Mary had never spoken to a servant in such a manner.
Finally, Mr. Grantham looked up and noticed Marianna standing there.
"Ah. Daughter," he said.
Mrs. Grantham turned suddenly and with raised eyebrows but said nothing.
"Papa, Mama ... welcome to England."
"Welcome back, more like," said Mrs. Grantham. She shoved her fur-lined scarf into the arms of the footman without a word and looked her daughter up and down. "You've grown thinner."
"It is the fashion."
"Is it? Well ... good then, I suppose, if that is the way he prefers you."
"Where is he?" her father asked.
True had seen enough. He stepped from the shadow and into the entry hall. "Excuse me. I was detained," he lied and executed a crisp bow. "Truesdale Sinclair, at your service."
"Ah. The butler," Mrs. Grantham said. She addressed True, "Does your man here know how to care for fur?" She motioned at the footman.
"Mama—" Marianna began.
But Mrs. Grantham paid no heed. "I hope for your sake that he does, Mr. Sinclair, for I daresay those coats cost more than a year’s worth of your salary."
It was a threat, and Truesdale felt his stomach turn.
"Mama,” Mary said, indicating True, "This man is not the butler. He is my-—”
"Husband," True supplied on impulse, unable to resist knocking the elder Granthams off balance. They deserved much more, the insufferable twits.
The three said all together, "Husband?"
True smiled fondly down at Mary, who gaped at him. "We eloped. Went to Gretna Green. I could not wait to be her husband." He nearly laughed. For the first time since they'd met, Mary was quite literally speechless. She stared at True as though he'd just turned into a flying octopus or some such, her lips slightly parted and her eyes big. He winked at her, and she blinked. Her lips worked, but she said nothing, silent as a fish—for now.
He knew she would deny his wild assertion as soon as she found her tongue. Would she chalk it up to some made-up bent True had for practical jokery? Or say True had taken a bump to the head and that his memory—or sanity—were playing tricks on him? "Did I surprise you, darling? I hope you did not mind my hastening to inform them. As you can see," he said, gesturing at her parents, "they do not object to the match." The statement was absurd enough to make the cat laugh, for the expression on her parents' faces said nothing of the kind. Her father's face was red with fury, while his wife's had gone white as an egg. They both still thought he was the butler.
True hooted with laughter.
Mr. Grantham sputtered. "But you—you're nothing but a ... a—"
"A viscount," True said.
"A viscount,”Mr. Grantham scoffed. “Rubbish! Since when do the nobs hire viscounts as servants? We've been in the West Indies a while, but things haven't changed that much since we left England, that's for certain. Where is your master, you fraud? I'll see you're sacked, that's what!"
Mrs. Grantham’s mind was clearly a bit faster than her husband’s, for she suddenly said, "Oh!" and laughed nervously. "Oh, of course!" She turned to her husband. "This isn’t the butler, Mr. Grantham. This is Marianna’s husband. And he is a viscount!”
Beside True, Marianna made a strangled sound.
Mrs. Grantham turned back to True and smiled so sweetly that even bees would have been repelled. "You gave us your Christian name, my lord, leaving off your title, and naturally we thought— Oh, do forgive us!"
Her husband looked startled for a moment, but then a satisfied expression slid over his features. "A viscount, say you?"
The pair of them looked like cats left in the creamery. They quickly offered a graceless bow and curtsy before plying him with a cascade of simultaneous questions that took only seconds to disgorge. Was the estate his, and was it entailed? Had the title been long held by his family? Was Truesdale's father dead? How much land was there? Did True own other estates? What other important personages resided in the neighborhood? Did the Viscount travel to London soon? Was he able to acquire vouchers for Almack's?
The encroaching mushrooms! People like these were the reason the ton detested the parvenu—and the reason he'd had to work so hard to gain the trust and respect of his sailors and workmen. True nearly turned from them in disgust but mastered himself.
These two were delighted to discover they'd just added a title to their list of acquisitions. So intent was their interrogation of True, that they completely forgot about their daughter—until Mrs. Grantham had apparently recovered her wits sufficiently to take notice of Mary once more. And then she did not embrace her daughter, kiss her, or wish her happy. No, instead of behaving like any loving mother would, Mrs. Grantham only offered criticism.
"A Gretna wedding is not entirely respectable. Is it?" she said, sliding a nervous glance in True's direction.
"No," Mary blurted, finally finding her voice. "No ... no ... no!"
True grinned, anticipating her parents’ reaction at the rest of her denial.
"No?" her father echoed.
"Uh . . ." Marianna faltered, and True realized she hadn't a clue what to say next.
Her parents were looking at her expectantly. He watched as words formed on her lips even before she knew what she was going to say. "Uh ... Mama is correct. A ... a Gretna wedding is ... is not proper. No, not proper at all!"
True almost laughed as her vehement agreement clearly puzzled her parents, who stared at her in bemusement. Their scrutiny only made her appear more nervous, and she stammered out, "Yes ... in fact ... in fact, the ... the ceremony must be—"
"Kept secret!" her mother finished, clapping her hands together. "Quite so, daughter, you are right. That's just the thing. We will tell no one. No one at all."
"No one?" her husband asked. "Ever? Mrs. Grantham? Daughter? Whatever do you mean?”
"Yes, darling," True drawled, and smiled at Marianna. "Whatever do you mean?"
Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She looked from him to her parents and back. "I ... I mean that ... that . . ."
"She means," cried her mother, "that a Gretna wedding is not at all the thing. She means to keep the marriage secret so we can hold a grand Society wedding. A capital idea!" She clapped her hands together again, clearly savoring thoughts of presiding over her daughter's wedding. "Just perfect. Shall you be married at Westminster?"
"Yes.” “No!" True and Mary issued a simultaneous affirmation and denial.
True laughed again. Mary's mouth was hanging open again, and she was shaking her head. This was clearly not the way she'd wanted the conversation to go, but the outcome suited True just fine. "You must forgive my wife," he said. "She is tired."
"Oh, but we've so much to discuss," her mother said. "We must begin our wedding preparations immediately. I have nothing suitable to wear, and Mr. Grantham and I shall have to buy a fashionable house in Town ... "
True turned away. He would waste no more time on these vain and selfish people. "Barrett," he told the footman, "pray see to bringing in Mr. and Mrs. Grantham's belongings. I shall escort them to their chambers myself." The footman departed, and True turned to the Granthams. "You are tired and in need of rest. Supper is over," he lied. "I shall have a tray sent up."
"Indeed!" Mrs. Grantham said. "I am eager to see our lodgings. Are they quite fine?"
True turned on his heel without responding to her. He did not think he could say anything to her without slicing her to shreds.
Poor Mary! Growing up with parents such as these! Now he understood why she was the way she was. Why she was so proper, so concerned with what others thought. He could almost forgive her desire to become a member of the ton. He felt almost contrite for deliberately leading everyone at supper to think he and Marianna might have been paddling naked in the brook together.
Almost.
But he hadn’t forgotten the imperious edict she’d handed out last night. The way she’d ordered him to act the part of gentleman for their guests, that he behave
in a refined and dignified manner. Didn’t she understand that the ton was the least refined segment of society? That it had the least claim to dignity? Hell and blast, even after having lived in London as a semi-servant, she still thought the only people worth living among were the beau monde. She viewed them as the ideal of societal perfection, and she strove to match it.
She'd never marry him now that she knew he was not a pattern card of propriety. No, the proper Miss Grantham would take the hand of someone like Lindenshire. He'd seen them from his window, roaming the grounds together, and at supper tonight, the cub had been hanging upon her every word. Looking in his crystal ball, True could see the two of them standing in Westminster Abbey speaking vows of eternal devotion even now. Hell and blast, they were practically on the steps already!
He had to stop them, and he rather thought he had a good start.
The idea had come to him this morning as he lay in bed. Perhaps Marianna would be more forgiving of his past scandals if she were forced to live down a few of her own. Perhaps all he needed to do was give Marianna's shiny surface of perfection a few glaring scuffs. The Gretna lie he'd just told was a bit too easy for her to buff out. He knew Marianna would devise a clever way to explain it away within minutes, probably before they made the top of the stairs. The damage he'd done in the dining room was more lasting, he thought with satisfaction—though even that was not permanent. As soon as their guests had a chance to observe her for a week, they would know a starched-up woman like Marianna Grantham would never do such a thing.
He knew he had to do better, and he was going to enjoy it, by Jove!
He led the way up the stairs, wondering how Marianna was going to extricate herself from the Gretna bumblebroth. He could hear her light footfalls behind him as she followed her parents docilely up the stairs.
Docile. He frowned. That was one quality True hadn't thought Mary had in her. He rolled the word around in his mind and found it vaguely ... disappointing.
SHE’D PANICKED. MARIANNA berated herself for twelve kinds of fool. She'd said the wrong things. No, she corrected herself, she'd said nothing at all. It was her mother who'd said the wrong things—her mother and True Sin. Marianna had done nothing but stand witlessly by, stammering. She cursed silently as the four of them made their way to her parents' bedchamber. She was so angry with the Viscount, she could not speak. First the brook accusation and now this! And the blackguard was enjoying every second of it. She slanted a glance up at his handsome face. The dim sconce-light accentuated its fine planes and angles. Dressed as he was, he cut a fine figure indeed. Her mother must be prodigiously happy. Her father, too. When they found out she was not yet married to the Viscount Trowbridge after all, they would be so disappointed.
Marianna dreaded telling them, but first she had to get rid of True Sin.
She would accompany her parents into their chamber and explain everything. Well ... she’d lie, actually. She’d say that Truesdale was a great practical humster, that humor was his way of bringing them into his inner circle and making them feel at home. The poor dears would be bitterly disappointed, but once she told them that she really was engaged to Truesdale—once she lied about being engaged to him, she amended with regret—they would forgive her and be happy. Her mother would throw herself into planning a wedding, her father would throw himself into enjoying the dining room and the card tables, and she would—she would return to the task of choosing which of the bachelors present at Trowbridge would be her husband. After she had delivered a proper, blistering set-down to Trowbridge. Again. She grimaced, remembering the reason she had been so angry with Trowbridge the day before.
If she did not tell them herself, her parents would learn tomorrrow of his scandalous past, the same way she had, via the wagging tongues of the Trowbridge house guests. Her only hope lay in convincing her parents that she had reformed the Viscount—and that was dependent upon the blackguard keeping up his pretense of being an unaffected, genuine gentleman comme il faut.
She almost moaned. He was still angry for the insults she’d delivered last night. His lies and insinuations were clearly meant as retribution. Heaven only knew what the scoundrel would do next.
“Here we are,” the scoundrel told her parents. “Your chamber is across from mine.”
“You mean ‘ours,’ don’t you, Trowbridge?” her mother asked. “Or does my daughter have her own adjoining chamber?” She eyed the improbable bends in the hallway. Clearly, Truesdales’s large, peninsular room had no adjoining chamber.
“Mama,” Marianna said, “I have something to discuss with you. Do let us go into your chamber and—”
“No, no!” I will not hear of it,” Mrs. Grantham said. “It is late, as your husband pointed out, and —”
“But that is what I would like to discuss with you. He is not—”
“I am not accustomed to waiting,” Truesesdale broke in and opened his door. “Coming, darling?” His eyebrow rose and his dimples appeared, proclaiming his utter lack of contrition.
At that moment, a servant came down the hall. Unable to speak openly, Marianna stood by helplessly as her mother opened their chamber door and entered, exclaiming over the fine accommodations.
And then something happened that Marianna never could have foreseen. Her father, in an uncharacteristic show of emotion, touched her. Touched her lightly on the cheek. “You have done well, daughter. Marianna.” He shuffled uncomfortably and lowered his hand.
Marianna couldn’t remember the last time her father had touched her, and he never—ever!—called her by her name. It was always “daughter” this or “daughter” that. And on top of that he had praised her. Every part of her wanted to move forward, to step into his embrace, to feel his arms curl about her shoulders. But she knew that was impossible. It was too much to ask. She stood there in utter disbelief, tears of love and longing pricking her eyes. And then another miracle occurred. Her father smiled.
“Your mother and I couldn’t be happier, Marianna.” His eyes flicked to the Viscount’s, and he straightened. His face regained some of its grim solemnity. “Go with your husband now,” he ordered.
Vaguely, Marianna felt something tugging on her arm, and, wordlessly, she half stumbled and half walked along with it, her eyes on her father’s. And then a door swung to between them—Truesdale’s door!—and Marianna realized that she had just walked into the Viscount Truesdale’s bedchamber.
He shut the door, a boyish expression of delight molding his features. “That worked out better than I could ever have imagined!” he said with a chuckle.
She was stunned. “How? How could you let things come to this?” She gestured vaguely around her. “Just look! Look where your lie has landed us!”
“Mmmm . . .” He practically purred, looking about him. “Yes. Just look at this. The two of us.” He peered at her through his thick fringe of lashes, his expression suddenly serious. “Alone.” He stepped toward her. “In my bedchamber.” He slipped his arms through hers and pulled her against him. His eyes focused upon her lips. “Whatever shall we do?” he whispered, and then his mouth made warm, firm contact with hers.
Marianna froze—and then melted. And, later that night, she would realise that she should have pushed him away. She was angry with him. Furious, really. At the very least, she should have frozen in place, like a block of ice, cold and rigid. But the languid kiss melted her resolve, drained away her senses, and in the end—inexplicably, illogically, madly—she did nothing but kiss him back.
He wound his fingers into her hair. She felt a tug and then the entire mass came down. He kneaded her back and shoulders with his hands as his lips kneaded hers. This kiss was nothing like the last. This one had her tingling from the soles of her feet to the top of her head, had chills racing up and down her spine. She consumed him, as though slaking a thirst long ignored. She was past parched; she was dying of thirst. Heaven help her, she’d wanted to kiss him this way since the first time she’d laid eyes on him. She’d wondered what it woul
d be like. And now she knew.
It was heavenly!
She closed her eyes, completely lost in the heady sensations. Their mouths slanted and pressed, opened and delved. Suddenly, her knees went weak, and he wrapped his arm around her and lowered her—saints and sinners!—onto his bed?
Saints and sinners, she didn’t care!
He kissed her as his hands explored her face, her neck, her shoulders. He dragged his mouth away from her lips long enough to kiss her neck just below her ear. Marianna gave a little cry—though whether it was a cry of pleasure or a protest for the absence of his mouth from hers, she couldn’t have said. It was no matter. He returned quickly and began another passionate exploration of her mouth. She moaned her pleasure.
“Marianna!” her mother called.
Marianna jerked her head to the side.
The doorknob turned. “Marianna?”
Pushing away from Truesdale as though burned, Marianna scrabbled to her feet. Her hands flew to her unbound hair, to her swollen lips, to her flushed face. If her mother saw her like this— Lud, her parents would think she was no better than a common strumpet! She groped wildly for her hair comb, realizing a split-second later she had no time to twist her hair back into shape. She could just pretend the comb had fallen out! Yes, that was it! She jerked her hands down from her crown and crossed them over her bosom—only to find that somehow the row of tiny buttons down the front of her gown was three-quarters undone.
“Truesdale!” she screeched as the door swung open.
Cover yourself! her panicked mind yelped. Cover, cover, cover!
And for the second time that day, Marianna panicked. Abandoning all logic, all reasoned thought, she did the first thing that came into her mind. She grabbed the counterpane and tried to pull it off the bed, but it was tucked in at the foot and would not come free. An alarming glimpse of ostrich feathers coming through the doorway propelled her onto the bed, where she pulled the counterpane to her chin. She realized how foolish that was immediately, of course, but there was no time for anything else.
Miss Grantham's One True Sin (The Regency Matchmaker Series Book 2) Page 12