Miss Grantham's One True Sin (The Regency Matchmaker Series Book 2) (20 page)

He smiled.

If, where the
ton
was involved, his goal were to do the unexpected thing, True had accomplished that in glorious fashion this evening, for the respectable thing was the last thing the
ton
expected True Sin to do! Mary had unknowingly given him the means by which to nettle the
ton
. He would be a pattern card of respectability and politeness—until his next Town ball! He nearly laughed out loud in anticipation.

He stood politely by Mary's side as they were congratulated and wished happy, and then he fetched her some refreshments before politely requesting the pleasure of a dance. He was satisfied to see more than one set of raised eyebrows, and he chuckled.

They moved onto the floor. The set formed for a country dance, and they went through their figures, weaving in and out of the two long lines of couples until they got to the end and had a moment to talk. "Does my behavior meet with your approval, my dear?"

"You know it does. They all believe I have reformed you."

"Perhaps you have," he said, "for now."

She shook her head, that errant blonde curl swaying over her shoulder. "You cannot fool me. I have only tamed you, my lord. And like any wild creature, you can go back to being wild in the blink of an eye."

"Aye." He bowed and brushed his lips over the back of her gloved hand. "I could, for instance, pull this glove from your hand and kiss your fingers ... your palm ... the inside of your wrist. I could sweep you into my arms and devour your mouth like a starving man."

He looked into her eyes and was struck suddenly by their color—a clear, lovely aqua, the color of a tropic sea atop a bed of snowy white coral. It was a deep, pure color, all the more beautiful when set against the rosy glow of her blushing cheeks. She was certainly not colorless now.

She swallowed reflexively. "You could do those things," she said. "But you will not. Not when the reputations and the welfare of the ABC's are at stake."

"Cunning."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Cunning," he repeated. "I am adding it to my list."

"What list?"

"I keep a short mental list of a person's attributes in my head to keep me from being taken off guard."

"Does it help?"

"In your case," he drawled, "not yet. You keep surprising me. You are a stunningly intelligent woman, Mary." He straightened. "And a beautiful one."

"You lie."

It was time to take their places in the set once more, and the steps separated them. True was glad, for a denial had come to his lips unbidden, a denial he did not want to face, much less to utter. For, at that moment, Mary Grantham really had seemed beautiful.

He glanced down the long line of dancers. Her deep blue gown was quite fetching against its snowy relief of white skin, lace, and pearls. But it was not the gown that drew his eyes, it was her face. In the last half-hour, he'd seen her wary, angry, proud, defiant, strategizing, pleading, and triumphant, all at once. She seemed different tonight, somehow.

And I must be more weary than I thought
.

He stole another glance at her. She was smiling now, genuinely pleased that she had outwitted him. Inexplicably, True felt a bolt of happiness surge through him, too.

He scowled. Why should he feel anything but rancor? He should be thunderously angry with her. But he wasn't. He felt curiously off balance. And the rest of the evening did nothing to help him regain his steadiness.

OPHELIA SAT IN an odd corner and affected the appearance of being over-warm. Her fan, which she'd had made of a famously expensive silk, was wonderfully transparent when the light was positioned just so. It had been unfurled and in front of her face for most of the evening, and she had been able to stare directly at everyone without anyone knowing. Just then, she had her eyes on Orion Chase, the Earl of Lindenshire.

In spite of his admirable devotion to fashion, Lindenshire was a serious young man, and right then he was serious about Marianna. He'd had moon-calf's eyes for her from the hour they'd met, and unless Ophelia missed her guess, Marianna had confided in him. He was peering at the gel myopically from an alcove near the rather inexpert musicians.

Ophelia rose from her chair in the corner and moved to his side. He didn't even notice her.

"You could see her much better if you used your quizzing glass," she said.

Lindenshire glanced over at Ophelia and then down at his hands. "Am I being that obvious?"

"Yes."

His face registered embarrassment "Your charge is a fine young lady."

"Come now, we both know Marianna is no more my charge than I am a slave to fashion." She patted her gown, which, except for its high waist, was unlike anything in the Trowbridge ballroom—or any ballroom, for that matter.

He let the first part of her comment slide past, which told her that her guess was correct: Marianna had confided in him.

"Madam," Lindenshire said, "an Original like you does not have to dress in the first stare of fashion to be considered
au courant.
"

"An Original? Is that what they call me?"

He nodded.

She lowered her voice. "Is that what they are calling Marianna now, too?"

He smiled. "Since yesterday's race, I have heard the word seventeen times, from six different mouths."

Ophelia returned his smile. "Good. Just good."

They both returned their attention to the rest of the room. Marianna was sitting amongst a group of ladies—all smiles, Ophelia noted with satisfaction and then sought Truesdale. He was standing in a knot of gentlemen—mostly men from the country, and, for once, not every face was directed at him. This ball was turning out to be a complete success.

"Would you care to dance, Mrs. Robertson?" Lindenshire asked at her elbow.

Startled, Ophelia almost dropped her fan. "Thank you for asking, but I do not like to dance, my lord."

"Thank goodness. Neither do I."

They laughed together, and at that moment Ophelia felt sorry for Orion Chase. Clearly, the dear boy pined for Marianna, but it was Truesdale who had the upper hand.

Truesdale ... Ophelia gazed at him and smiled a secret smile.

MARIANNA WAS JUST attempting to answer a question concerning her nonexistent wedding plans when she saw a flash of white at the tall, glass terrace door. She thought it was an owl, or perhaps a stray dog, but then she saw another. And another.

One, two, three ... oh, dear!

Suddenly Alyse's round face popped over the bottom edge of the glass. She looked directly at Marianna and crooked her finger before disappearing once more.

Marianna left the cluster of ladies in haste on the excuse of visiting the ladies' retiring room, but she slipped down the back stairs and out onto the lawn instead. Stealthily, she crept up the terrace steps and peeked over the railing.

Just as she thought.

Three little girls, hiding behind a potted holly, were peering furtively into the ballroom.

"How many people do you think are in there?" Beatrice whispered to her sisters.

Eleanor shrugged. "I cannot count that high."

"Are you certain we have enough, Alyse?" Beatrice asked.

"Certain," her sister confirmed. "A crockful is a good many when they are spread over the floor."

"Think she'll leave?"

Alyse's voice took on a gleeful tone. "Oh, yes! In a minute she shall be dancing so fast, she'll have to go back to London for a month to rest her old bones."

They giggled.

"Whom are we targeting this time?" Marianna said behind them, attempting to infuse her voice with the appropriate interest.

The girls’ faces swivelled about.

"Smelly old Lady Allen," Eleanor supplied, wrinkling her small nose, but then she brightened. "She doesn't like spiders. She said so!" She clapped happily and pointed to a small earthenware crock they’d stashed under a bench. "So we're going to chase her away with those."

"Oh."

Truth to tell, Marianna did not like Lady Allen any more than the girls seemed to. Even less, more like. The young widow had not been invited to stay at the manor, coming along as a surprise guest of another guest. It was bad form, a breach of manners that might have been overlooked, were Lady Allen any more pleasant than she was.

Lady Allen—who did not like spiders, children, or washing, it seemed—complained about everything. Nothing was good enough—most especially the ABC's. Marianna had quite come to dislike her.

"Well," Marianna whispered, bending toward them conspiratorially, "if you are trying to chase Lady Allen away, I can think of a much better place to deposit the spiders than the ballroom."
Which would be a complete disaster,
Marianna added to herself.

Alyse and Beatrice traded looks.

"Where?" Eleanor asked.

"Come with me," Marianna said and led the way.

True tried to observe the scene with cool detachment, but as host, he could not avoid being drawn into first one cluster and then another. He resisted participating in their conversations and even listening at all, but he found he could not avoid their bibble-babble entirely without appearing rude. Thank goodness they were none of them addressing him, he thought. But then his luck ran aground.

"I hear from my housekeeper," Squire Gordon finally said, turning to True, "that you are affecting some changes here at the manor, Trowbridge."

"Indeed," said another, "my man Thomas says to me this morning, 'The master's making everyone toe the mark up to Trowbridge Manor.' I could hardly believe it, but now that I see for myself, I am satisfied it is the truth."

True was unaccustomed to such plain speaking outside the docks. It just was not done in Town.

" ‘Pon my honor," Squire Gordon agreed, "it is fine to see the place looked after at last."

Sir Quincy coughed. "Is that corn I see from the lane, planted in your north fields, Trowbridge?"

True nodded.

"Ain't it rather risky to plant there instead of on the flats closer down the valley? I should think the crop will wither up where you put it"

"Aye." Squire Gordon nodded. "I mind your father's steward putting in a crop there that would not grow. Sickly plants. Leggy and pale. A total loss."

True nodded. "I had my brook damned. Diverted a small flow of its water to that field. And my steward suggested the addition of burnt seashell and seaweed." True explained about how the soil was prepared.

"Seashells in the soil?" Sir Quincy said, fingering his snuffbox thoughtfully. "Your steward is rather young, ain't he?"

True nodded. "He has just finished his education."

"Education?"

"Mr. Montescue went to university in Edinburgh."

Bringing any outsider into the neighborhood was bad enough, but a Scot? True waited for the inevitable protest to erupt but was pleasantly surprised. The only remark was made by Squire Gordon, who did not see how a university education qualified a man to manage crops.

"Still," the squire's nephew commented, "the Trowbridge corn is bushy and green, and you cannot find fault with results like that."

Murmurs of agreement and congratulation accompanied nods and a firm handshake or two. True couldn't help feeling a stab of pride for their esteem. He had been putting a great deal of work into the estate, and it felt good to be recognized for it.

But there was something else True found himself enjoying as the conversation went on and the men plied him with questions. They were not just asking his advice about how to bed women, as men usually did. No. They talked of planting, shearing, market conditions, and the proper way to handle squabbles between servants. And they were actually asking True's opinion on these things.

Him! True Sin.

More than once, he glanced up to see Mary gazing in his direction. Invariably, she gave a little smile before looking away. He had to admit that what she'd done had worked. He was surprised at the reaction his modified behavior and dress elicited from his guests—and at how their unaccustomed deference made him feel. Throughout his life, the people surrounding him had always regarded him with horrified fascination, never with respect.

Then again, he had never acted respectably before now.

Mary had to have known he would be thunderously angry when he found she'd cornered him, forced him to partake of the ball. And yet she'd lain in wait for him at the front door and faced him down like a leopardess.

He didn't know whether to add "courageous" or "reckless" or "vengeful" to his list first, so he added all three. He glanced up for another look at her, but she was no longer in the same spot.
Where is she?
He looked about the ballroom, but she wasn’t there. He asked a servant to locate her, and the footman came back with the report that she had been seen slipping out the back door.

True strode outside with narrowed eyes. What the devil was she doing outside at this time of night and during a ball, no less? His eyes lit upon the stable yard. John hadn't shown his face at the ball and was probably hiding out in the stables. True imagined she was probably paying the old man a visit. True excused himself and headed outside.

But no, she wasn't there, either.

True had just turned to go back to the ballroom, when he caught sight of a faint light in an upstairs window. Far below, down on the ground, the ABC's were attempting to hide in the bushes with little success.

True took the back stairs four at a time.

He knocked softly on the door of the appropriate chamber. There was no answer. "Mary?" he whispered. "Mary, I know you are there."

The door opened at once, and she emerged, her finger to her lips. In her hand she had a small earthenware jar. She scurried toward the back stairs and motioned for him to follow, but she stopped before going outside. "Spiders," she whispered, pointing to the crock. "The ABC's were going to use them to chase Lady Allen away, so I put them in her closet drawers."