Miss Grantham's One True Sin (The Regency Matchmaker Series Book 2) (21 page)

"You what?" he said incredulously.

"Shhhh ' ... !" She warned him and grimaced. "Believe me, it was better than their original plan."

"Which was?"

"To release the spiders into the ballroom."

"But you discovered the plot in time to stop them."

She nodded.

"Then why," he asked, "did you not simply banish the spiders to the wood and the ABC's to their beds?"

She answered him with two questions of her own: "Pray, would you prefer to know about their nefarious plans before they execute them or after? And wouldn’t
you
like to see Lady Allen flee?"

He softened his expression and then crooked a deliberately wry smile. "Your logic is impeccable."

She chuckled. "I must say I am relieved you agree. Now ... I must herd the ABC's to bed before anyone discovers them awake. And
you,
" she told him sternly, "must return to your guests."

“ARE WE WUNNING away?" Eleanor asked the next morning as Marianna ushered her and her older sisters out of the house in the predawn stillness.

"No, silly," Alyse answered her. "We're going to go build a house. Right, Marianna?"

"Quite so, darling."

"But we don't know how to build a house," Beatrice said with a yawn, "and I want to go back to sleep."

Marianna hugged the girl. "Sleep will be the furthest thing from your mind when we get to the Smith cottage."

The Smiths were a family whose cottage had burned to the ground the week before. They lived on Trowbridge land very close to the border Trowbridge shared with the neighboring squire. In fact, they lived so close to Squire Marcus’s house that they all worked for him rather than at Trowbridge Manor, a league’s distance, and they had for years. The Smiths were so a part of the Payneton the next village along the Coast Road, that they’d been all but forgotten in Trowbridge. Indeed, when she’d accompanied Truesdale on his rounds, they hadn’t ever visited the Smiths, but last night she'd learned that folk from all around would converge on the Smiths' place to help them raise a new cottage this day. Marianna thought it a wonderful opportunity for the ABC's to meet some of the local children and to practice their new manners.

"There will be other children to play with and lots of good things to eat," she said, patting the large basket she carried. "I have here fruit pies, meat pies, cheese, and bread." The girls looked hungrily at the basket, all three licking their lips, and Marianna smiled.

They walked along companionably, the girls exploring here and there, but never ranging too far away from Marianna, until she noticed that they were lagging quite far behind her. When she looked back to check on them, the three had their heads together. It appeared as though Alyse were whispering something, and, as Marianna watched, Beatrice and Eleanor both flicked furtive glances in her direction. Beatrice nudged Alyse, who looked up and smiled, and then all three girls ran to catch up with Marianna.

Beatrice, easily the boldest of the three sisters, laid a hand on Marianna's sleeve. "Marianna, we—"

"Miss Marianna," Alyse corrected her.

"Miss Marianna ... we want to tell you about our names now. About why C and D are missing."

Marianna made a little ‘O’ with her mouth and nodded. "Very well."

Beatrice held Alyse's hand and Alyse took Eleanor's. Then Beatrice said, "We had two more sisters, Cassandra and Delilah. Baby sisters. Twins. But they died."

Marianna waited for them to say more, but they had lapsed into a hesitant silence.

“Any that made you sad?” she prompted.

Alyse's gaze dropped to the dry, rocky lane. "No. We did it. Made them die."

Beatrice refused to drop her gaze and looked Marianna steadily in the eye, but her chin quivered as she said, "We wanted the babies to be boys, and we asked our mother to give them back to the angels. We wanted her to trade them for two boy babies."

"But all they got was me," Eleanor said miserably. "I'm s'posed to be two boys!" She began to cry. "They didn’t want me!"

Alyse and Beatrice exchanged guilty looks and then they began to cry, too. Marianna knelt and gathered the three of them into her arms. "Oh, my poor beauties ... !" She rocked them together in her lap as tears cascaded down their cheeks. "Alyse and Beatrice, darlings, you had nothing to do with your sisters' deaths." Gently, she reassured them. "You cannot wish a baby dead. Only good wishes come true. Did you not know that?” She hugged them even tighter. “And, Eleanor, dearest, your sisters love you. They would not trade you for a dozen fine boys now." Alyse and Beatrice wailed their agreement and cried even harder.

For a moment, Marianna hesitated. She could handle this one of two ways: comfort them to the best of her ability or chuck them under the chin and tell them to buck up. Neither of them were acceptable. The one risked the girls becoming even more attached to her than they were, and the other would hurt their feelings and perhaps damage them. It seemed Marianna had a choice; she could hurt them now or hurt them later.

In the end, Marianna rocked backward, landing hard on her bottom right there in the middle of the lane, and she held the girls as they sobbed into her bodice and skirt. According to Truesdale, they hadn't cried when their parents died. Certainly they hadn't mentioned it to her, not once. But now that the floodgates of their tears had opened, their anguish seemed to come from a deep place, a hidden well of sorrow, and she suspected it had more to do with the loss of their parents than it did their baby sisters. Whatever the reason, Marianna made no attempt to stanch their tears. She held them, stroking their hair and crooning softly to them, inventing a lullaby about all five ABC's playing together in Dreamland.

In truth, she felt tears pricking her own eyes. She would exit the girls' lives very soon. She had become attached to them quickly, and she'd been attempting to console herself with the thought that she would help them all she could while she was there—and with the idea that perhaps they would not slip from her life forever. One or all of them might still marry within the
ton
. If that happened, then Marianna could renew her acquaintance with the sisters. But that would be years from now, and Marianna was all too aware that her time with them
as children
was coming to an end. It saddened her, and as the girls quieted and she kissed them and cleaned their faces, she pondered why it should. After all, she had not formed such an attachment to any of her charges at Lady Marchman's School for Young Ladies. Certainly she had cared for them, but she did not mourn their absence from her life as she knew she would the ABC's.'

As the sun rose higher, its rays turned the dewy spiderwebs that dotted the lane into festoons of diamonds. Beatrice soon complained of her feet growing tired. The Smiths' place was halfway to the next village, perhaps a league's distance and quite a trek for the little ones, but Marianna soon turned their journey into a game and a lesson at the same time, challenging the girls to see how many different sorts of plants they could spot. They were soon absorbed in the game and ambled happily along, picking wildflowers and chattering about playing with the other children, apparently quite carefree. Marianna wished she could be as unconcerned as they.

In truth, she was apprehensive over how the four of them might be received at the Smiths' place. The ABC’s’ reputation for mischief was not restricted to the Trowbridge staff. What if the other children shunned them? Or—
worse
—what if the other children were not allowed to play with the girls at all?

Then the thought occurred to Marianna that their parents might shun
her
, too. They were not of the
ton
, after all. They had no hope of ever attaining that level of social status. Would they be jealous of Marianna? Or would they feel her so far above their social station that they would not interact with her at all? She had already decided that she would fold up her sleeves and help wherever she could, but would they let her? Would she be welcome? Or would she find herself walking back home the same hour she had arrived? And how would she explain that to the ABC's? Poor darlings! As up in the boughs as they were with the prospect of playing with other children, they would be crushed if they had to turn and go home.

SHE NEEDN’T HAVE worried.

While she did receive several curious and several more incredulous glances upon her arrival, an hour later she had already kneaded bread, sliced apples, plucked chickens, and scoured a kettle. And the ABC’s were happily playing with the other children.

Almost a dozen families had come to help. The children played while the men worked on the cottage and the women worked to prepare a grand meal. By the time the first course of the cottage walls was built, Marianna was hard at work watching the children, who with their rambunctious cavorting had already caused several accidents even before she arrived with the ABC's. Soon, Marianna had them sorted into teams of five, and she organized a day of contests, both physical and mental. The ABC's were quick to suggest a wildflower identification contest. Marianna laughed and agreed, sharing a covert smile with the ABC's, who hastened to let their new teammates in on their secret. Everyone was having a grand time.

Until True Sin showed up.

Chapter Fifteen

“M
Y

lord!” called a stout woman not much older than True. She wiped her floury hands on her napkin and nervously tucked back an errant wisp of brown hair as she hurried up the lane to greet him." 'Tis a pleasure to receive you, though I am afraid we're not ready to receive you properly. We've been living in our barn since the fire, and it's not fit for—for entertaining company." The woman was clearly distressed.

True slid from his saddle and looked more carefully at her. "Eliza? Eliza Church?"

Her raised eyebrows declared her surprise. "You remember my name, my lord? It's been so long. Why, the last time you saw me, you weren't nothing but a—"

"A spoiled and cruel whelp?"

"'Upon my word!"

"Well ... it is true, is it not?"

She looked at him with suspicion. "I'm Mrs. Smith now. Married Thomas the year before you left."

"Thomas, the boy my father whipped on more than one occasion for stealing apples from the Trowbridge orchards?"

"That's the one. But he's changed!" she blurted.

"So have I," True said earnestly.

"That's what I heard, but—"

"But you did not believe it?"

She looked down at her hands, clearly unwilling to answer him. "Is there something you need, my lord? Something I can help you with?"

"I was hoping there was something
I
could help
you
with, Mrs. Smith." He took from his saddlebag a hammer and hefted it experimentally. "I've never built a house, but I've seven years of repairing ships behind me, and I'm no stranger to wood. Do you think your husband could use another pair of hands?"

Her eyes grew round before she smiled back at him and said, "Yes, my lord, I do believe he could, at that."

True pulled his brown felt hat from his pocket and placed it on his head. As usual, he wasn't wearing a coat. He followed Mrs. Smith up the lane toward the new home site.

She clucked to herself, "My, my! If this ain't the day for surprises!"

"There have been others?" True asked.

"Beggin' your lordship's pardon, but ... but first
her
and now you? Well ... none of us would have fancied it, never."

"Her?"

"Your lady, my lord." Mrs. Smith pointed toward the west meadow, where True was amazed to see Marianna herding at least a score of children about like a loving sheepdog. He squinted. Were those the ABC's in one of the little groups clustered about her? It was difficult to tell, for the children were all giggling at something Marianna was saying and clutching each other for support.

"She's plummy good with 'em," Mrs. Smith said, following his gaze. "Kept 'em out of our bonnets and happy all mornin'. She showed up here with your little 'uns while the dew was still wet on the grass. Announced she was here to help. And then she tucks her skirts up into her belt and tries to help, sure as I'm standing here."

Something in her tone alerted True. "
Tries
to help?"

Mrs. Smith turned a pained and apologetic expression up to him. "Ladies like her ain't supposed to be good at such things. Nobody blames her. She didn't mean a lick of it. We all know she meant to help."

Uh-oh. "What did she do?"

"Sliced the apples."

"That doesn't sound so bad."

"Before we'd had a chance to peel 'em, my lord."

"Oh."

"Then she beat the bread dough like it'd been naughty."

"Beat it?"

"Yes, my lord. ‘Twas how she thought kneading should be done. She ruined three loaves before we stopped her. They'll be hard as a rock, fit only for the pigs. But that wasn't the worst of it."

"It wasn't?"

"No, my lord. The last thing she did before we shooed her off to watch the children was to pluck a chicken."

"And?"

A chuckle escaped Mrs. Smith as she said, "It was a live chicken."

True hooted with laughter. "
She tried to pluck a live chicken?
"

Inexplicably, Mrs. Smith scowled at him. Her eyes flicked toward the house and barn. Only then did True notice that his arrival and subsequent hoot of laughter had brought all activity in the wide clearing to a stop. As he glanced their way, the men all took off their caps, the women all dropped a curtsy, and the children just stood and stared.

His laughter wasn't the only sound that had carried. Apparently, his remark about Mary's ineptitude with the chicken had carried over the calm summer morning air as well, for she was the only one moving. And she was moving in the opposite direction.
Stomping
in the opposite direction, rather.

True flashed a rueful smile at Mrs. Smith. "It seems I have something else to repair before I turn my attention to your new house. Pray inform your husband I will be back as soon as I am able." And True sprinted after Mary, leaving a wake of open mouths behind him. Apparently, viscounts were not supposed to know how to swing a hammer
or
run.

Mary had gained the cover of a copse of trees before he caught up with her in a pleasant little dell. "Mary," he began, "I must apologize. I did not mean to—" Only then did he notice she was weeping. She was turned away from him, but her shoulders heaved and she dashed away a tear.

"Mary ... Mary, I am sorry," he said.

"They all think I am st-
stupid
."

"No," he said, taking hold of her shoulders and turning her about.

She shook her head violently. "They think I am the veriest ninny. I tried to help, but I sliced the apples before they were pared and—"

"Mary."

"—and I do not know what I did wrong with the bread, but—"

"Marianna!" True said.

She gaped at him. "That is the first time you have ever used my whole name."

"Do not get used to it," he said with a grin. "Marianna, the people here are glad of your help with the children. Mrs. Smith said so. She said she thinks you are 'plummy good with them.' "

"She did?" She dabbed at her nose with a handkerchief.

"Yes. Your skill with the children surprised everyone. But the biggest shock to them was that you came to help at all."

"Of course I came!" She sounded insulted. "Is it not my duty and obligation as your betrothed to help these people wherever I am able?"

"Indeed," he said with a nod. "Except that no one expects a lady of the
ton
to be able to help at all. Not with any practical matters. They might have expected you to send a servant with a hamper of food—"

"I brought it myself. It was not heavy."

"—or a basket of flowers—"

"Rubbish! What need have they of flowers?"

"—or something equally useless. But they never expected you to help them prepare a meal."

"I did not help them," she said miserably. "I created more work than I saved."

"No. But you tried to help. And that is all that matters to them." A strand of her white-gold hair had fallen from its tight bun. He tucked it behind her ear. "I suspect you have made some friends today, Marianna. I suspect you have impressed and surprised them with your generosity, with your willingness to help." He tipped her chin up with his fingertip. "I know you have surprised me. Again." He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before turning and striding away from her. He did not want to leave her side.
Hell and blast
, what he wanted was to lower her to the soft grass of the dell and ravish her delicate mouth until she was aching with the same desire as he was.

"Where are you going?" she said behind him.

"I brought my hammer," he said. "I intend to surprise them, too."

"WELL?” MARIANNA ASKED, falling into step beside Truesdale as they walked home early that evening. "Do you think you surprised them?"

"Well," he echoed, grinning down at her impishly, "not as much as
you
did when you tried to pluck that chicken, but ... aye. I do believe I surprised them." He was leading Journey, and she was leading Mr. Smith's pony, with the girls tucked snugly inside a little two-wheeled cart behind.

Truesdale stretched out his hammer arm and attempted to rub the soreness from it with his other hand, but the ribbons he held hampered him.

"Here, let me take him for you," Marianna said. "Come now, Journey." She took the ribbons and patted the horse's neck, and the huge animal fell into step beside the pony. "How considerate it was of Mr. and Mrs. Smith to insist we borrow their pony and trap. The ABC's were so tired, I was afraid they were going to fall off Journey's back on the way home."

Truesdale looked back at his nieces and Marianna followed his gaze. The three little girls were sound asleep, snuggled together with smooth, angelic expressions.

"Amazing," Truesdale said, following her gaze. "I've never seen them so still."

"They played hard today."

"They had a marvelous time. It was wonderful of you to bring them."

"I am so proud of them," she said, glancing down at the girls. "I am certain they surprised a few people today, too. They used their best manners."

"Manners you taught them," he said.

She looked down at her hands and fingered the ribbons. A denial faded on her lips. He was right. The girls hadn't any manners before she'd arrived at Trowbridge, and she
was
proud of them. They had come so far in such a short time. Even Eleanor's speech had improved. "Do you know they had never even met any of the neighborhood children, my lord?"

An angry muscle flexed in his jaw. "Yes. My brother was not the sort to encourage the gentry, much less the poorer country folk. Whenever he was here, he filled the manor with guests from Town. Their behavior was less than ... well, it was shocking—to the country folk anyway." He said more quietly, "I am certain they did not want their children mixing with the ABC's, but now” —Truesdale smiled tenderly as he looked at them and then turned back to the lane—"now they have changed."

Something about him looked different today, but she couldn't quite fathom what it was. She studied him, watching as he stretched his arms over his head, the white linen of his shirt binding across his massive shoulders and down his back, where it dove into his breeches. A tiny
frisson
of feminine awareness made her avert her gaze for a moment, but her stubborn eyes soon found him again. He was splendidly made, from his fine hands to his muscled legs encased in their close-fitting brown breeches. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and the setting sun glistened on the dark hair that covered his arms. He'd drawn water from the well and washed before they departed to a chorus of thanks and good-byes, and his hair was still slightly damp. She resisted an urge to pull curls from where they clung to his neck. Unbidden, the memory of what happened between them in the dell that day, and it was as though she could still feel his soft lips against her cheek. It hadn't been a kiss of conquest or desire or deception. It had been a kiss of friendship, of comfort freely given and freely accepted.

"You surprised me today, too," she said.

He turned to her, a question in his expression. "Oh?"

"Your behavior today was incongruous with your past, my lord. I cannot reconcile your scandalous reputation with the man who was working and laughing atop the walls of that cottage today. I am not sure I know you at all."

It was true. He didn't just
look
different, he was behaving differently, too. It had been as though he'd been another man all day.

After the first ripples of his arrival had settled, he had blended into the group of men working on the cottage and become one of them. “You worked as hard as any of them. Harder, even. And you were good at it. Even I could see that.”

“Thank you.”

“At first, expected you to show the same sort of ineptitude I’d already displayed, but you didn’t.” He seemed to have an innate knowledge of mortise and tenon, of how to swing his hammer or hatchet just right to set a pin or trim an edge. The wood was his to command, and command he did.

The men were his to command, too, yet he did not. In what was perhaps the greatest shock of all, Truesdale Sinclair had taken his place as a member of the team, not as its leader. And he'd looked like he was having fun.

In a private moment at their noonday meal, she'd bent close to explain that she'd told her parents they were not married. She'd told him that they seemed to accept her explanation about his Gretna tale. He'd nodded, and then neither of them had spoken of it the rest of the day. They seemed to have an unspoken truce, one that neither of them was willing to spoil.

At suppertime, he had come up behind her and grasped her waist, whirling her into the air. She'd braced her hands against his shoulders and thrown her head back, and they had laughed together. It was a rare, unguarded moment, and she'd been sorry when it was over.

She met his gaze once more and let down her guard again. "You know so much about me, but after today I feel I hardly know you. You were a different person out there today. You seem to have three different personas. Man of the people, gentleman—and True Sin. I know the least about him. Please, Truesdale, tell me about True Sin."

His eyes consumed hers for a moment, and then he seemed to come to a decision. Taking Journey's ribbons back from her, he sighed. "Where to begin?"

The bees buzzed lazily among the cat's-ears and daisies dotting the fringes of the lane. The shadows slanted over the stone walls and through the hedges and trees, gilding everything a golden pink. The birds had gone to roost and were silent, but the brook, which ran next to the road, flowed over its rocky bed, and a cooling breeze sifted the leaves, creating a pleasant music.

She waited patiently, and finally he spoke.