowned, confused. "Do you mean to tell me you did not know any of these things before you came to Trowbridge?"

She rounded on him. "Of course I did not know about them! Why on earth would I have come to you if I had? Why would a young lady in my situation connect herself to a man who had so thoroughly disgraced himself? Your dishonor is legendary. No, I knew nothing about it until our guests arrived, but it was not long before they hastened to my side to ply me with stories about the infamous
True Sin
."

He raked his fingers through his hair. "I assumed you knew all the
on-dits
before you came to me."

She shook her head violently. "I was working as a schoolteacher for the past year, not attending the ...
the opera
!" She threw him a venomous look.

"But Mrs. Robertson knows everything that goes on in society. Surely she informed you of—"

"Apparently, my
duenna
neglected to mention a few things, and I want to know why." She plunked one hand on her hip, clearly waiting for True to supply the answer.

"
I
don’t know. Why not ask her?"

She threw her hand into the air and began to pace again, even more furiously than before. The lamp she carried marshaled the shadows, and they marched with her. "I have been wanting to speak with her since this afternoon. But she slipped away from me and disappeared for above two hours, and then the next thing I knew she was shut up in her room with the complaint of a severe megrim."

"She escaped you."

"So it seems."

"Cannot say I blame her. I wish I could escape your ire, too."

She shot him another black look. "What do you expect? You left me entirely alone with a house full of guests, a ruby the size of the Tower of London on my hand, and no dearly betrothed in sight. I did not know where you were or when you were returning or even
if
you were planning to return. I sat through two meals knowing that most of my guests believe I am your mistress, and, as though that were not enough, I had to protect the guests from the ABC's, who thought it flaming keen to have so many new places to deposit salamanders! I think I am entitled to a little anger." Her feet stilled with her back to him, took in a sudden huge breath, and sniffled.

"I am sorry," he said, and he actually meant it, "but all will be set to rights when we announce our betrothal on the morrow."

"
Set to rights
?" She whirled back toward him, even more at daggers drawn. "Surely you jest!
Nothing
can be put right. Nothing! For you, my lord, are
not
a suitable suitor—even if you are merely a temporary one. My parents will be most displeased." She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "No, that is calling it too brown. They will be furious, and for good reason, not that
you
care, I am certain. You obviously care not one whit about anyone but yourself."

He wasn't prepared for her brittle, caustic manner or for the sheer distaste in her expression and voice. He had just spent seven hours racing home to please her, and she hadn't even seemed to notice that his clothing was wet and caked with mud. He was dangerously weary, but the little hellcat wasn’t finished with her scold.

She shook her fist. "If you cared about anything but my bottle of gems, you would not have entered into our bargain to begin with. You are not Good
Ton
. You knew perfectly well that no one of good breeding—and certainly not my parents—would find you an acceptable husband."

Something inside True twisted and snapped.

He leaned insolently against the library door frame. "Ah, Mary ... it seems we are well matched, then, for no one of good breeding would attempt to
buy a title
or
lie about being betrothed
!"

His arrow clearly found its mark. She plunked the lamp onto his desk, sloshing the oil about the chamber and sending amber shadows dancing over the book-lined walls. "How dare you stand there and compare your own behavior to mine or my parents'? You know perfectly well there is nothing like your behavior in ours." She put her fists to her temples. "We have not driven breakneck through Hyde Park at four in the afternoon. We have not attended a ball sans cravat or coat. We have not placed public wagers on which royal prince a countess's newborn babe will resemble." She thumped the wall with her hand. "And we have not washed our hands in the lemonade at Almack's!"

True affected a bored stance. "The refreshments at Almack's are frightful. Their cakes are stale, and their lemonade is watered down. Someone needed to point that out to them."

"
Ohh
... !" She seethed. "So you will not even make an attempt to deny these claims?"

"Deny them?" He laughed. "Not only do I not deny them, I claim them as my own and celebrate them. In fact, you seem to have missed a few." He allowed his mouth to curl into a wicked smile and then sauntered over to pour himself a brandy. "I played the Prince at piquet-loo."

She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. "And?"

"The cards fell perfectly, and I won."

She rolled her eyes. "That is nothing. I have heard he is not the cleverest—"

"You did not ask what were the stakes."

"I do not care."

"Liar. I won his dessert. Carried her right away from his supper table."

"So? What does the Prince care? He can have his cooks make any number of— Did you say '
her
'?"

True nodded. "Quite so. Took the sweet away during the third course." He grinned. "Carried her out over my shoulder."

"Saints and sinners," she murmured.

"And then there was the time I went to a masquerade dressed as a shepherd—"

She shrugged.

"—
ess
," he finished.

"Enough!" she cried, and covered her ears. "Your behavior puts me to the blush. It is an embarrassment. Do you not realize that it ... it puts my reputation in jeopardy."

True nodded, bending his mouth into a snide shape. "
What
reputation?"

She ignored him. "I
order
you to amend your ways for the duration of the house party," she said. "I
demand
that you attempt to convince everyone that I have managed to reform you."

"Our guest might just believe it—"

"Good."

"—of a stiff-rumped, starched-up, stick-in-the-mud spinster like you."

"Starched-up? Stiff-rumped! Why, you ... you capricious ... careless ... skirt-minded
scoundrel!
You are deviant. And despicable. Just like the rest of the Sins!"

True laughed mirthlessly. "A scoundrel? You flatter me. I am going to bed." He opened the doors and started for the staircase. "Care to join me, Mary?" he tossed over his shoulder.

"My name is Marianna, and I would rather kiss a sheep."

"And you call
me
deviant!"

A shoe flew through the air, missing his head by an inch.

True let his laughter echo down the stairway. It was genuine, he realized with surprise. Thunder and blazes, he felt alive, exhilarated. He hadn't had a good argument like that one in months, and never one with a woman. She'd given as much as she'd gotten, by Jove!

By the time he reached his chamber, washed, and got ready for bed, though, he was a little more circumspect. He should have avoided an argument at all costs. He should have done whatever he had to do to smooth the hellcat's fur. He certainly shouldn't have agreed with her.

But the hell of it was, he did agree with her. Every word she'd said about him was true. Especially that last barb of hers. She was right. True Sin was no better than the rest of The Sins.

There was nothing she could have said that would have cut him any deeper than that.

True was the latest in a long line of wild, willful, and wicked men. The ton had been as fascinated with The Sins as The Sins had been with the ton. Oh yes, The Sins were firmly entrenched in “good scociety.” His brother, his father—all the way back to his great-great grandfather, all “Good Ton—and all as cold to their wives and children as they were to strangers.

Fashionable men of the ton didn’t spend time with their children. They married for money or position, got an heir and a spare, and then spent the rest of their miserable lives dallying with other men’s wives, drinking, and gambling. They thought little for the comfort and safety of their servants and field hands. They were demanding and feckless and frivolous.

And so were the Sins. But they were also clever and sharp-tongued. They’d each taken delight in shredding the reputations of anyone who crossed them. They were good at it. And the more lives they ruined, the more the ton loved them, for cruelty delivered within an envelope of wit was more than acceptable amongst the
ton
; it was celebrated. The Sins hadn’t cared who they ruined, as long as they did so with enough frequency to remain on the tongues of all Good Society.

True detested The Sins, and he hated that he was one of them. He’d always hated it.

From the time he could remember, he’d tried to be different, to battle the wickedness he’d been born to perpetuate. And he’d succeeded to a point. Yet he knew that deep down he was no different from any of the rest of the Sins. True had felt their wild impulsivity coursing through his veins.

Did he not take an almost sadistic pleasure in shocking the
ton
?

Aye, his behavior went beyond merely distancing himself from Society. He was not seeking separation, but revenge. Revenge—an art he had learned at his father's knee along with the other black arts that dovetailed so perfectly with the wildness in his blood.

He turned over and punched his pillow.

No matter how far he distanced himself from the rest of the Sins, he would still share their blood. Their wickedness was his own. He was born with it, and he would die with it. The best he could do was to be certain he did not perpetuate it—which was why the Viscount Trowbridge would never father any children. True Sin would be the last Sin. It was something he had promised himself long ago.

He lay in his bed, unable to sleep in spite of his weariness. Things with Mary were all in disarray, and he didn't know how to repair them. Ophelia had deliberately kept her ignorant of his behavior amongst the
ton
. Why? Why was she so interested in helping him? It was no use asking her. The stubborn old harridan had made it clear she would tell him nothing.

God, he'd made a muck of things with Mary! She was angry with him, and he had to admit that, even had she not discovered his infamous reputation, she had reason to be angry.

When he'd left for London, he hadn't told anyone where he was going. He'd thought about it, but he wasn't used to reporting his movements to anyone, and the idea had chafed him. Besides, he would have had to lie about his purpose anyway. He could hardly have told her he was going to procure a special license to marry or to buy a parting gift for his mistress.

Not that it mattered now, anyway. He was grimly aware that losing his temper with Mary had rendered the special license useless. It would take a miracle for Mary to wed him now. He’d have to affect a major change in Mary’s opinion of him, and his character was as carved in stone as his past deeds. He could change neither of them. How was he going to turn her up sweet once more?

He lay in bed thinking, the moon sinking low in the west before an idea came to him. If he could not change his own character, perhaps he could change Mary's instead. Perhaps if she were involved in some small scandal, she might be more forgiving of his own disgraces ...