No ... She shook her head. It must not be true. It could not be. Truesdale had proved himself to be a gentleman. And Ophelia Robertson—her dear old friend!—would never have suggested Marianna ally herself with him if he were not completely worthy. Would she?
Marianna knew it was wicked, but she suddenly had her doubts.
In the end, as always, she retreated to the comfort of logic. There was only one thing to do under the circumstances: speak with Ophelia. Marianna sailed out the door of the library to find the old lady. Marianna would relate the conversation she had just overheard and ask what it could mean. Surely Ophelia would have a logical explanation. A reasonable excuse for such odious accusations. Yes, it was all a misunderstanding, and Ophelia would confirm that.
Marianna headed for a particular spot in the garden. She knew that, in spite of Ophelia's assertion that she was going to stroll the grounds, the old lady did not enjoy walking, and the shaded stone bench in the rose garden was her favorite spot to pass the time at Trowbridge Manor. The wide rose garden was ringed with trees, and a little pond with goldfish nestled in the center. Ophelia had spent many happy hours there since she came to Trowbridge. Marianna fully expected to find her there now, but the bench was empty.
Marianna next searched the house, but no one had see her come back inside, and she was not in her bedchamber Neither was she with John in the stables. Ophelia simply could not be found.
And yet, in the end, it did not signify, for as Marianna roamed the rest of the grounds, looking for her friend, she found the other guests—now that they could speak with her in greater privacy than the parlor had afforded—quite willing to regale her with all sorts of information about True Sin. And the more she heard, the angrier she became, for, as it turned out, the Trowbridge house guests had good reason to believe Marianna was no better than a common trollop. The Earl and countess of Something-Or-Other were not the only ones who claimed first-hand knowledge of the Viscount Truesdale’s social transgressions. Marianna heard similar stories from half a dozen different mouths. The tales were shocking, for Truesdale Sinclair, the Viscount Trowbridge, was no gentleman.
He was a scapegrace. A rakehell. A philanderer.
Saints and sinners! She had almost convinced herself she was in love with him! Now, Marianna didn't know which was worse—to be masquerading as his betrothed or mistaken for his bird of paradise.
She fled to her bedchamber, heartsick and sagged onto the bed. She tried not to cry. Tears would serve no logical purpose, but they came anyway. Dear God, her parents were due to arrive any day, and they would certainly discover the Viscount's scandalous past the same way she had, soon after they arrived.
The poor darlings would be so worried about her. And disappointed. In fact, she wouldn't blame them if they were quite angry.
Marianna, for her part, was livid.
TRUE SIGHED AS he arrived home. He was weary.
He had decided not to wait until morning to start back to Trowbridge. He'd known when he set out from London that he would arrive at Trowbridge jolly late indeed, but if all the visiting beau monde kept to their normal Town hours, most would still be awake when he arrived, he'd thought. He had hoped he and Mary could still announce their engagement that evening.
He'd started from London after dark with instructions to his coachman to make the journey as quick as possible, and although he was willing to endure the jarring, jolting, and bouncing, his coach, apparently, was not. A wheel had broken halfway to Trowbridge. Rather than wait for it to be fixed, he'd walked the three miles to the next village to borrow a horse, slogging through the mud from one farmhouse to the next until he found a family with a horse they were willing to "lend" him for a price. He had paid thrice as much as the miserable animal was worth. And still it had taken him several more hours to get home.
The roads were wet and slippery, and he was caked with mud and chilled to the bone.
It was well-nigh three o' the clock when he climbed the front steps. He awakened the footman on duty, who had fallen asleep, and directed the man to take care of the poor horse, who, by the look, would be even more grateful to be warm and dry than True. He took off his filthy boots and coat before coming inside. No need to muddy the floors and create work for the servants. He stopped in the entry hall to listen. Everything was dark and quiet. Three in the morning was late, even for Town hours.
He started toward his study to pour himself a brandy, but a glow appeared down the hall as someone carrying a lamp approached. True tugged off his gloves and waited to see who would appear.
Mary!
She appeared like a wraith out of the gloom, and he knew something was wrong the moment he saw her. As she approached, he noted the high color in her normally pale face. Her features were tight, and her bearing was even more erect and stiff than usual.
"You are angry," he said.
"Bloody right, I am." The words came out as little more than a hiss, and she blew right on past him and into the library.
True followed and shut the doors behind him. "Did you say, ‘bloody?’"
"Yes, bloody!" she sputtered, losing her composure. "Bloody, bloody, bloody! There! I said it. And don’t even try pretending you are shocked, for I am certain it is not the first time you have heard a—a lady curse."
True held out his hands, palms up, in supplication. "I apologize for returning too late to greet our guests, my dear, and beg your humble forgiveness. I tried—"
"Do not 'my dear' me, Trowbridge. Or, should I say, 'True Sin?' "
"True Sin." He lowered his hands. "You have never called me that before."
"I never had reason to before now. But now I know the truth."
"The truth? What truth?"
She did not answer him but spun on her heel and paced in front of him. "Oh, what a fool I have been! I did not listen to the rumors. I did not believe a man could have so many paramours. It was not reasonable. It was not logical. But I should have suspected it was true the moment I looked at you, the moment I saw how—how bloody handsome you are! I should have believed the rumors were true the moment we met!"
"Which rumors?"
"Which rumors? Take your choice? Let me see ... you might consider the one about you and a certain woman you took to the opera half naked. Or the one with whom you were swimming sans clothing in the Serpentine. Or the sisters you escorted to Lady Jersey's ball last spring. Surely you remember the ones? They're the pair all the gentlemen refer to as the Moon Goddesses. Or how about the time you became foxed and shot the hat from the top of a gentleman's head?"
"It was a duel."
"In the bloody Prince’s palace?”
“Carlton House isn’t exactly a palace, and I could have killed that fool easily. The knave deserved more than the embarrassment I gave him.”
“You kissed his ward—”
“She was willing.”
“—at Almack’s! And then you would not marry her.”
“The Honorable Lydia Northam isn’t as starched-up as her title suggests. I offered. But she did not want to marry me—not that I would gone through with it, anyway, and—” Suddenly, True frowned, confused. "Do you mean to tell me you did not know any of these things before you came to Trowbridge?"
She rounded on him. "Of course I did not know about them! Why on earth would I have come to you if I had? Why would a young lady in my situation connect herself to a man who had so thoroughly disgraced himself? Your dishonor is legendary. No, I knew nothing about it until our guests arrived, but it was not long before they hastened to my side to ply me with stories about the infamous True Sin."
He raked his fingers through his hair. "I assumed you knew all the on-dits before you came to me."
She shook her head violently. "I was working as a schoolteacher for the past year, not attending the ... the opera!" She threw him a venomous look.
"But Mrs. Robertson knows everything that goes on in society. Surely she informed you of—"
"Apparently, my duenna neglected to men
tion a few things, and I want to know why." She plunked one hand on her hip, clearly waiting for True to supply the answer.
"I don’t know. Why not ask her?"
She threw her hand into the air and began to pace again, even more furiously than before. The lamp she carried marshaled the shadows, and they marched with her. "I have been wanting to speak with her since this afternoon. But she slipped away from me and disappeared for above two hours, and then the next thing I knew she was shut up in her room with the complaint of a severe megrim."
"She escaped you."
"So it seems."
"Cannot say I blame her. I wish I could escape your ire, too."
She shot him another black look. "What do you expect? You left me entirely alone with a house full of guests, a ruby the size of the Tower of London on my hand, and no dearly betrothed in sight. I did not know where you were or when you were returning or even if you were planning to return. I sat through two meals knowing that most of my guests believe I am your mistress, and, as though that were not enough, I had to protect the guests from the ABC's, who thought it flaming keen to have so many new places to deposit salamanders! I think I am entitled to a little anger." Her feet stilled with her back to him, took in a sudden huge breath, and sniffled.
"I am sorry," he said, and he actually meant it, "but all will be set to rights when we announce our betrothal on the morrow."
"Set to rights?" She whirled back toward him, even more at daggers drawn. "Surely you jest! Nothing can be put right. Nothing! For you, my lord, are not a suitable suitor—even if you are merely a temporary one. My parents will be most displeased." She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "No, that is calling it too brown. They will be furious, and for good reason, not that you care, I am certain. You obviously care not one whit about anyone but yourself."
He wasn't prepared for her brittle, caustic manner or for the sheer distaste in her expression and voice. He had just spent seven hours racing home to please her, and she hadn't even seemed to notice that his clothing was wet and caked with mud. He was dangerously weary, but the little hellcat wasn’t finished with her scold.
She shook her fist. "If you cared about anything but my bottle of gems, you would not have entered into our bargain to begin with. You are not Good Ton. You knew perfectly well that no one of good breeding—and certainly not my parents—would find you an acceptable husband."
Something inside True twisted and snapped.
He leaned insolently against the library door frame. "Ah, Mary ... it seems we are well matched, then, for no one of good breeding would attempt to buy a title or lie about being betrothed!"
His arrow clearly found its mark. She plunked the lamp onto his desk, sloshing the oil about the chamber and sending amber shadows dancing over the book-lined walls. "How dare you stand there and compare your own behavior to mine or my parents'? You know perfectly well there is nothing like your behavior in ours." She put her fists to her temples. "We have not driven breakneck through Hyde Park at four in the afternoon. We have not attended a ball sans cravat or coat. We have not placed public wagers on which royal prince a countess's newborn babe will resemble." She thumped the wall with her hand. "And we have not washed our hands in the lemonade at Almack's!"
True affected a bored stance. "The refreshments at Almack's are frightful. Their cakes are stale, and their lemonade is watered down. Someone needed to point that out to them."
"Ohh ... !" She seethed. "So you will not even make an attempt to deny these claims?"
"Deny them?" He laughed. "Not only do I not deny them, I claim them as my own and celebrate them. In fact, you seem to have missed a few." He allowed his mouth to curl into a wicked smile and then sauntered over to pour himself a brandy. "I played the Prince at piquet-loo."
She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. "And?"
"The cards fell perfectly, and I won."
She rolled her eyes. "That is nothing. I have heard he is not the cleverest—"
"You did not ask what were the stakes."
"I do not care."
"Liar. I won his dessert. Carried her right away from his supper table."
"So? What does the Prince care? He can have his cooks make any number of— Did you say 'her'?"
True nodded. "Quite so. Took the sweet away during the third course." He grinned. "Carried her out over my shoulder."
"Saints and sinners," she murmured.
"And then there was the time I went to a masquerade dressed as a shepherd—"
She shrugged.
"—ess," he finished.
"Enough!" she cried, and covered her ears. "Your behavior puts me to the blush. It is an embarrassment. Do you not realize that it ... it puts my reputation in jeopardy."
True nodded, bending his mouth into a snide shape. "What reputation?"
She ignored him. "I order you to amend your ways for the duration of the house party," she said. "I demand that you attempt to convince everyone that I have managed to reform you."
"Our guest might just believe it—"
"Good."
"—of a stiff-rumped, starched-up, stick-in-the-mud spinster like you."
"Starched-up? Stiff-rumped! Why, you ... you capricious ... careless ... skirt-minded scoundrel! You are deviant. And despicable. Just like the rest of the Sins!"
True laughed mirthlessly. "A scoundrel? You flatter me. I am going to bed." He opened the doors and started for the staircase. "Care to join me, Mary?" he tossed over his shoulder.
"My name is Marianna, and I would rather kiss a sheep."
"And you call me deviant!"
A shoe flew through the air, missing his head by an inch.
True let his laughter echo down the stairway. It was genuine, he realized with surprise. Thunder and blazes, he felt alive, exhilarated. He hadn't had a good argument like that one in months, and never one with a woman. She'd given as much as she'd gotten, by Jove!
By the time he reached his chamber, washed, and got ready for bed, though, he was a little more circumspect. He should have avoided an argument at all costs. He should have done whatever he had to do to smooth the hellcat's fur. He certainly shouldn't have agreed with her.
But the hell of it was, he did agree with her. Every word she'd said about him was true. Especially that last barb of hers. She was right. True Sin was no better than the rest of The Sins.
There was nothing she could have said that would have cut him any deeper than that.
True was the latest in a long line of wild, willful, and wicked men. The ton had been as fascinated with The Sins as The Sins had been with the ton. Oh yes, The Sins were firmly entrenched in “good scociety.” His brother, his father—all the way back to his great-great grandfather, all “Good Ton—and all as cold to their wives and children as they were to strangers.
Fashionable men of the ton didn’t spend time with their children. They married for money or position, got an heir and a spare, and then spent the rest of their miserable lives dallying with other men’s wives, drinking, and gambling. They thought little for the comfort and safety of their servants and field hands. They were demanding and feckless and frivolous.
And so were the Sins. But they were also clever and sharp-tongued. They’d each taken delight in shredding the reputations of anyone who crossed them. They were good at it. And the more lives they ruined, the more the ton loved them, for cruelty delivered within an envelope of wit was more than acceptable amongst the ton; it was celebrated. The Sins hadn’t cared who they ruined, as long as they did so with enough frequency to remain on the tongues of all Good Society.
True detested The Sins, and he hated that he was one of them. He’d always hated it.
From the time he could remember, he’d tried to be different, to battle the wickedness he’d been born to perpetuate. And he’d succeeded to a point. Yet he knew that deep down he was no different from any of the rest of the Sins. True had felt their wild impulsivity coursing through his veins.
Did he not take an al
most sadistic pleasure in shocking the ton?
Aye, his behavior went beyond merely distancing himself from Society. He was not seeking separation, but revenge. Revenge—an art he had learned at his father's knee along with the other black arts that dovetailed so perfectly with the wildness in his blood.
He turned over and punched his pillow.
No matter how far he distanced himself from the rest of the Sins, he would still share their blood. Their wickedness was his own. He was born with it, and he would die with it. The best he could do was to be certain he did not perpetuate it—which was why the Viscount Trowbridge would never father any children. True Sin would be the last Sin. It was something he had promised himself long ago.
He lay in his bed, unable to sleep in spite of his weariness. Things with Mary were all in disarray, and he didn't know how to repair them. Ophelia had deliberately kept her ignorant of his behavior amongst the ton. Why? Why was she so interested in helping him? It was no use asking her. The stubborn old harridan had made it clear she would tell him nothing.
God, he'd made a muck of things with Mary! She was angry with him, and he had to admit that, even had she not discovered his infamous reputation, she had reason to be angry.
When he'd left for London, he hadn't told anyone where he was going. He'd thought about it, but he wasn't used to reporting his movements to anyone, and the idea had chafed him. Besides, he would have had to lie about his purpose anyway. He could hardly have told her he was going to procure a special license to marry or to buy a parting gift for his mistress.
Not that it mattered now, anyway. He was grimly aware that losing his temper with Mary had rendered the special license useless. It would take a miracle for Mary to wed him now. He’d have to affect a major change in Mary’s opinion of him, and his character was as carved in stone as his past deeds. He could change neither of them. How was he going to turn her up sweet once more?
He lay in bed thinking, the moon sinking low in the west before an idea came to him. If he could not change his own character, perhaps he could change Mary's instead. Perhaps if she were involved in some small scandal, she might be more forgiving of his own disgraces ...
Miss Grantham's One True Sin (The Regency Matchmaker Series Book 2) Page 10