Miss Grantham's One True Sin (The Regency Matchmaker Series Book 2) (17 page)

She turned. "What do you want now?" she said uncivilly.

"I wish to have a word with you about our guest list. Do you not think it is rather top-heavy with bachelors?"

Marianna cleared her throat. "I thought you did not care a pin who I invited to the house party."

"I suspect it was not
you
who decided whom to invite, but Ophelia. Am I correct?"

Marianna said nothing, and he said, "I thought so. Why did you not tell me what you were up to? Did you think I would not guess you are auditioning the bachelors for the position of husband?"

"I did not know what you would think. Nor did I think you would care."

"Would it matter if I did?"

She shook her head. "Not in the least."

A smile and a frown chased themselves over his features, and his eyes flicked back to the meadow. "Is
he
your choice?"

"Who, Lord Lindenshire?"

"Do you love him?"

A denial sprang naturally to her lips, but she stopped herself from uttering it. "He is a pleasant and polite fellow," she averred. "When I marry, I will choose someone with an appreciation of the
ton
. Someone with some notion of propriety."

He laughed. "Someone like that cub Lindenshire, I suppose."

"Well ... yes. He has impeccable manners, and he would never ... never—"

"Sweep you into his arms and kiss you senseless as I did last night?"

"Lord Lindenshire would never do such an improper thing."

"Of course not. He is predictable."

"Indeed, yes."

"Steady as a rock."

"Yes."

"And well-nigh as exciting."

"He is amiable and good-mannered!"

He snorted. "Granted. He is that. Amiable and good-mannered," he muttered.

"Your tone makes those things sound like insults rather than compliments."

Truesdale let go of her wrist "He is not the sort of man you need."

"Oh, really! What sort of man do I need, exactly?"

Without warning, Trowbridge pulled her against him. "You need a bold man." He slid his arms around her waist and shoulders. "A spontaneous man." He lowered his face to hers until their lips were nearly touching. "A man who will sweep you into his arms and kiss you." He took her mouth in a swirling, sensuous crush. For one insane moment, she began to respond to him, began to kiss him back, but then reason took hold. She wedged her palms between them and shoved away from him, breaking contact.

"Why did you do that?" she cried.

"Because you needed me to. You wanted me to."

"You have not the first notion of what I want or need. And you are wrong about Lord Lindenshire." She had a sudden urge to knock Truesdale off balance, to see the cocksure expression on his face crumble. "The Earl can be spontaneous and bold, too," she said.

"Oh, certainly," Truesdale said, crossing his arms over his broad chest "As spontaneous and bold as one of his precious fungi."

"We will see about that" She spun around and stomped back to the meadow, surprising Lord Lindenshire for the second time that morning.

"My lord," she called to him. "Have you an interest in salamanders?"

"Indeed. Lovely creatures."

"The young Misses Trowbridge described to me a spot in the brook they said was positively crowded with salamanders. Would you care to accompany me for an expedition there?"

"I would be pleased to escort you."

She smiled, throwing a triumphant glance at Trowbridge, who had followed her into the clearing.
See? Spontaneous and bold, just like I told you,
her look said.

"What time tomorrow shall I order my tiger and carriage brought 'round?" Lindenshire inquired.

"Tomorrow?" Marianna hadn't thought to go tomorrow, she'd meant right then, without delay, in order to prove to Trowbridge that Lindenshire was spontaneous and bold. She glanced at Trowbridge, whose expression was both amused and derisive.

"Will you be coming along with us, Trowbridge?" asked the Earl.

The Viscount came forward and shook his head. "Not my area of interest at all." He let his eyes rove over Marianna, leaving little doubt just where his interest lay.

"Well then," Lindenshire said, turning back to Marianna, "we shall leave precisely at eleven o' the clock, and I shall bring my tiger, he said, referring to Will, his young carriage attendant. The proper thing, you know."

"Of course," Marianna murmured.

"Lindenshire, old man," True Sin said, clapping the younger man on the shoulder, "you are all that is dependable and steady."
Like a fungus
, he mouthed to Marianna as Lindenshire bowed, the Earl’s straight brown hair falling into his eyes.

Marianna glared at him, and the ABC’s chose that moment to scamper into the meadow. Marianna started toward them with relief. Truesdale’s reaction to Lindenshire was most disconcerting. How he could take exception to a gentleman as amiable as Lindenshire was beyond her. Truesdale simply wasn’t a man of science, she supposed, and found Lindenshire boring. His loss.

"I shall walk the girls back home, my lords. And, as we will no doubt take a circuitous route, there is no call for either of you to accompany us."

The three adults took their leave of each other and parted, and Marianna allowed the girls to lead her onto an out-of-the-way path. Fluffy tufts of white clouds had begun to spring to life, and the light carried a lovely, hazy quality that whispered of autumn. Beside her, the ABC’s chattered as they walked, mostly about the guests.

Marianna stopped next to a wide, flat stone by the brook, and they all sat down. The girls immediately took off their slippers and dipped their toes in, but Marianna properly refrained. "So, my fine young ladies,” —she picked up a stone and skipped it across the water— “you've not been naughty with any more salamanders, have you?" she asked. The day the guests arrived, four of them had found a salamander lounging in their clotted cream.

"Nooo . . ." all three girls clearly averred.

Marianna put her hand on her hip and gave them a schoolteacher look that spoke brutal, merciless volumes.

"It was Eleanor's idea!" Beatrice blurted.

"I didn't touch any salamanders!" Eleanor defended herself. "It was a frog this time. An' it was Alyse who put it in there." She pointed her chubby little finger at her eldest sister.

“In where?” Marianna demanded.

"I have the longest reach," Alyse said, wincing.

"Where did you put the frog?"

"In Lady Allen's reticule."

"She smells funny," Eleanor said.

Beatrice nodded. "And she called Eleanor an impolite little mongrel when Eleanor told her so, too."

Alyse stuck her chin out. "We had to do something to avenge our little sister's honor. It was a matter of chivalry."

"I must stop reading you King Arthur stories," she said. The stories had obviously fired Alyse's imagination, for the girl's cords were standing out in indignant lines on her neck. Marianna fought down a chuckle. Even
she
had to admit that Lady Allen was not the most pleasant person with whom to pass the time. In fact, the young widow was quite a nasty piece of work.

"Well," Marianna said, "it was unkind of Lady Allen to call you names, and I suppose one little frog will not hurt anything."

The ABC's exchanged guilty looks and fixed their gazes on the ground.

"What have you not told me?" Marianna could see their story was all moonshine.

"It wasn't
one
little frog," Alyse said.

"It was a dozen!" Eleanor said proudly. "An' I know 'cause I counted them all! I counted the grasshoppers, too, and the—"

"Eleanor!" Alyse and Beatrice hissed.

"Grasshoppers?" Marianna forced a giggle, knowing she wouldn’t get at the whole truth by behaving in an authoritative manner, so she cast herself in the role of co-conspirator. It worked. The ABC’s giggled right along with her, and she began extracting the entire story from the girls. Apparently, the ABC's were waging a private war on those of the guests they had chosen to dislike, using salamanders, grasshoppers, worms, and whatever else they had at their tender disposal.

She knew better than to think she could stop them, so she did the next best thing: she offered to help them. Logic reasoned that if she were in on their mischief, she could mitigate the damage.

Of course, becoming a full-fledged co-conspirator had its drawbacks. By the time they made it back to the manor, Marianna had been apprised of the ABC's' entire battle plan, and she had a horrible megrim. She retired to her chamber after the ABC's vowed there would be no more mischief until she could join them and a promise from Cook to send up a supper tray.

She undressed, pulled the curtains closed, and gratefully slid into her bed—only to remember she had forgotten to ask True Sin when they would announce their betrothal.

Chapter Twelve

T
HE

next day, the sky was a deep, endless blue; a refreshing breeze rustled the verdant leaves; the green meadows were full of bluebells and foxgloves, yarrow and honeysuckle; the brook tumbled over cool stones; clouds of butterflies floated about in all their painted glory. Marianna was dressed in one of her new gowns, a becoming confection of white muslin sprigged in crimson, and Lord Lindenshire was an appreciative, charming, and intelligent companion as he lifted stones near the brook. She was even learning to appreciate salamanders. Except for her gloves, which itched, everything was perfect.

She should have been happy.

She was miserable.

While her mind should have been fixed upon Lord Lindenshire's pleasant baritone voice, she could think of little else but Truesdale Sinclair's hard, mocking tone—and of how much worse that tone was after she'd heard him whisper tender endearments.

While she should have been concentrating on Lord Lindenshire's obvious expertise on salamanders, she was distracted by thoughts of True Sin's obvious expertise on the birds and the bees.
Drat the man!
He would not leave her alone, even when he was nowhere near. She kicked a round stone in frustration, sending it skipping into the brook and eliciting a concerned look from Lord Lindenshire, who assessed her with his serious brown eyes and frowned.

"I say, Miss Grantham, is anything amiss? Are you fatigued? Do you wish to start back?"

Before she could answer him, he gave a whistle, and his tiger, on duty a discreet yet proper distance away on the other side of the meadow, circled Lindenshire's smart equipage around and started toward them.

"I was up late last evening," she averred. In truth, she was not the least bit tired. Trowbridge had left the estate before she got back from her walk with the ABC’s, and she’d spent the rest of the afternoon with the girls cutting paper dolls and acquiring an aching head before retiring early. She hadn’t seen Trowbridge the entire day apart from the short encounter in the meadow—not that she minded. She still hadn’t forgiven him for the Gretna Green incident, but she was trying not to dwell on the matter, but she felt another megrim coming on. She liked Orion Gray, the Earl of Lindenshire, and didn't want him to think she may be a shrew. There was no sense in spoiling their acquaintance with ill humor. "Perhaps we could venture forth another day ... ?" she suggested.

"By all means, I—"

He never finished his sentence. Something over Marianna's shoulder caught his attention. His eyes narrowed, betraying a sudden wariness that compelled Marianna to glance backward. A large figure on a huge gray horse approached them, leading an unsaddled white mare. Truesdale Sinclair. He was dressed in a white, flowing shirt and plain brown waistcoat, with no coat or cravat in sight.

"Good day to you, Trowbridge!" Lord Lindenshire called.

"Good day. Thank you for amusing my betrothed while I attended to other matters, Lindenshire." Trowbridge patted his stallion on the neck.

Marianna wrinkled her brow. Trowbridge knew very well that Lindenshire was aware of their ruse. There was no need to refer to her as his betrothed. On the surface, it seemed nothing but a tongue-in-cheek hum—but somehow Marianna sensed it wasn't. She looked from one to the other of them. Both wore pleasant enough expressions, but she had the feeling that neither of them was feeling precisely charitable.

She crooked an eyebrow at Trowbridge. "I thought you had more important matters to attend than watching salamanders, my lord."

The Viscount smiled. "I did. I arranged a lovely garden party out on the front lawn back at the manor. Everyone is assembled, and they should just be finishing their luncheon. I was afraid they would become bored, so I decided to arrange an entertainment."

Bells of warning clanged in Marianna's head. Though Trowbridge sounded sincere, his dimples had deepened and his eyes crinkled at the corners just enough— "What are you up to?" she asked, looking at him through squinted eyes. "Why have you come?"

"I am here to issue a challenge."

"What sort of challenge?" Lindenshire asked, clearly unconcerned at whatever Trowbridge's answer might be. "Hunting? Chess? Cards?"

Pistols at dawn?
Marianna thought.

The image panicked her for a split second, until Truesdale answered Lord Lindenshire. "My challenge is not intended for you but for Mary."

"Me?"

"A race. From here to Trowbridge Manor, right now." He tossed her the mare's ribbons. Marianna didn't even attempt to catch them. They fell to the ground, and Dover, the mare she'd been riding since she'd come to Trowbridge Manor, sidled a few steps away and buried her soft nose in a luxuriant patch of fragrant green clover.

"A race!" Marianna scoffed. "Even
you
cannot think such behavior is proper for a lady, Trowbridge." She shook her head. "And even if it were, I am much too engrossed in Lord Lindenshire's discourse on amphibians to leave now," Marianna said, ignoring the fact that she'd been speaking of leaving a few moments before.

Lord Lindenshire did not correct her.

"My dear Mary," Trowbridge said with a wide smile, "I thought you might be a little hesitant to take up the gauntlet. So . . ." He plunged his hand into his waistcoat and drew forth a blue object. It was fabric, rolled into a tight ball, and as he unfurled it with a wicked gleam in his eye, Marianna heard bells jingling!

Her eyes flew to Truesdale's, and the obvious question passed between them. W
hat are you doing with that stocking?

"What the devil?" Lindenshire asked testily, trying not to stare at the improper ladies' undergarment.

"This," Trowbridge answered happily, "is the trophy. If you win the race, Mary, it gets stuffed back into my waistcoat, and no one but Lindenshire here will see it. But if I win, it stays in plain view and I display your stocking triumphantly for everyone to see."

"That thing is yours?" Lindenshire asked, incredulous.

"No! I mean, yes, but ... but—” She turned back to Blackshire. “
Everyone
?"

Truesdale nodded, his dimples showing. "Everyone assembled back on the lawn at Trowbridge Manor, of course. They are all there now, waiting near the fountain to see the finish of the race."

Marianna was incensed. "Oh, no," she began, "I will not be pulled into some mad—"

Truesdale laughed and shrugged. Then, waving the outrageous stocking in the air, he kicked his stallion into a gallop and shot up the brook's embankment to the meadow above. "First one to the fountain!" he shouted.

Marianna didn't think. There was no time. Instead, she leapt aboard the white mare's bare back and took off after Trowbridge, thanking God for the fullness of her skirts. She was a competent rider, not a circus acrobat, and without a saddle, riding astride was the only hope she had of keeping her seat.

And keep her seat she must!

Trowbridge was already across the wide field, but even from this distance, the stocking's bright, silver-shot brocade and shiny bells announced their presence as they glinted in the sunlight, and jingled even over the hoofbeats and the wind.

Bells in Heaven!

If the assembled company back at the manor saw the highly improper and outrageous stocking, they might begin to believe Truesdale had been telling them the truth about her paddling with no benefit of clothing in the brook—and with Trowbridge waving that stocking, it wouldn't be much of a stretch to believe that he had been paddling with her.

She either had to get that stocking back or win the race. And since she had no idea how she could get it back without wrestling him for it, she set her mind to winning the race.

The Viscount and his gray had a good lead. They flew over the meadow ahead of her, aiming for the bridge over the brook. Fighting her mare, who naturally wanted to follow the other horse, Marianna cut across the meadow and headed for a shallow ford instead. She knew Journey would balk at the water and would have to be taken over the wide bridge, but Dover had no such faults and would go willingly across the ford. Marianna could cut several seconds off her time that way, and if she were lucky, she could beat Trowbridge to the fountain. It was not an honorable way to win the race, but why should she be concerned with honor?

True Sin certainly wasn't.

She could see him ahead of her and veering off to the side now, still waving that blessed stocking, his laughter echoing through the air.

She bent her head low to Dover's neck and urged her on, digging her gloved fingers into Dover's mane, giving the magnificent white horse full rein and encouragement to perform the miracle of speed. They swept over the meadow, splashed across the ford and up the steep, muddy embankment on the opposite side of the brook. Slipping into a little-used lane, Dover gathered speed again, finally galloping into the crossroads leading from the bridge.

She was ahead of Trowbridge!

Once more, she bent her head low and urged the mare forward, calling to her. "If we beat them, I shall give you a dish of sugar! A hot bath! A whole stable full of black-coated stallions!" She winced. If the mare thought as much of stallions as Marianna did of True Sin just then, she'd have done better to have promised the mare a gelding iron instead!

They shot across the last open field with Truesdale and the gray gaining ground all too fast. A tall hill crowned with a thick copse of trees stood before them. Dover surged up the hill with great strides, but the stallion, stronger and larger than the mare, gained even more ground. Marianna reached the top of the hill with Trowbridge only a second or two behind her. The safe thing to do was to slow down as she entered the copse atop the hill.

An image of her parents' faces staring at the stocking dangling from True Sin's fingers assailed her, and she shuddered.

Ophelia would have spoken to them yesterday about True Sin. She would have told them that True Sin's reputation would enhance Marianna's, but that would make little difference. Their anger was inevitable. If she won the race, they would be shocked and put to the blush with embarrassment to see her fly onto the lawn in the lead. And if she did not, how much worse would they feel when they saw her trailing after a man waving the shameful stocking? The wind tore a moan from her mouth, and she clung to Dover's neck and plunged into the copse at full speed, heedless of the rough, dark tree limbs that threatened to sweep her from the horse's broad back.

As Dover swerved under one low limb that clawed at Marianna’s hair, the thought occurred that if she were knocked unconscious, at least she would not have to see her parents' faces as Truesdale displayed his "trophy." She laughed aloud at the thought and then pressed her lips closed.

I am mad!

Threading her way through the trees took several minutes. At last, she emerged on the other side of the thick copse at the top of the hill having gained a few precious seconds. Trowbridge, taller than she and seated atop a larger mount, had been forced to slow down. Marianna looked down the long, velvety hill. Far below, on the wide lawn in front of the manor, she saw the forms of the muslin-clad ladies and the taller forms of the gentlemen floating slowly over the lawn. Which were her parents?

She galloped recklessly down the hill, making for the last obstacle separating her and the Viscount from the fountain in front of Trowbridge Manor—a long, narrow footbridge. With no warning, Dover swerved, and Marianna lost her balance. Her heart leapt into her throat as she began to slide off the mare's back. She could hear—and feel—the pounding of Journey's hooves just behind her. And then, somehow, she righted herself at the last possible moment.

As they raced toward the footbridge, someone on the lawn gave a shout, and suddenly everyone was on their feet and turning in her direction. Miraculously, Marianna made it to the bridge a second before Trowbridge.

She beat down a bubble of laughter that threatened to escape and slowed Dover to a walk going over the footbridge, knowing full well there was no way for Trowbridge to pass her. The bridge was too narrow, and he could not cross the brook.

Dover's sides were bunching up as she strained for air, and flecks of foam fell from her soft white mouth. The animal was tired but, as Marianna had thought, she was strong and sound and still bore an eager wildness in her eyes as she pulled against the ribbons, signaling her desire to run.

Thank goodness!

Marianna would need to urge Dover into a last desperate gallop as soon as they were off the bridge, in order to be the first to the fountain.

In the last second before she urged Dover from the stone bridge to the footpath beyond, she glanced back at Trowbridge to gauge the condition of his mount.

The Viscount sat his horse at the apex of the long bridge, a satisfied smile sculpting his handsome, angular features. Journey pranced in place beneath him, anxiously eyeing the water below with the whites of his eyes showing, but Trowbridge made no move forward. Marianna's blue stocking was nowhere in sight.

"Where is it?" she demanded, pulling Dover to a stop.

"Safely tucked away," he answered, patting his waistcoat.

"I have won, then."

"No, I have, for I have reached my goal."

Marianna wrinkled her brow. "But you are behind me. Everyone can see that. And you have not touched the fountain yet!"

"Touching the fountain was never my goal."

She walked Dover just far enough off the footbridge to turn her about so she could face Trowbridge, who brought his own mount nose to nose with Dover, who promptly reached out to snap at the other horse.

“At least one of us is sensible where males are concerned,” Marianna muttered and then addressed Trowbridge. “What do you mean touching the fountain was never your goal? You said we were racing to the fountain. What trick are you playing, Trowbridge? If you think you can—"

"I wanted you to forget for a moment."

"Forget? Forget
what?
"

"Rules. Edicts. Mores. Society. I wanted you to experience one moment of pure excitement. One moment of pleasure. And you did."

"I did not! Racing you was a miserable, dangerous, reckless, frightening, maddening ...
disaster.
" She was acutely aware that even if they hadn't seen the stocking, everyone waiting for them at the fountain would have seen and recognized her from this distance. "Look at me," she said in an accusing tone. "I am riding bareback. Astride!"

He nodded and grinned lazily, allowing his gaze to slide seductively down her heaving bosom and over her hips to settle at the juncture of her thighs where she sat the horse, her legs spread immodestly open.