Miss Grantham's One True Sin (The Regency Matchmaker Series Book 2) (5 page)

“I do not like salamanders, my lord, but I dislike shrieking even more.” She smoothed her skirt. “Actually ... I ... I was something of a naturalist back home, which displeased my mother.”

“Why?”

“Oh, it was most unladylike!” She looked up at him to see how that news affected him, but he seemed nonplussed. “I had to hide it from my mother, which was wicked, of course, but I am glad I did not entirely abandon it, for it is what convinced Lady Marchman to hire me at the school.”

“What sorts of things had you studied? Flowers? Leaves? Birds?”

“Oh, no.” She laughed. “My mother would have been thrilled with those, considering.”

“Considering?”

She shrugged. “I was more interested in insects and lizards and crawly things from the sea, but,” —she wrinkled her nose— “we do not have salamanders there, and I find they are not one of my favorites.” She gave a little involuntary shudder. “Nasty little things!”

He chuckled softly. “Then you handled your discomfiture at my nieces’ trick with remarkable aplomb. They can be rather a handful. I am sorry they were inflicted upon you with no one to shield you. It was not my intention.”

She threw him a quick, grateful smile. “Thank you, but tea was not the horrible ordeal you imagine.” She gave him a piercing gaze. “I learned a great deal.”

“Miss Grantham, I suspect you always learn a great deal, in every situation.”

She nodded and lowered her gaze for a moment before saying, "I was not aware that you had so recently inherited, my lord. I am sorry for your loss." As she said this, she noted the Viscount's lack of mourning clothes. Something was terribly amiss here. "The wounds must still be fresh," she probed.

"Yes. Well. With an estate, three little girls, and an army of angry creditors thrust upon me, I have not had the time to grieve."

"And the girls ... ?"

The new tea-tray arrived He waited until the maid had withdrawn and then leaned forward. "Miss Grantham, I see no reason to stand on formality. On the contrary, considering our situation, you and I need to be rather ... intimate. If we are to deceive everyone successfully, we have a great deal to learn about each other and a devilishly short time in which to learn it, so you will forgive my speaking bluntly."

"I was not aware that either of us had thus far been anything but blunt. Do you ever express yourself in any other manner, my lord?"

He thought for a moment and then nodded. "When the situation calls for it, I can be quite ... indirect, indeed." He sighed. "But this is not one of those times."

"Do go on."

He sipped his tea thoughtfully. "The truth is that my late brother and his wife were enamoured of London and all its delights. When not there, they spent months at house parties. They were never seen in Trowbridge above three times a year, and then for as little time as they could manage. They thought it, in their words, ‘exceedingly dull.’ They saw little of me and even less of their own children. So you see, you must not pity my nieces or expect them to express any sorrow at their parents' passing, Miss Grantham, for they cannot mourn what they never knew."

"I do see," she murmured. How perfectly horrible!

"And now ... about us."

"Us?” She swallowed reflexively.

"Where and when did we meet?"

"Why ... yesterday, my lord. In the library."

He laughed. "No ... where did we meet? In London? At a ball or musicale, perhaps?"

"Ah." She nodded, catching on. He was getting down to the business of constructing a false backstory.
Their
backstory. "I believe we met in Hyde Park. I was strolling and lost my bonnet in a strong wind. You kindly retrieved it, galloping after it on your horse."

"Indeed. And we met in the park every day after?"

She nodded. "I was staying at my good friend Mrs. Robertson's home, which is near the park. It was April, and the weather was fine. Then in May you escorted me to Astley's Amphitheatre."

He shook his head. "Do you not mean the opera? It is widely known I detest Astley's."

She nodded. "I shall remember."

"When did we become engaged?"

"We have had an understanding since midsummer. Late June. Neither of us can recall the exact date. But there has been no official announcement. That will occur after my parents arrive."

He rubbed his chin. "Mmm ... no. I think we should send a notice to
The Morning Post
right away."

"Why?" she asked.

His eyes flicked to the floor, and he pressed his full lips together before he looking up at her quite pointedly and smiling. Still, he did not speak, and Marianna couldn't help feeling his manner a little guilty. "My lord?" she prompted him.

He tipped his head rakishly to the side then, and his flawed eyebrow rose suggestively as he said, "Well . . .” He rose and held out his hand to her.

Reflexively, Marianna placed her hand in his, for that is what a lady did when a gentleman held out his hand. That is what she had been taught, and that is what she did, for Marianna was a lady.

But True Sin was no gentleman.

Pulling her to her feet and close against him, he caressed the line of her jaw with one finger and murmured, “The sooner our betrothal is announced, the sooner I shall have leave to kiss you. Unless, of course, sleeping in your bed again is an option."

Chapter Four

T
RUE

watched her flush, thoroughly enjoying being an impertinent bounder.

She gathered herself quickly, stepped away, and said, "You jest, my lord." Her white brows came together to form a scornful valley.

True threw her his best smile, sat, and sipped his tea. "Are you certain?"

"I daresay she is quite certain, Trowbridge,” a voice chimed from over his shoulder near the doorway.

Marianna coughed delicately. “Truesdale Sinclair, may I present Mrs. Ophelia Robertson?”

Ophelia Robertson!
True stared at the woman incredulously. Though he did not know her, he certainly knew
of
her. Everyone knew of Ophelia Robertson. She was a force of nature, a
celebrated London hostess who was considered, in spite of her venerable age, outrageously
fast.
True turned and watched the old woman sail into the room. Swathed in magenta-and-yellow spangled silk and with a matching turban engulfing her downy white hair, she reminded True of a Gypsy fortune-teller. How on earth had the starched-up Marianna Grantham become friends with the flamboyant Ophelia Robertson? And what was the old woman doing here?”

"Do not get up," the old lady told True, though he had made no move to do so. "How are you, my dear?" she said with genuine warmth to Marianna, plopping down beside her on the sofa. "Are those poppy-seed cakes?"

The maid who'd shown Mrs. Robertson in stood uncertainly in the doorway. True excused her with a wave of his hand.

He glanced from Mrs. Robertson to Marianna Grantham. There could be no doubt the two were hand and glove with each other. "Why are you here?" he asked bluntly, earning a glowering expression from Marianna.

Ophelia chuckled. "Think to shock me with plain speaking, my boy? Won't work. I prefer it, in truth. I am here to serve as
duenna
to Miss Grantham."

"
Duenna
?" True asked incredulously. Ophelia Robertson's reputation was close on as questionable as his was.

"Of course," Marianna interjected. "A chaperone is essential. Mrs. Robertson will lend us propriety."

"Of course," True echoed.

Mrs. Robertson winked at him, clearly acknowledging his bemusement, and, stuffing a bite of seed cake into her mouth, motioned for Marianna to pour her a cup of tea. "You are to have the pleasure of Mr. Robertson's company as well," she said mischievously between bites. Ophelia Robertson had shocked the entire
ton
this past spring by eloping to Gretna Green with a family servant.

"When will John arrive?" Marianna asked, referring to Mr. Robertson.

John
. True made a note of the familiar form of address. Their acquaintance was more than just passing; they were close.

"John will show presently." Mrs. Robertson gestured vaguely toward the window. "He says your stables are a shambles, Trowbridge, and he is having a stern talk with your head groom."

True intercepted an apologetic look from Marianna. "I shall welcome any assistance your husband can render, Mrs. Robertson," he said, and he meant it. "My late brother's attention to such matters was often lacking."

"You mean it was nonexistent, don't you, my boy?"

True couldn’t help chuckling. "I see you know the lay of the land better than most."

"You will find there is very little I do not know," she said, accepting a teacup. "When Marianna asked me which of the
ton's
bachelors was furthest up the River Tick, I—"

"Ophelia!" Marianna gasped.

"Well? 'Tis true!" Mrs. Robertson defended herself. "You
have
had out with the truth, have you not? He does know why you have come?"

"Yes, Ma’am. It just seems so ...
improper
to speak of it!"

"I see no reason to waltz around the truth, my dear. It is all simple enough: he needs the money, and you need a bit of play-acting," the old lady said, but then she changed the subject anyway. "Did you enjoy the trip out, my dear? The fields and woods are so delightfully fragrant this time of year."

True sipped his tea thoughtfully as the ladies had a comfortable coze. He gathered theirs was a warm yet brief acquaintance. It seemed the two had met when Mrs. Robertson's great-niece had attended the boarding school where Marianna taught, and they'd struck up an immediate friendship. True could see why: independent and stubborn, Ophelia Robertson and Marianna Grantham were both bold as brass and twice as cold.

Casually, they informed him the Robertsons were to remain at Trowbridge Manor the entire month, whereupon a steady stream of heavy thumps and muffled curses commenced in echoes down the halls as the servants hauled the Robertsons’ baggage was hauled upstairs. Mrs. Robertson, it seemed, did not travel lightly, and his servants were annoyed. They cursed and swore louder and louder as the minutes dragged on, and Marianna's speech faltered with each of their epithets. The language did not bother True. His sailors raised cursing to an art form, and he was able to ignore it, but he could see that Marianna was not immune. Perversely, he chose not to put a stop to it and simply pretended not to notice.

A few minutes later, something fell with a sudden crash: a heavy trunk perhaps, for a particularly long and colorful string of words reached the parlor. Marianna flinched upon the yellow damask sofa and turned to True. "My lord, I simply must ask you to—"

"Oh, my!" Mrs. Robertson cried. "Marianna! Is that a mouse?" She pointed, and, as Marianna's head swiveled in that direction, the old lady executed a quick, furtive movement and then said, "No, I am mistaken." She clutched at Marianna's wrist and patted her own chest. "But I may still swoon. Do be a lamb and fetch my vinaigrette from my reticule upstairs."

"Which chamber is yours?" Marianna asked.

"Just follow the baggage and ask the servants. Hurry, my dear!"

Marianna left in a rush.

True scoffed and shook his head at Mrs. Robertson. "Your reticule is under your skirt, Madam, where you just tucked it,"

Ophelia turned to him. "With each of your servants' coarse epithets, that gel's spine grew straighter. I feared it might snap. Your servants' manners need correction, Trowbridge. Immediately."

True rubbed his neck tiredly. "Madam, there is jolly little at Trowbridge that does not need correction. If it is not my servants' manners, it is my stables."
Or my nieces
, he thought wryly. "Everything needs my attention."

"Oh ... and now you've had to add a wayward heiress to the list. Poor boy," she added without a shred of real sympathy. "If you take my advice, Trowbridge, you'll move that gel to the top of your priority list. Marianna was reared carefully. She is used to a great plenty where attention is concerned."

"I gather she is used to a great plenty where
everything
is concerned," True remarked. "She was quite unabashed at telling me how wealthy her parents are."

"Indeed," Ophelia agreed.

"I gather all they lack is a bloodline."

"Of that” —Ophelia threw him a significant look—"I am not so very certain."

True regarded her obliquely. "What do you mean?"

"Only that you might ask yourself what else they might lack and if there is not some reason her parents did not accompany her to London."

True nodded. "Think you it has something to do with the fact that they sent their daughter equipped with color rather than drab?"

"You mean the rubies and emeralds?"

True nodded. "Instead of pearls—or diamonds at the outside. It is still considered improper for the newest misses to wear color, is it not?"

She nodded. "The new crop of misses always wear white muslin and pearls, you know that Trowbridge. Colored gems and anything but the palest muslin are quite beyond the pale."

"I thought so. Then there can be only one conclusion: the elder Granthams are not, shall I say, quite as polished, as our Marianna."

Ophelia shrugged. "Perhaps. They were both born and reared on English soil, but I gather they made all their vast fortune at trading in the West Indies, and they may be quite rough, for all I know. For all
we
know. And yet it does not signify. As you have seen, Marianna's manners are impeccable. Her entire life has been spent in preparation for taking her place among Good Society. Which reminds me, you really ought to speak to your servants, Trowbridge." She glanced down the hall from whence the occasional curse still emanated. "Marianna hasn't much tolerance for sailor talk. She possesses refined tastes and sensibilities."

"Would those be tonnish tastes and tonnish sensibilities?" True asked, allowing his well-known distaste to creep into his tone.

"Of
course
," Ophelia snapped. "And if you've any intention of winning her, you shall remember that. Marianna will be repelled by anything improper."

"Of a certainty. And of course that is why she came to me. 'True Sin' is known for his sense of propriety."

"Sarcasm becomes you." Ophelia paused with her teacup halfway to her lips and peered at him keenly over the rim. "Anyone but a fool would wish to wed her in your situation."

"I do not dispute that, Madam. And I ask you again, why send Marianna to me?"

A smile ghosted across her lips. "I convinced Marianna to come to you because ... because I happen to know you are not a fool."

True grunted and allowed one eyebrow to climb high on his forehead.

She waved her hand expansively. "You disbelieve me. You may not know very much about me, Trowbridge, but I know a great deal about you. I have watched you for a very long time. Knew your mother, rest her soul. So young . . ." Ophelia tasted her tea and made a face. "Too sweet." She rose, plucking her reticule from the sofa as she did so. "Ah.
Here
is my reticule. No doubt Marianna is still searching for it upstairs."

"No doubt," True said dryly.

Ophelia threw him a conspiratorial look, a pair of dimples appearing on her lined face, and True was suddenly struck by what a Diamond she must have been in her youth. "I am going upstairs," she informed him.

He nodded.

Ophelia swept toward the doorway and then paused halfway through. "Trowbridge . . ."

"Madam?"

"I meant what I said when I told you she was certain you were jesting."

True shook his head to indicate he had no idea what she was talking about.

"When I arrived! Do you not remember? Methuselah's kittens, you
are
forgetful, aren't you, Trowbridge? Forgetful and buffleheaded and—"

"You just said I was not a fool."

"—and impertinent as well."

"Guilty," he agreed.

Ophelia flashed her dimpled grin at him again and shook her head. "Marianna thought you were jesting about wishing to kiss her. She has no idea of the attraction she holds for a man—"

Neither did True.

"—and she has come to believe she is beyond plain and bordering on ugly. I trust you will do what you can to make her see herself as she really is."

True resisted raising a mocking eyebrow. Did Ophelia really believe Marianna was anything but colorless, rigid, and plain?

"Marianna is a fine gel, Trowbridge," the white-haired lady continued, "a good gel, and if you hurt her . . ." Her keen blue eyes pierced him, and her voice took on a hard edge. "If you hurt her, I will see you punished." She disappeared in a rustling swirl of magenta and yellow.

True frowned after her. Despite having attended some of her celebrated balls and routs, he'd never had occasion to speak at length with Ophelia Robertson. Unlike the rest of the
ton
, it seemed she had no interest in getting to know him. In fact, he'd fancied she actually avoided him, not that he had ever cared. She was a member of the
ton
, after all.

But after speaking with her now, he found he actually liked the flamboyantly garbed woman. He found her outrageously direct, ridiculously opinionated, and startlingly intelligent. Her frankness was refreshing, and he admired her loyalty to Marianna Grantham—though he certainly couldn't imagine what had inspired such feelings. Thus far, he thought sourly, he'd seen little in Miss Grantham to admire beyond a pair of large blue eyes and two other large features, which also came in a pair but lay a bit lower down.

Then the salamander slithered into his mind.

Well, perhaps she wasn’t completely devoid of good qualities in spite of her social aspirations. Her behavior toward his nieces forced True grudgingly to add
calm-headed, compassionate,
and
clever
to her list of qualities. Any other young woman of his acquaintance would have first screamed at the sight of the creature and then demanded the girls be punished. Not only hadn't Marianna Grantham screamed, she had also tried to hide the girls' transgression from him. And then, when she'd discovered that he'd known—and ignored—the prank, she had smiled at him.

He almost added
perfect teeth
to the list and scowled. It wasn't the sort of thing that belonged on his list. Such an addition was of no use. Come to think of it, of what use was the list at all? It did not matter what her qualities were. He was going to wed Marianna Grantham, and that was that.

No matter how much he loathed social climbing young women like her.

Presently, she rejoined him downstairs. He fixed his gaze on her and forced a smile. "Did Mrs. Robertson find you?" he asked as though it were a question of the greatest interest, as though
Miss Grantham
were of the greatest interest

"Oh, yes," she answered. "Ophelia declared herself fatigued and said she would rest. She thought Mr. Robertson might need a rest, too, and she asked me to send for him. They were up late last night after having attended a ball in Town."

True well-nigh chuckled, doubting the old couple would have had any rest at all. They'd been married only that spring, and they'd been remarkably demonstrative in public since. Their marriage had been all the talk in Town, a match between a family servant of many years and a rich old spinster was enough to set tongues wagging even without their frequent public displays of affection. And then there was the manner of their marriage.

"It is rumored they eloped to Gretna Green," he said.

Marianna sighed, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Yes. I know. It is exceedingly romantic, is it not? At their age, of course."