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

by Melynda Beth Andrews

  Rubbish!

  She shook off the illogical notion, grateful for the dimness of the light. She could feel the heat in her cheeks as she blushed. Quickly, she looked away and turned to bid him a hasty good night

  It was a mistake.

  Wedged as she was between the jamb of the open door and his massive body, she found herself close enough to see the dark whiskers on his sculpted chin, the smooth whiteness of his teeth as his lips parted ever so slightly. His exposed skin glowed in the lamplight, and what was not exposed might as well have been, for his white linen shirt was wet and it clung to his muscular arms and torso, revealing every powerful contour. Her eyes fastened once more on the dark hair at his neck—only to follow it downward over his chest and his belly, where it tapered into a thin line before it disappeared altogether into his— She jerked her gaze back up to his face.

  He laughed knowingly.

  His breath was sweet with fine brandy, but suddenly he seemed perfectly lucid. His eyes were like molten onyx, black as the deepest midnight, and as she stared into them, they changed suddenly. The laughter deserted them, and he became frighteningly intense. He leaned toward her, and for one horrifying moment she thought he intended to kiss her, but he reached behind her head and pulled out the comb that tightly secured her hair in place instead. The pale, limp mass fell down her back before she could stop it.

  "Beautiful," he murmured, taking a handful and pulling it over her shoulder. "Shouldn't hide such a treasure up in a tight little coil."

  Marianna danced away from his touch, and her hair slipped from his fingers. She knew, having grown up on an island frequented by sailors and plantation laborers, what drink did to a man. It made all women seem beautiful, desirable.

  Drink and money. They both worked the same sort of black magic. She knew she was not beautiful—though she’d grown up being told she was a prize every man would treasure, a beautiful girl no man could resist. Once in London, though, she’d discovered the truth. No, he was foxed, and she was an heiress. A plain heiress. She inhaled deeply. "Good night, my lord. I trust I can leave you now. You should be able to manage from here."

  "I have gone to bed a few times before," he agreed, his eyes sparkling.

  "Yes ... well. Good night, then." She turned and fled.

  It took a little more than an hour for the coach to return, and it was half-past-three in the morning when the footman, pulling a little cart with her green-painted trunk on it, finally led her through the dark passages of Trowbridge Manor to her own bedchamber. She'd endured two trips out from London and back, a flurry of packing at the school, a frenzied visit to Ophelia Robertson, and, of course, two encounters with the Viscount Trowbridge. She was almost in tears from exhaustion and plodded behind the footman, barely able to keep to her feet and quite oblivious to her surroundings.

  "Here we are, Miss," he said finally. "Your chamber." He opened the door, and Marianna moved to step inside, but he gave a sound of dismay before she could put a single foot across the threshold. "Here now, Miss, hold! The room's not ready. We didn't expect you till tomorrow, you see, so if you'll give me but a minute and wait here in the hall, I'll have a lamp lit and a fire—"

  "No," Marianna said with a grateful smile she knew he had almost no chance of seeing in the gloom. "No, it is quite all right. I can see well enough to get into bed. The room is quite warm already, and in the bed I shall be perfectly comfortable." She thought she'd be perfectly comfortable in a cave with a covering of leaves as long as she could lie down and go to sleep.

  "Yes, Miss." The footman sounded pitifully grateful and stifled a yawn as he deposited her trunk just inside the door. "I shall send for a maid to unpack it for you."

  "No. Truly, I can manage. Thank you. I won’t require any help until after I awaken in the morning. There is a bell pull inside, isn’t there?"

  "Yes, Miss. Right next to the bed.”

  “Thank you, then. I shall ring in the morning when I awaken.”

  “Very well, Miss. Good night." The man bowed and moved off down the hallway.

  Marianna closed the door, latched it behind her, and sighed heavily. She didn't even attempt to extract her night-rail from her trunk. Instead, she pulled her tired brown serge over her head, untied her stays, and felt her way toward the bed wearing only her thin chemise. With the outer door closed, there wasn't even the dim glow from the hall sconces to light her way. It was darker than she had thought it would be, but she made it to the bed and burrowed gratefully under the thick, fluffy covers anyway.

  The last conscious thought she had was that the sweet, heady odor of the Viscount's brandy had somehow managed to cling to her chemise. She fell into a dreamless sleep and did not wake until morning.

  THE VISCOUNT, FOR his part, lay in bed a long while before he slept, listening to the soft, even rhythm of Mistress Mary's breathing only a few inches from him. If she'd been perturbed to find him drunk and singing in the fountain, how much more dismayed would she be to awaken in bed with him? He smiled, fell into a deep sleep, and dreamed of her.

  She was splashing naked in the fountain and singing "Greensleeves."

  Chapter Three

  A BELL

  rang somewhere in the distance, and Marianna cracked open her eyes. The windows swathed the room in dim light, though with the draperies closed it was impossible to guess how late was the hour. Sleepily, she tried to discern their color—a deep blue she thought, until her stomach rumbled, reminding her she had not eaten since her early luncheon the previous day, a meal hastily taken in the coach on the way from the school to Mrs. Ophelia Robertson's grand residence in Grosvenor Square. Still, she was in no hurry to rise and break her fast, for he was somewhere on the other side of that door.

  How much would he remember of last night? Would he remember that she had accompanied him—alone—to his bedchamber? Would he remember saying that her voice was lovely, or loosening her hair, fingering it tenderly, and pronouncing it beautiful? Would he remember the provocative suggestion he'd made about her skill at things she'd not yet done? Or his veiled declaration that he was experienced with going to bed?

  And would he remember the whirlwind journey her wayward eyes had taken over his body?

  Marianna remembered every second of the encounter in excruciating detail. She remembered the frisson of alarm she felt when she’d thought he was going to kiss her—and the fact that she hadn’t made a move to stop him. What would she have done if he had kissed her? Saints and sinners, she didn’t know! She’d never kissed a man before, and what young lady hadn’t at least thought about being kissed by an attractive man? And heaven knew True Sin was nothing if not attractive. Would she have kissed him back, run like a rabbit, or slapped him senseless? She didn’t know for certain, but she suspected she wouldn’t have run or struck him!

  One thing Marianna knew for a certainty: she did not wish to face him.

  She could only hope he had no memory whatsoever of the night before, of the things he'd said to her, for he'd certainly not been sincere. Marianna knew that by the light of day and with a clear head the Viscount would find her lacking.

  But what did that matter?

  It mattered not one brass farthing. She was not really his betrothed. After this month was over, they would probably only seldom meet. There would be an occasional glimpse of him across a crowded ballroom, little more. After a broken engagement, no one would expect them to interact. She tried to put him from her mind. She was still tired.

  She closed her eyes and settled her head into the downy pillow once more. Perhaps she'd sleep another hour. Yes. She told herself she was not avoiding Trowbridge. She was just being certain she was getting adequate rest. The decision was wise. Prudent. Logical. Another hour would be—

  Another hour would be another hour spent avoiding the Viscount. She really did need to get hold of herself. After all, she could not stay holed up in her chamber for the next month, now, could she?

  The smell of his brandy was still very strong. It
wove its way into her troubled thoughts and evoked his image. The strong, angular features, the dark hair and eyes ... the breadth of his shoulders and that intriguing thatch of chest hair that lured the eyes to follow to where it disappeared into his inexpressibles. She squeezed her eyes shut even tighter and sighed. It was no use. Trying to escape him by sleeping was an exercise in futility. He would follow her into her dreams. She had better get up and face him. It was best to get it over with.

  Still, she hesitated. She did not want to get it over with. She wanted to hide there in her chamber all day. Coward, she berated herself, flopping onto her other side toward the center of the bed.

  She froze in place.

  She blinked.

  Her mouth worked, but no sound came out, which was a good thing, since all that would have emerged was a spate of babbling, anyway.

  Truesdale Sinclair, the Viscount Trowbridge, was in her bed! He lay on the other side of the four-poster, sound asleep. She held very still lest she wake him. Though her body was motionless, her mind was in a flurry, at sixes and sevens. She glanced at the closed door. The key was still in the lock, turned to the right. Had she locked it last night? She was well-nigh certain she had. She remembered the feel of the knob in her hand. But of course he would have a key. He must have let himself in after she had gone to sleep. She was a light sleeper, but she’d been so tired, she must not have heard him. Was he there by mistake or by design? Had he simply been so foxed that he’d come to her room by mistake, or was he there for a ... a purpose? Well, if he’d come for a purpose, he had obviously fallen to sleep before he could make good on it.

  Could the man be such a libertine? Not that it mattered, either way. She had made him a bargain, and honor demanded that she go through with it.

  Oh, who was she bamming? It wasn't honor but desperation that bound her to Trowbridge. It was simply too late for her to hie off to London now. There was no time to find another fake suitor.

  Botheration!

  She swallowed reflexively. If seduction had been on his mind, he'd certainly failed miserably—and somehow Marianna doubted that sort of failure was likely of True Sin. He hadn’t been that foxed!

  Saints and sinners! She was in a panic and had to calm down. To think. To figure a way out of this tangle. Taking a deep, silent breath, she willed her heart to slow and knitted her brows together. As they always did, her thoughts began to coalesce into a rational whole. She swallowed.

  The logic did not fit. It was unlikely the Viscount had slipped into her room after she was asleep. And if he did not arrive after her, then he had to have come in beforehand. When she'd escorted him to his bedchamber door, had he been so foxed that he'd led her to her bedchamber instead of his by mistake?

  Another possibility occurred to her: perhaps this wasn't her chamber at all, but his ... which might be the case had the footman led her to his master's chamber on the Viscount's orders. Ah, but that would mean he'd had seduction on his mind from the time she'd left Trowbridge that morning. Bells in Heaven! Her heart hammered in her chest, and she grasped for a more reasonable—and more comforting—explanation. She was not fetching enough to incite such behavior. And the Viscount needed her gems; he would not jeopardize their bargain, not for a chance to cavort with the likes of her. No, logic told her he had to have come to her bed by mistake. That was how she must attack the problem. Which meant she had to get out of that bedchamber before someone discovered them together.

  Before he discovered them together!

  She needed to get dressed. Her eyes snapped to her trunk. There was no hope of opening its squeaky hasps without waking the Viscount, and—Lud!—her poor traveling costume lay next to the trunk in a heap on the floor, dusty, wrinkled, and visibly damp. But she could hardly appear downstairs in her chemise. Perhaps no one would notice if she wore the damp brown serge and went below to wait in the— She rolled her eyes, abandoning the thought. Even if no one raised an eyebrow at the gown, her hair was certainly a tangled mess, and her comb was in the trunk. There was no way she could appear downstairs. The servants would talk. Besides, if she left Trowbridge here and this were her bedchamber, a servant might discover him. But what else could she do? Wake him?

  She'd sooner walk through fire with bare feet.

  Next to her, he slept peacefully on, oblivious to her agitation. She shot him a black look and resisted an impulse to shove him roughly out of the bed and bounce his backside off the hard, cold floor. Asking him for answers was the only way she'd get them, but she had no intention of carrying on a polite conversation with a man wearing only his—

  Saints and sinners, what was he wearing?

  Her eyes widened as she realized for the first time that the narrow band of Trowbridge's exposed, muscular shoulders was quite bare. Her eyes darted to his lean, sun-touched face. He slept on. Marianna nibbled on her lower lip, her eyebrow climbing high on her forehead. He slept on. Heaven help her, she wanted to look at him. Not just a glance, either, but a long, satisfying examination. She told herself it was only natural that she be curious. She'd never seen a man's bare shoulders.

  She stole another look at him. He slept on.

  He was her betrothed, after all. Did she not have a right to look?

  She did look, allowing her eyes a much more leisurely journey than she had last night. He lay on his back with the covers pulled over his arms and torso, warding off the deep chill of the room. His face, though relaxed in sleep, was still handsomely angular, his features sculpted. His mouth had the look of an ancient Roman statue she had seen in the British Museum. The wavy black mass that surrounded his head seemed more a halo than a head of hair. Even in its disarray, it did not look much different than it had yesterday, when she'd first seen him. One errant wisp curled over his ear and down his long side burn. Her eyes followed it downward, over a prominent cheekbone to the line of his jaw, which, along with his slightly cleft chin, was shadowed with unshaven whiskers. But her perusal did not end there.

  As her eyes ventured lower still, she gripped the blue counterpane tighter. His bare shoulders were large and powerful. She stared at them, pressing her lips together and raising her chin to get a better look. She could just see the outlines of his collarbones, and her fingers went involuntarily to her own. His bronzed skin was smooth in spite of its weathering. In fact, it looked almost silky, and she couldn't help wondering if it felt silky, too. Her fingers wanted to indulge in the same sort of wayward field trip her eyes were enjoying. She shoved her hand behind her back, but then logic took hold of her once more.

  There was no use in denying she was enjoying her survey. And she need not feel any guilt. The Viscount was a magnificently formed man, and thus it was only logical that she enjoy looking.

  She could just see a sprinkling of dark, springy chest hair peeking over the white sheet and royal blue counterpane. She knew it narrowed into a line that pointed down his belly, and she couldn't help wondering just how far down that line of crisp, dark hair marched ...

  Was he wearing anything at all under the bedclothes?

  Phttt! She was out of the bed like a flushed pheasant, looking wildly about. There! His clothes lay in a heap on the floor beside the bed. She poked at them with her toe, taking inventory. Boots, shirt, waistcoat, breeches, drawers—oh, Lud!—stockings ... all of it. Every stitch he’d had on yesterday. Right there, on the floor of her bedchamber! Beside her bed.

  And there he was, in her bed. Without his clothes.

  Saints and sinners, she had to get out of there! No! Her unseeing eyes attached themselves to the hair on his chest once more as her mind occupied itself with other matters. No, she had to get him out of there! If anyone found out where he'd spent the night, she would be ruined.

  If he did not offer to marry her, she amended.

  And what would she do if he did offer for her? Would she marry him? Without love?

  She stood stock-still in the center of the floor, her eyes fixed and glassy, her mind as firm as watered porridge and absently wa
ndering the ether of future possibility.

  "Enjoying the view?"

  The masculine voice yanked Marianna out of her wool gathering, and she realized she'd been caught woolgathering. Staring at his furry chest, to be more precise. His eyes sparkled mischievously, knowingly.

  "Did you enjoy sleeping with me last night?" he asked.

  "Yes. No!" She jerked her eyes away from him. "That is to say, I did not know I was sleeping with you. No! That is not what I meant to say. I ... I did not sleep with you. That is, I slept, but not with you. No, no, I mean ... I mean . . ."

  He was laughing, a deep, rich, and infuriating sound.

  She rolled her eyes. "Oh! You know perfectly well what I mean!"

  "In truth," he drawled, folding his arms behind his head and causing the covers to slip lower, exposing what seemed to be a vast amount of muscled chest and belly, "I do not have the first notion what you mean, for I have absolutely no memory of what happened between us last night."

  "I do," she blurted before she realized she'd put her foot in her mouth yet again. "Botheration! That is to say, my memory is unimpaired, and nothing happened between us. Nothing at all."

  "How ... interesting." He looked her up and down, and Marianna realized he was not speaking of the maddening mull in which they'd found themselves. She'd forgotten she was wearing only her thin white chemise. She snatched up a garment from the floor and covered herself with it.

  "I do not know how you came to be here, my lord, but I believe we should discuss it later." She nodded toward the door. "Downstairs."

  "I would be delighted to do so, but there is one problem."

  "And that is?"

  "You have my breeches clutched to your bosom."

  Handing a naked man his inexpressibles was bad enough, but standing in the same room with him—albeit turned away—while he dressed was outside of enough! She could hear the fabric sliding against his skin, and she may as well have been sliding her own hands over his skin, for all the embarrassment the sounds caused her.