Miss Grantham's One True Sin (The Regency Matchmaker Series Book 2) (19 page)

“Orange blossoms!” Alyce cried, moving the skirt aside. Sure enough, the embroidered flowers
were
orange blossoms, the traditional wedding flower. But Alyce hadn’t noticed the embroidery. No, she was pointing at the bottom of the box, where a mass of orange blossom lay, all wilted and crushed. Alyce lifted the flowers from the box, and Marianna gasped, for they were attached to a wreath. And the wreath was attached to blasted, bloody—

“That’s a wedding veil!” Beatrice cried. “Why didn’t you tell us you’re to marry Uncle Sin!”

The ABC’s set upon Marianna like hungry urchins at a bakery window, peppering her with questions, their sweet, eager faces filled with delight.

“When will you wed?

“Will you go ‘way on a trip for a long time?”

“Can we call you mama?” Eleanor asked, but Alyce and Beatrice quickly took up the question. “Oh, please.” “Yes, may we please? We love you, Mama.”

“Yes!” “Oh, yes!”

And they all embraced her.

Marianna was stunned. They wanted her for a mother? How had she let this happen? They were going to be bitterly disappointed when she did not marry their uncle!

She deflected the questions as gently as she could, saying nothing was settled and that she hadn’t ordered the gown—which was the truth. She hadn’t ordered it—he had. But why?

As the girls took the wedding gown out of the box and took turns holding it up to themselves to examine in the cheval glass, she took a moment to calm herself and apply a little logic.

It wasn’t that he wanted to marry her. He did not love her! She supposed he’d ordered the gown as a prop, something to help convince others of the sincerity of their betrothal. But why hadn’t he told her about it?

The thought occurred to her that perhaps Ophelia was responsible for the gown. Perhaps she’d imagined Marianna might fall madly in love with one of the bachelors and marry by special license, with no time to have a gown made.

Either were likely, and both were reasonable, and neither Ophelia nor Truesdale would have had any way of knowing the ABC’s would form such a swift, strong attachment to her. Marianna, on the other hand, had encouraged their attachment by spending so much time with them, the poor things.
Blast!

She could not simply confide in them; they were too young to be counted on to keep the nature of their impending betrothal secret. She would just have to distance herself from them and distract them. There was nothing else to do.

“Let us look in the other box, girls,” she said, and while they happily set upon the other box, Marianna quickly tucked the wedding gown into the clothespress.
Out of sight, out of mind
, she hoped,.

The other box contained the
last of the gowns she had ordered. It too was fashioned of layers of snowy muslin, but it had an over-skirt of deep blue silk. She examined it along with the girls and decided it was almost too fancy for a country supper. It looked more like a ball gown. Oh, but it would look lovely on her, and she tried to find some pleasure in imagining the compliments she would receive when she wore it.

Again, the idea that one of the gentlemen here at Trowbridge would soon be her husband startled her. Perhaps it would be the Earl of Lindenshire. She tried to fancy what he would say to her when he saw her in the gown, what compliments he might whisper, the forbidden longing she might glimpse in his eyes as he lifted them to hers after bowing over her hand. But the lovely daydream was spoiled, for the only face she could conjure was Truesdale's, wearing the same impudent grin he'd worn after the race.

A sudden thought occurred to her.

If he'd forced her to race in order to taste his way of life for a moment or two, perhaps it was time True Sin got a taste of his own medicine.

"Come, girls," she said. "We have a ball to plan."

"
A ball?
" the three cried. "Here? When?"

"Tonight," Marianna said with satisfaction.

Chapter Fourteen

D
ARKNESS

stole over the countryside, quieting man and beast.

True was grateful, for he was tired. Tired from shouldering his gun all day, tired from walking and riding and crouching, tired from trying to coax some discipline out of his brother's ill-trained hunting dogs. Worst of all, he was tired from having to spend the day with a group of men from the
ton
, eight men who were either trying to best him or deliberately avoiding it so as to endear themselves to him. They were all attempting to become his friends—and to appear to the others as though they already were. It was a disgusting display and a deuced nuisance.

All he wanted was a hot bath and eight hours of mind-numbing sleep.

As they turned up the lane toward Trowbridge Manor, a light in the window shone through the tall trees. It was a welcome sight. Then he saw another. And another. His eyes narrowed. As the hunting party neared, the scene resolved into a blaze of candlelight. Every light in the house must be in use.

"What in the devil’s name?" he muttered.

The drive was littered with carriages, equipages large and small. He recognized several of them. There were Sir Quincy's fine coach and a aging carriage belonging to a pair of spinsters from the next village. There were Squire Gordon's cabriolet and his sister's ancient phaeton. There were a half dozen other carriages he did not recognize, along with well-nigh a dozen smaller wagons and gigs.

True ignored the questions his companions peppered him with and rode to the door in silence. Several grooms and a footman were waiting for them.

"Good evening, my lord," the footman said.

"What is going on here?"

"Why, the ball, my lord." His tone made it clear he thought True knew all about it.

True knew nothing about it. In fact, he was relatively certain
no one
had known about it when he'd left that morning. A ball took a good deal of preparation, and none of the servants had been doing any extra bustling about that morning as he quit the manor.

One thing was certain: if he
had
known about it, he'd have been sure to put a stop to it.

His empty stomach rumbled.

The footman directed his attention to the rest of the group. "If you will step this way, gentlemen, I will show you to your chambers." The front door was only a few steps away, but the footman did not turn toward it. Instead, he started toward the back of the house, and the men of the hunting party fell into step behind him. Behind their backs, True sneered.
Sheep
. They wouldn't dare be seen in their hunting clothes after a day in the field. They'd all be shown up the back stairs and emerge from their bedchambers washed and pomaded and perfumed and dressed as though they'd been lounging upstairs since noon. He doubted any of them had broken a sweat all day, but they'd certainly all demand a bath at once, nevertheless. The poor servants would be kept busy hauling hot water up and down the back stairs. As though they did not have enough to do with a ball in full swing! Well, True would have none of it. He wasn't going to creep up the back stairs of his own house like a thief in the night. No, he was bloody well going to walk in the front door.

He'd make efficient use of the basin and ewer instead of taking a bath. It wasn't even that much of an inconvenience. He'd certainly made do with less than that aboard ship any number of nights, after days when he'd got dirtier, sweatier, and more tired than he was now. He wasn't going to perfume and dress and parade downstairs with the rest of them.
Hell and blast
, he wasn't going to attend the ball at all! No, he was going to bed. Mistress Mary would not be happy about his absence, but she should not have sprung a ball on him. And he was certain that it was her doing. It was a brilliant way to exact revenge upon him for the race.

He marched into the front hall—and stopped.

She was there, waiting for him.

"I knew you would not go with the others," she said.

"So," True said, taking off his gloves, "you are here to bar my way?"

She did not bother to deny it. "You cannot go up the main stairs. Everyone in the ballroom would see you."

"Everyone in the ballroom knows I have been out hunting since before dawn this morning. Everyone knows I am dressed in hunting clothes, that I am tired, that I am dirty. If I suddenly appear dressed in black-and-whites, they will know I used the back stairs. Do you not see how ridiculous that is, Mary?" He raked his fingers through his hair. "Can you not see how ridiculous it makes you? I thought you were more ... more logical than that."

She recoiled from the remark as though struck. "Ridiculous or no, it ... it is the way of Polite Society."

"Polite Society!
Bah!
Half of them have not the first idea of what the word 'polite' really means, and the other half does not care."

She stared at him as though he'd grown four extra eyes, and True realized he'd made a grave mistake. Sharp set, weary, and irritable as he was, he had put his foot in it. He'd told her how he felt about her precious
ton
.

He shrugged. In for a penny, he might as well kick for a pound.

"Mary," he said, "the society you aspire to is anything but polite. I just spent the entire day in the company of men who would give their best friends the cut direct just to be seen standing next to me at a ball or a rout. And their wives! Do not ask me what their wives would be willing to do to be seen with me. Mary, they have not the first idea what it really means to be polite. They pretend to be polite, but it is a jolly thin veneer, indeed. I will not go in there and pretend with them."

"But you are their host!"

"No, I am not. I did not invite them, you did. Without consulting me. Which means that you shall reap what you have sown."

Her eyes flashed with angry fire.

She was dressed in a graceful ball gown of white and deep blue with satin ribbons tied in tiny bows and rows of lace scallops. Her hair was shot with more of the blue ribbon intertwined with tiny white rosebuds. Her slender arms were encased in long, white gloves. "You look lovely," he said, leaning insolently against the door frame. "You should be angry more often. It makes your eyes sparkle." She flushed and blustered. "Now," he said, "if you will excuse me, I am weary, and I'm going to bed." He turned his back on her and started for the stairs.

She laid a gloved hand lightly on his shoulder, stopping him. "You cannot," she said quietly. "For the girls' sake, you must not."

"What do you mean?"

She dropped her hand. "What you do tonight will affect the girls' reputations. You could be playing host to their future in-laws this evening."

"Unlike some people, I do not aspire to marry my charges off to titles."

"Then whom do you wish them to marry? Tonight's company isn't made up of just the
ton
. Most of the guests are from the neighborhood. Most of the families who live within a half day's ride of Trowbridge Manor are represented. The ABC's must have somewhere to look for husbands. They have got to find a place in some society, be it Town or country—unless you wish them to marry one of your sailors."

He opened his mouth to spit out a terse reply, but there was nothing to say. She was right.

"That," he said slowly, "is the only argument you could have offered me that would compel me to attend."

"I know," she said simply.

He saw the hint of a triumphant smile ghost across her features and knew instantly that she'd planned the whole tiling. "Why have you done this?" he asked.

"My lord," she answered, "yesterday you forced me to experience life from your perspective."

He sighed. "And you are doing the same for me, I suppose?"

She nodded. "Except that instead of forcing you to taste spontaneity and imprudent behavior, I am forcing you to sample responsibility and propriety. I knew you would not let the ABC's down." She smiled beatifically and glided past him. "Do not take long to dress," she said.

Her white-gold hair was piled in curls high atop her head. One errant wisp fell as he watched, trailing down her nape and across her milky shoulder and back, and he had a sudden urge to kiss her there, where the shiny curl brushed her skin, to loosen her hair and let it cascade down her back in waves of silk. Dressed as she was in a gown whose color reminded him of the deep blue of the open sea flecked with foam, she was almost beautiful.

And he was almost a lunatic.

He regained his senses as he washed and dressed upstairs. He ruined four cravats trying to tie the blasted things properly. By the time he descended the stairs in his black-and-whites, his neck itched and he was thinking quite clearly again.

Every man in his ballroom had an itchy neck, and yet, contrary to what was reasonable, every man still wore a blasted cravat. And the women! They still wore stockings and garters and drawers and stays and corsets and God-only-knew what contraptions under their gowns. They blackened their eyelashes with soot, they rubbed arsenic into their white skin.

He shook his head as he came off the stairs.
No
. Not all of them did such things. Mary was naturally pale. Pale, colorless, and uninteresting, he told himself. A milk-and-water Miss. No wonder she was attempting to catch a bachelor's eye here in the country. In London, she would be lost among the crowd. Transparent and unnoticeable.

And yet, somehow, amid the dazzling swirl of rainbow colors in his ballroom, True's eyes found Mary immediately. And True wasn't the only one who had noticed her. She was standing in the center of a cluster of young men. He looked from one face to the other, noting various degrees of fascination, admiration, and ... and
lust.

He tugged his gloves on and moved purposefully through the ballroom. As people noticed him, a wave of silence descended upon the company. As host, he would have to make an opening speech, though the ball had clearly been underway for quite some time. He gained Mary's side and executed a crisp bow, then smiled up at her.

"Good evening, my dear," he said as though they'd not spoken a half-hour before. "You look lovely." He straightened and held out his arm. Wordlessly, she took it, and he led her to the dais at the end of the room. Turning, he scanned the crowd. He recognized most of the faces staring back at him. He glimpsed wonder in their expressions. Wonder or skepticism. Most of them had never seen him dressed so formally.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "thank you for attending our little gathering this evening. My apologies for the short notice. It was unavoidable. I wished—
we
wished," he said, gazing down at Mary, "to include as many of you as possible upon this occasion. We wanted to be here at Trowbridge, among those who lived near home, when we announced our betrothal."

The room exploded into applause. For most of the company, it was not an unexpected announcement. The news of Mary's stay at Trowbridge Manor would have traveled from house to country house with the servants, but all of the country folk pretended they'd not had the first inkling until then, anyway. Most of the tonnish expressions, however, showed genuine shock, for, in spite of the hint he'd given them several days before, in spite of the ring Mary wore, it had not occurred to them that True Sin would ever really wed anyone, and he supposed that the delay in announcing the betrothal only bolstered that belief. Beyond doubt, they'd all been harboring suspicion Mary was a kept woman.