As soon as she saw movement in the doorway, she shoved the outrageous stockings behind her back, but it was too late, and she must have known it by his expression.
"They're not mine!" she said.
"Naturally," True drawled. "They have to be for Ophelia—"
"Hardly!"
"—or for your mother."
"Oh, my lord, you jest."
"I do." He smiled. "So, who are they for?"
"My friend Agnes." She took the stockings from behind her back and stroked them lovingly. "I Miss her."
"Agnes Marchman, the baroness?"
"Yes, the same. Founder and headmistress of Baroness Marchman's School for Young Ladies."
He motioned to the stocking. "Somehow, Lady Marchman does not strike me as the sort to wear—oh, I see. Blue stockings for a bluestocking!"
Her cheeks blushed pink. "Yes."
True chuckled. "Mary, you are not the proper Miss you would have everyone believe you to be."
"My lord, I see no reason for insults!"
"It was not intended as such, for I much prefer you the way you truly are. You have a mischievous and wicked sense of humor."
She rolled her blue eyes at him, but then shrugged and gave a shy smile.
"Care to ride with me?” he asked. “My presence is required at the mill and then in the high fields to the East. Mr. Montescue wishes to discuss irrigation and how it will affect the tenants who live in that area."
"I would like to, my lord. But our guests arrive in only two days, and I shall have little time to work on these stockings then. I will finish today and join you tomorrow morning perhaps?"
“I shall look forward to it,” he said. He bowed quickly and left her to her work, marveling at his own sincerity. He was looking forward to it. When she smiled, she was almost pretty.
Almost.
If a man liked pale, colorless women.
Which True did not.
Blonde curls and blue eyes were all the crack among the ton. He'd always preferred dark hair and eyes, as everyone knew. He'd taken two Romany maids to Lady Elgin's ball once.
Half the day passed and True's hands were sore before he realized he'd forgotten to retrieve his riding gloves from the morning parlor, which was why he'd gone there in the first place.
And damn if Mary didn’t beat him at backgammon that night, six games to four.
Chapter Six
RAIN
pattered softly on the roof and the wet ground outside, filling the darkness with a lulling music. It felt as though the entire house had been put under a spell. The world had a sleepy feel, and the ABC's and the Robertsons, who had all been yawning by mid-afternoon, were already abed.
It was True's last night alone with Mary before their guest arrived, and it was time to deliver his coup de grace.
They’d known each other two weeks, and during that time, he’d bent all his considerable skill toward turning Marianna Grantham up sweet. He had one task left, and if all went well, he would make a hasty trip to London on the morrow, leaving before dawn and returning just before the Trowbridge house guests began to arrive that afternoon. He was well-nigh certain his seduction had been successful. He'd been the recipient of several more shy smiles, and he'd thought he'd seen Miss Grantham surreptitiously pinching her cheeks to bring up their color earlier in the day.
Mary sat on a sofa reading The Faerie Queene to him in the glow of the lamplight. So absorbed in the poem was she that she had tucked her feet up underneath her, abandoning her pink kid slippers on the floor beside her.
She was wearing one of her new gowns, a delicate muslin in a becoming shade of salmon. It seemed to emphasize what little color she possessed. The damp weather had given her hair a little curl, and wisps had escaped to frame her face. Her blue eyes shone with excitement as she read the ending of the work.
He feigned rapt attention until the last word faded from her lips and she had finally closed the book.
"Beautiful," he murmured.
"Quite so," she said on a sigh, "the poem is deeply allegorical, of course, but I always get lost in the story, especially the last section where Calidore rescues Pastorella."
"He does?"
She blinked and shook her head and then exclaimed, "Were you not listening?"
"On the contrary, I was listening. To you. To your voice. That is what I meant. You have a beautiful voice, Mary."
She stood up. "Rubbish."
"Not at all. I told you what a fine voice I thought you had that very first evening you came to me. Remember?"
"How could I forget?" She smiled. "You wanted me to use it to sing 'Greensleeves' in the middle of the night. And if I didn't know the song, you were going to teach it to me.
He threw her his best mischievous grin. "The offer still stands."
"My lord," she said, her stern tone ruined by an ill-concealed chuckle, "I do not sing."
"You should have a go. You would excel at it. You excel at a great many things, Mary."
"More rubbish. Name one thing."
"You are good with the children."
"Humph! That does not signify. I was a schoolteacher, after all. I am supposed to be good with children. What else?"
He sensed the challenge in her voice. She didn't think he could come up with anything else. "You best me at backgammon with disgusting regularity.”
“It is a dice game. Pure chance. And we have not played enough for you to form an logical opinion.”
“Well then ... you are wonderful at managing the servants. You are good to them. You treat them like the individuals they are."
"I was a servant when I was a teacher, my lord, and—"
"True. You should get used to calling me True. It will help our ruse if you let the name slip in front of our guests once in a while."
She nodded. "Truesdale," she conceded.
"Ever the proper Miss, aren't you?" he asked. She raised her eyebrows and nodded, and he said, "I interrupted you. Go on."
"Oh, yes. I was going to say that being a servant brought me an appreciation of what their lives are like. I fancy I am much more sympathetic to them than I was before I came to London. But that hardly qualifies as something I am skilled at. What else am I good at?"
Now she was enjoying the sport. She was ready to refute whatever suggestion he made. True smiled and pounced.
"Embroidery! He laughed. “You must admit those stockings of yours are a work of art.”
As he expected, she blushed crimson. "Pray do not mention the things again! I will send them to Lady Marchman—and you will pretend you never saw them." She threw him a look of mock severity. "They are meant to be a joke.”
"Well" he began, "if Lady Marchman has half the sense of humor you do, she will love the stockings."
She nodded her thanks.
"And speaking of giving” he said, “I have something to give to you."
"Oh?"
"Yes." He walked to the mantel and opened a small porcelain box there. "When our guests arrive,” he said slowly, “we must in every way appear as a betrothed couple. If anyone discovers our ruse, Marianna, we shall both find it devilishly uncomfortable.” He walked back toward her with the porcelain box in his hand.
MARIANNA STARED AT the box and blinked. It looked like a ring box. Suddenly, the seriousness of what they were trying to do settled over her shoulders like a yoke. Until that moment, their false betrothal had seemed a lark. But now ...
Truesdale sat next to her, his posture broadcasting a certain solemnity. He feels it too, she thought. "Marianna,” he began, “my dear Marianna ... We must do everything our guests expect of us, everything they would expect of a betrothed couple. We have done well this past week. We have constructed a believable story, all the stronger for its simplicity, and we have learned each other's habits. I think we are ready but for a few small details."
"Which are?"
"This is one," he said, lifting from the porcelain box an object that sparkled in the lamplight. “It was my m
other's.”
Marianna blinked and felt her heart constrict. His mother's ring! It was exquisite, a very large ruby ringed with diamonds in a setting that looked like a rose just opening and sprinkled with dew. It was unusual, and she wondered about the woman who had last worn it. Truesdale never spoke of his family, but Ophelia had said Truesdale's mother was not a happy person, though she would say no more.
“It ... it is very beautiful,” she murmured, and he took her hand in his. She expected him to slide the ring onto her finger and let go, but he lingered, stroking the back of her hand with soft, slow circles of his thumb, his fingers warm against hers.
"Shall I put it on?" she asked, unable to keep a nervous flutter from her voice. Was he aware of what he was doing with his hand?
"My mother never took this ring off," he answered without letting go. "She loved the setting. Roses were her favorite. She always said that if she'd ever had a daughter, she would have given her the name Rose." He reached for her other hand and then rubbed both her palms with his fingertips. How could he not know what he was doing?
Gently, Marianna tried to pull her hand free. "I ... it ... under the circumstances, it seems improper to wear your mother's ring."
He shook his head. "Oh, but you must. It is a family heirloom. Our guests will expect you to be wearing my mother’s ring. They will think it exceedingly odd if you are not, just as they will think it odd if ... "
"If what, my lord?"
"If you try to pull your hands away when I touch them, as you are now."
"Oh!" So, he was not caressing her hand to express affection, he was simply making a point. Her cheeks flamed. She felt foolish for having thought, even for a second, that he had formed some sort of tendre for her.
"Our guests will also think it odd if you balk," he said, leaning toward her, "when I do” —he took her into his arms—"this." He kissed her.
Instantly, she stilled, but her mind was awhirl. Using her logical mind, she analyzed his movements, noting how he curled his arms behind her and drew her against him, how he slanted his mouth over hers and pressed gently. How he skimmed his hands over the flesh at the back of her neck and cradled her head. How his fingers dug into her hair, and how he began guiding her movements. She wondered how such a kiss would feel if she were not so unattractive, if the man kissing her really wanted to kiss her. She noticed his eyes were closed. Hers were not. Should they be? Yes. Elsewise, someone might notice. She shut her eyes, and then, realizing an observer might notice how very tense she was, she relaxed against him and did her best to kiss him back.
His breath was sweet, his lips surprisingly soft and warm. The thought occurred to her that if she stopped analyzing the kiss for a moment, it might be quite enjoyable.
She tried it
Focusing on his warm, soft lips, his sweet breath, and the way his mouth seemed to be coaxing hers, she sighed against him and allowed him to show her what to do.
He moaned.
Instantly, she set her hands against his chest and pushed away from him. He opened his eyes, and she was stunned by what she saw there. Desire! Every part of her—not the logical parts, but the feminine—confirmed it. True Sin wanted her! Wanted her in a physical, masculine way.
She stood and murmured something unintelligible even to her and fled.
She found herself in her chamber a few minutes later, not remembering the journey, the path she'd traveled, or even how long it had taken her to get there. She’d known from the beginning that nothing would be more convincing than to be “caught” kissing once or twice as all betrothed couples usually were. She had even planned on insisting they be seen kissing—though that part of her plan had become more and more uncomfortable for her to contemplate as time went on and she’d come to know the Viscount. Kissing a disinterested stranger was one thing, but kissing someone she’d come to respect and even admire was quite another. He’d become a friend.
A friend who actually wanted to kiss her?
Her mind worked furiously, sifting the logic from the frenzied feelings that mad kiss had conjured. Marianna had never been kissed before and did not have much experience with which to judge, but she was nevertheless certain that he’d done more than was strictly necessary to acclimate her to his touch. “Oh, you must be mad, Marianna!” she whispered. “There must be some other explanation for his behavior. What are you missing?”
What had just happened? She had to think! She fought for control of her frenzied feelings, pacing the floor of her bedchamber like a caged tigress. He had complimented her, smiled at her, touched her hand, given her his mother's ring ... and kissed her.
Gently, insistently, hungrily.
But what man was capable of kissing a woman dispassionately? His ... enthusiasm did not mean he was passionate about her—just passionate.
She thought about the past week, about the flowers he'd given her, the smiles, the dozens of small kindnesses he'd shown her. They'd increased in number as the week had worn on. Could it be that he'd come to care for her? She didn't know. Logic told her there was no way to be certain of his feelings.
But she ought to be certain of hers.
Did she care for him? There was much to admire about the Viscount Trowbridge. He was intelligent and clever. He was a loving guardian to his nieces, a fair and respectful master to the servants, and a tolerant host to Ophelia—who would try anyone's hospitality! He had an engaging way about him and a delightful sense of humor. He'd been attentive and amiable all week. And surely he hadn't felt obligated to listen to her read the entire text of The Faerie Queene in one afternoon. He'd wanted to spend time with her. Hadn't he?
“Oh ... saints and sinners!” she murmured. She did care for him! Was he The One? Was he the man she was destined to marry?
That kiss hadn't been a lesson, a taming, a strategy, or anything like that. It had been a conquest. No, she amended. Truesdale was a gentleman, and gentlemen were not conquerors. His kiss had not been a conquest, but a ... an exploration.
But why explore her? Was she such a mystery? Such a treasure to search for and covet?
No. She was not.
Her racing mind came to a sudden halt. She was far from a treasure. She was no Diamond. She was a colorless spinster who still smelled of starch, while he was a much-admired and dashingly handsome viscount. Ophelia had warned her that their female house guests, unmarried or not, would be vying for his attention. Apparently, he was a much sought-after parti among the untitled ladies of the ton. Surely, an intelligent, handsome, amiable and titled man like Truesdale could have his choice of any of them! Marianna was plain as toast, and she knew it. Why should Truesdale choose her?
The answer lay in simple logic: he wouldn't.
He didn't desire her. He’d been acting a part during that kiss, or perhaps she'd just made up the whole idea. Yes, that was probably it. Ophelia was right: Marianna did believe in silly fairy stories. She did believe in one-true-love, and just for a moment—for one insane moment—she'd believed that perhaps Truesdale Sinclair was The One.
She sighed and went through the ritual of getting ready for bed, and then she lay down, but all night long, in spite of all her careful, controlled logic, in spite of her resolve to abandon her impractical, fantastical fairy stories, the moment she'd thought she'd glimpsed genuine desire in his eyes kept coming back to her, and she wondered: was there any chance he really cared for her? Was there any chance at all that he really was the one? The one man she was destined to love?
She slept hardly at all.
Morning came. She dressed in one of her new gowns—the aqua. It was his favorite, he'd said when the gowns had all arrived. She'd thought to save it for when her parents came, but she couldn’t resist. Bells in heaven, she wanted to impress him! Dressing her hair in a rather careless twist with a matching aqua ribbon, she allowed some of her curls to frame her face. He had remarked that he preferred she give her hair some freedom. Checking at her reflection in the long, cheval glass, her eyes lit upon the ruby be
trothal ring she wore. She brought her hand up and stared at it a moment, cradling the ring and wondering what it would feel like if she were really betrothed. She would love the ring, just as his mother would have, she knew. She looked up into her own eyes’ reflection, nodded, and then quickly changed out the teal hair ribbon for one the shade of the ruby.
La, she was mad!
She went downstairs at first light, where she knew she would find him at breakfast with the ABC's. Her heart pounded. She had made a decision. She would ask him. She would ask how he felt about her. There was no other way to be certain. She preferred plain speaking, and so did he. It was best to get their feelings—however nascent—out into the open before their guests began to arrive tomorrow.
She swept into the morning room, where the ABC's sat looking morose. Three places were set upon the table. Three places, not four.
"Good morning, lovely ladies. Where is your uncle?"
"Gone," Alyse said in a sulky voice.
"Gone where?" Marianna asked.
Eleanor shrugged. "He left while we were asleep."
"Yes," Beatrice said. "The coach is gone—”
“Which means a long trip!” Alyce interrupted.
“—and they will not tell us where he went or when he's coming back."
Chapter Seven
LONDON
was wretched.
The streets were muddy from the recent rain, fog had shrouded the church spires deep into the afternoon, and the fetid odors drifting in from the Thames seemed to cling to everything. The air was too still. True wished a breeze would blow in from the North Sea. By Jove, how he missed the open ocean!
True hadn't even seen the sea in two months.
It wouldn't be long before he returned to that life, he thought as his coachman maneuvered the vehicle into fashionable St. James's Street. He patted the pocket of his waistcoat and, withdrawing an envelope, threw it onto the seat opposite him. It was a special license, and it was one of the two things he’d come to London to procure. With it, he could wed Marianna Grantham wherever and whenever it was convenient.
Miss Grantham's One True Sin (The Regency Matchmaker Series Book 2) Page 8