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

by Melynda Beth Andrews

  Marianna's cheeks burned as the clocks in the large house all struck one. She grimaced. She hadn't slept this late in over a year, and she was appalled. At Baroness Marchman's School for Young Ladies, she'd been required to be up with the rising sun, a habit she did not dislike. She supposed she had better get used to keeping later hours, however, as ladies of the ton rarely rose before noon.

  She tried to focus on her vexation at having been a slugabed, but it was no use. She couldn't keep her mind from veering back to him. Her cheeks were flaming and her knees felt weak before he finally left—without a word, thank goodness. She heard the door click shut softly behind him, whirled, and, locking the door behind him, sagged against it. The room seemed infinitely larger now. Her eyes flicked to the bed. It had certainly seemed quite small when she'd found him lying there next to her. She shivered and pushed away from the door to see to her own needs.

  Believing in the saying that first impressions were lasting, she dressed carefully and appeared downstairs an hour later in her finest gown, a soft ice-blue muslin sprigged with tiny sprays of embroidered delphiniums and, in her hair, a matching blue satin ribbon.

  When she’d first arrived in London from the West Indies, she’d come with a limited wardrobe, expecting to order new gowns without delay. She had been quite looking forward to it, in fact. But, of course, her circumstances had changed, and a closet of new gowns was not consistent with her assumed schoolmistress persona. Thus, she now had nothing better than the ice-blue muslin to change into for dinner this evening.

  Not that it signified, she thought with chagrin, for she anticipated retreating to her chamber with a megrim long before the evening meal.

  To be sure, the Viscount Trowbridge had left her bedchamber quickly enough and with no further shenanigans, but that was not particularly reassuring. Marianna barely knew True Sin, but she didn't like what she'd seen so far.

  She didn't like salamanders, either, but she did like little girls, which was a good thing, for she was no sooner downstairs than was she presented with three of them—three little girls, thank goodness, not three salamanders. There had been only the one salamander, but, as she'd found it squirming half-submerged in the clotted cream on her tea tray, one had been quite enough.

  At the housekeeper's insistence, tea was taken with the three young ladies of the house. The stout woman introduced them as "the ABC's—Miss Alyse, Miss Beatrice, and Miss Eleanor." Apparently, there was no governess.

  Not anymore.

  The girls, Marianna discovered, had been largely unsupervised for a little over three months. Their mother and father—Trowbridge's elder brother—had died at sea while returning from a visit with relatives in Scotland. The girls did not seem vastly sullen for the event. They wore no black garments, and they seemed rather animated. Rather too animated, for Marianna was certain they’d all had their heads together on the salamander. She ignored it and wisely took her scones with brambleberry jam.

  The three of them soon gobbled up their own scones and guzzled their tea, wiping their mouths on sleeves that couldn't be harmed too much by one more stain. Then they sat staring at her with wide eyes.

  "Who are you?" the eldest finally blurted. Alyse had straight, dark hair, and she seemed much too grown up for her ten years.

  "My name is Miss Marianna Grantham."

  "What Alyse means," the middle girl said with a shake of her long, dark curls, "is what are you doing here?" Beatrice had dark hair past her shoulders like her sister, but it was curly rather than straight, and it hung in tangled ringlets down her back.

  "I am ... a visitor."

  "Uncle Sin's lady friend?" Beatrice quizzed.

  Uncle Sin? Marianna nearly spilled her tea, but she looked the middle child steadily in the eye when she said, "Yes. Yes, I suppose you might say that."

  "Lady friend, or lady bird? "

  "Beatrice Jessamine Sinclair!" the eldest cried in a parody of parental disapproval.

  "What?" Beatrice shot back. "Don't you want to know which it is?"

  "Of course I do," Alyse said. "It's just not polite to ask her, that's all. We'll ask Uncle Sin instead."

  Beatrice plucked a heretofore unnoticed chunk of scone from the tea tray and crammed it into her mouth. "He won’t tell us anything, silly. He didn't last time, did he?"

  "Last time?" Marianna asked.

  "The last time Uncle Sin had a lady visitor," Alyse supplied sagely. "We asked him if she was his lady friend, but he only sent us to the nursery for the rest of the afternoon."

  Beatrice shook her head. "Aww ... we don't need to ask him, anyway," she said, tossing her head in Marianna’s direction. "She stayed here last night, didn't she?"

  "Yeth," the youngest lisped between the gap where her two front teeth had been. "Sheth a thoiled dove, all wight."

  Marianna's eyes widened, and the two older girls dissolved into peals of giggles. “She doesn’t know what that means,” Alyce said.

  “Neither do you,” Beatrice said.

  Alyce pasted on a sage look. “I know it’s not nice. I’m the one who heard the groom say it.”

  “I’ll tell him you been looking under the stable door.”

  “Fine. Then I won’t be able to share anything else I learn there.”

  Beatrice frowned. “I didn’t mean it, sister.”

  Alyce grinned. “I know.”

  They both giggled.

  Little Eleanor, a darling thing with close-cropped blonde curls, scowled at her elder sisters and then turned haughtily away from them to tug on Marianna's gown. "How come you haven't asked 'bout my name?"

  Instantly, the other two girls fell silent. They watched Marianna, waiting for her answer. The question was clearly some sort of test, and Marianna very much wanted to give them a satisfactory answer. "Well," she said and took a sip of her tea. She had noticed, of course, that there was something odd about "the ABC's." Alyse, Beatrice ... and Eleanor. C and D were clearly missing.

  "I thought you would tell me about your names—all three of you—if and when you wished me to know." Marianna peered at them over the rim of her teacup. "One should never attempt to force a confidence, you know."

  The elder sisters traded glances.

  "Oh," Eleanor chirped. "Then I shan't tell you."

  "I see you have met my nieces," her host's deep, rich voice boomed from the doorway, startling Marianna so that her tea did slosh over the rim of her cup this time. "I apologize for my absence," he said. "I had hoped to be here to defend you." He gave the girls a wry look. "I trust they have been perfect young ladies?" His voice was full of storm clouds. Marianna watched as three sets of eyes darted to the crock of clotted cream.

  "They were no trouble," she said. Her assertion earned her a raised eyebrow, but the Viscount said nothing to refute her claim. "Indeed," Marianna said, "They have agreed to do me a favor." She watched the ABC's' eyes widen.

  "Which is?"

  Ignoring the question, she leaned forward and gestured to the bellpull just behind him. "Would you be so kind as to ring for more tea, my lord? I find I am parched after yesterday's travels."

  As Trowbridge turned his back to pull the cord, Marianna quickly replaced the lid on the crock and whisked it and the salamander into a small basket that stood empty on the side table. She thrust the basket into Alyse's arms and threw a meaningful look at all three girls, who clapped their mouths shut and glanced nervously in their uncle's direction.

  Marianna said, "The girls have agreed to go outside and gather me a basket of ivy to brighten my bedchamber. Run along, girls," she prompted without waiting for Trowbridge's assent, and the three scurried out the door like mice. Truesdale watched them go, clearly bemused.

  "They are afraid of you," Marianna said when they were out of earshot. She did nothing to cleanse her voice of the disapproval she felt.

  Trowbridge shook his head. "They are afraid of everything." He chuckled. "Except salamanders, it seems."

  "You saw the salamander?"

&nbs
p; "Aye." Deep, merry dimples appeared, and Marianna almost groaned. Of course True Sin's face would come equipped with dimples. They were the perfect boyish counterpoint to his manly scarred eyebrow. They were like laudanum for the face, and Marianna couldn't help returning his smile.

  He sat opposite her. "I rather thought the salamander was enjoying his swim in the clotted cream, didn't you?"

  The dimples that had appeared left as quickly as they had come, and his face clouded over with concern. "I am afraid my nieces have had too little correction in their young lives, as you will no doubt agree."

  "Then why, my lord, did you not scold them for the salamander?"

  "For the same reason you did not betray their mischief to me, I expect. I am trying to win their loyalty” —his generous mouth tilted wryly—"or at least negotiate a guarded truce."

  Marianna heaved a sigh of relief. At last, she'd found something she liked about the Viscount—besides his dimples and chest hair. She resisted the impulse to roll her eyes and fingered the delicately curved handle of her teacup instead.

  “You are unusual.”

  She gave him an arch look. “Oh?”

  “Most women would have shrieked and run from that salamander.”

  “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

  TRUE

  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 hi
s 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—"