Violet Grantham strode into the room. “Oh, Marianna, I forgot to ask you if—oh!” She caught sight of Marianna.
“We were in a bit of a rush to get into bed,” Truesdale drawled. “The late hour, you know.”
“Well then ... good night,” she said with a satisfied smile. “Newlyweds must get their ... uh, rest.”
Truesdale grinned. “Indeed. Good night, Madam.” Violet Grantham made a hasty exit, and Truesdale closed the door behind her and leaned against it, amusement dancing in his eyes.
Marianna stared at the door in shock. “What have I done?” she whispered.
“You have kissed me, and you have enjoyed it,” he said, pushing off from the door and approaching her with a lazy smile.
She locked gazes with him and said nothing. There was no point in denying it. She had enjoyed their kiss. Saints and sinners, she’d done more than enjoy his mouth on hers. She’d worshipped it, reveled in it—and she wanted it again. Now. And the knave knew it.
“I have to get out of here.” She threw back the covers and realized her bodice was still immodestly open. Gripped with a sudden anger, she turned her back to him and rebuttoned her gown, unsure who she was more angry with, herself or True Sin.
“You might as well stay.”
“Rubbish!” she said, rounding on him.
He gave her a considering look, a frown lurking about his mouth. “You cannot deny the attraction between us. Marriages have been founded on much less.
“Marriage! What are you saying?”
“I am saying that—for once—I intend to do the honorable thing. The blame for this disaster can be placed squarely upon my shoulders. I was reckless. I should never have lied about our going to Gretna. I should never have pulled you into my bedchamber, and once I got you here, I should never have kissed you. I knew how strong your attraction to me was, even if you did not. I have known from the very first day. You were fascinated with me as soon as you saw me.”
“I was not!” she said, holding his gaze unblinkingly. Lies were becoming easier and easier.
He held up his palm. “I do not wish to take issue with you, my dear. It matters not one whit in any case. The damage is done—unless you wish to tell your parents we are not wed—in which case your father would demand a wedding or pistols at dawn. Under the circumstances, honor would demand I delope, and I would rather not die if I can help it. So you see? We have little choice but to wed, and you might as well stay here in my chamber with me. What can it hurt? Your parents already believe we are wed. We can travel to London tomorrow, where I will acquire a special license. We shall return home to Trowbridge Manor with the deed a fait accompli. We’ll announce our marriage to our guests instead of our betrothal. And tonight . . .” He gave her a slow, seductive smile that made her insides flutter. “Tonight, we can explore your attraction, Mary.”
“My name is Marianna.”
“And my name is True. Come, let me hear you use it.”
He advanced toward her, reminding her of a predatory cat.
Her heart hammered in her chest. Her head pounded even harder. “Do you ... love me?” she asked.
He stopped, looking puzzled for a moment, and then his face hardened. “Love is not necessary to a successful marriage.”
She felt herself blanch and turned away, reaching for the bedpost for support, her thoughts swirling like a tempest in her head. Marry True Sin? Marry a man who did not love her? It was not what she had wanted for herself, but it was what she had been prepared to do for her parents’ sake.
Until now.
But there had to be another way! She went to the tall window and looked out upon the lawn. The moon cast its ethereal light over the garden. The shadows in the depths of the trees in the hollow where the brook ran close to the manor seemed as black as her mood. She lifted her eyes to the hills beyond. They glowed with reflected moonlight, seeming to beckon her. For a moment, she lost herself in a fancy. She was running barefoot over those hills, free. Free from expectation, guile, artifice, guise, responsibility, duty.
She would rather be anywhere but here—with him.
She sensed Truesdale waiting behind her. He was probably waiting for her answer to his proposal. He seemed to fill the room. She could hear him breathing. She could smell the starched linen of his shirt, the spicy sandalwood of his cologne. Tearing her mind away from him, she tried to focus on her situation, instead. There had to be a logical way out of this coil.
Chapter Ten
TRUE
watched impatiently. Victory was almost in his grasp. She was almost in his grasp. Her fortune was almost in his grasp. All she had to do was say yes and allow him to kiss her once more. He knew with a practiced certainty that if she did, he would claim her before the night was through. If they’d not been interrupted, she might be beyond redemption even now. He felt a tightening in his groin and bit back a curse, for Mary wasn’t the only one who had been tempted. In the few seconds before Mrs. Grantham barged into his bedchamber, as Marianna had relaxed into his kiss, he had forgotten his purpose. The kiss had morphed from calculated strategem to an unquenchable thirst.
What in hell?
He’d been too long without female companionship. That was all. Even if she were tolerably clever and good at heart, she was still plain as a glass of water and just as transparent. She wanted what she wanted, and he wanted to return to the sea knowing the ABC’s would be taken care of. He could certainly keep his wits about him where colorless Marianna Grantham was concerned. He’d bed her once, they would be wed, and that would be the end of any thirst quenching.
Mary stood motionless at the window for what seemed an eternity and then turned suddenly.
“My mother did not see my state of undress,” she said. “I was completely hidden under the counterpane. She did not even see me kissing you like a ... like a strumpet.”
She blushed an improbable shade of crimson and looked down at her hands. “We can tell them we were not serious about Gretna. We can say that you are fond of such tricks and that you were just bamming them. We will say funning was your way of bringing them into the family, of bringing them into your inner circle and welcoming them as one of your own. We can pretend that I went along with your Banbury tale to please you.”
She was too clever. Trues’s hopes sank. “They will never believe you,” he said. “Here you are in my bedchamber. Alone. With your hair down.”
She put her fingers to her hair and bit her lip. “You may be right. They might not believe me. But I have no other choice. I cannot marry you. We would not suit.” A desperate note had come into her voice. “We are not in love.”
The force of her words struck him like a cannon, her intensity breathtaking ... and at that moment, True knew he had lost. Romantic, he added to his list. Why hadn’t he detected it before? The prim, proper, precise, and practical Marianna Grantham had her heart set on marrying for love! True raked his fingers through his hair.
“Besides,” she continued, oblivious to his astonishment, “you are not the sort of man my parents wish me to marry. They still know nothing of your reputation. When they hear of your misdeeds, they will be most displeased. They will think I have chosen imprudently. They will believe I am foolish.”
The very idea made True angry. “If they believe that, then they are the foolish ones.” He had nothing to lose now. She knew he did not love her. He’d admitted it himself not five minutes earlier. “Why do you care what they think of you?”
“They are my parents!”
“What they are,” True shot back, “is vain and selfish.”
“Vain? Selfish? How dare you?”
“I dare because I am no one’s slave.”
“Are you implying that I am my parents’—”
“I am implying nothing,” he said. “I am telling you, quite frankly, that your parents control you out of self-interest. I am telling you that they do not give a fig about your happiness. I am telling you that what you need is to act spontaneously for
once, to deny your parents and to do what your heart tells you to do.”
Mary shook with fury. “What I need,” she said, “is to adhere to discipline and follow the path my parents have sacrificed everything to clear for me. They are good people. They want only what is best for me. And they love me.”
“I do not doubt it,” True remarked with studied insolence. “I love my best spaniel bitch, too, and she doesn’t mind half as well as you do.”
She fisted her hands at her sides, looking like she wished to strike him instead. “If you have a shred of decency left in you,” she said, “you shall behave as a gentleman for the rest of the house party. If you cannot do so out of a sense of honor, perhaps you will remember our bargain and do so out of a sense of greed.”
MARIANNA SPUN AWAY from him and scooped her hair comb from the bed before unlocking the door, fleeing down the hallway, and charging into her own chamber. She had to calm down before seeing her parents, and— Lud! she’d forgotten about supper entirely! What were the guests going to think?
She wondered if the Viscount would return to the dining room. What would he say? How would he explain her absence?
Marianna sighed and pinched her nose. She wouldn’t think about it now. Her parents were more important. Pulling her hair back into its smooth bun, she paced before the fire until her heartbeat had subsided into a more normal pace and then made her way back through the dimly lit halls to her parents’ bedchamber, but once there, she could see no light coming from under the door. She stood, listening, hoping to hear their voices. She’d never once been allowed to disturbed them after they retired, but she thought this time she might if they were still awake. At last, though, she heard her father’s soft snoring. They were already asleep, but she would tell them the “truth” —that the Gretna marriage had been but a hum—in the morning.
If Truesdale corroborated her story, and if he continued to act the part of a gentleman, they might just believe her. But they would still be disappointed that she was not married. And they would still discover she’d betrothed herself to an ill-mannered blackguard. The poor darlings!
For the hundredth time that day, she wondered why Ophelia hadn’t told her about True Sin’s many sins.
Marianna stayed in her bedchamber, fully dressed, until after the guests made their rustling, murmuring way through the halls of Trowbridge Manor and back to their own rooms. It was barely one o’ the clock. Not late for Town hours, and Ophelia, Marianna knew, kept Town hours. She turned and headed for the Robertsons’ chamber. Knocking softly, she lowered her voice to a hiss. “Ophelia?” She waited. “Ophelia, I know you are in there! Let me in. I shan’t go away until you do.” She knocked again. “Ophelia ... please . . .” Her voice broke as her anger gave way to despair. “I ... I need you.”
“Come,” a muffled voice sounded from within. “The door is unlocked.”
Marianna entered the room. A single candle burned on the dressing table. Ophelia was sitting on a sofa aid a fluff of orange spangled silk and green feathers.
“My parents have arrived,” Marianna said.
“You do not look happy about it.”
“And you,” Marianna accused, “do not look as though you have a megrim.”
“I do not.”
“You have been avoiding me.”
The old woman nodded her head. “Can you blame me, my dear?”
“No,” Marianna conceded, sinking wearily onto the chair opposite Ophelia’s. She gave her old friend a piercing gaze.
“Why?” she asked. “Why did you not tell me about him?”
“About Truesdale’s wicked history?”
Marianna nodded, and Ophelia sighed heavily. “I did not tell you, the old woman said, “because you would not have come to Trowbridge Manor if I had.”
“But why Truesdale Sinclair? Why not some other bachelor?”
“Because he was the correct choice. Your only choice.”
“There must have been other bachelors in financial straits.”
“There were. But I say again,” Ophelia said stubbornly, “Truesdale Sinclair was the correct choice.”
Marianna shrugged and rubbed her temples. “I do not wish to take issue with you.” Not that arguing with Ophelia Robertson would ever accomplish anything. “Ophelia, you are my friend, and I believe you were trying to do what was best for me.” She sighed and pinched her nose. “I believe I have something that belongs to you.”
“What?”
“Your megrim.” She tried to smile. “You had no way of knowing how angry my parents will be when they hear of his reputation for scandal.”
“Pish, dearling. Your parents will be delighted.”
Marianna shook her head. “You are mistaken.”
Ophelia tipped her head sagely to one side. “I think not.”
She picked up the china dragon on the table next to her and tapped it thoughtfully against her palm. “Marianna, True Sin’s notoriety makes you an instant object of fascination amongst the ton. His infamous and outrageous behavior has transfixed them. Where another man may have been scorned and outcast, he has garnered their admiration. When you announce your engagement, you will be one of the most sought-after belles of the ton. Everyone will wish to be seen with True Sin’s betrothed.”
“Perhaps, but soon we shall cry off the engagement, and then where shall I be?”
“Silly gel,” Ophelia said, not unkindly, and laughed. “You shall have the distinction of being the only lady to have ever brought True Sin up to scratch—and the only one to have subsequently slammed the door in his face. As I said, you shall be an object of fascination. Every gentleman shall want to dance with you, and every lady to invite you to call. The ton will be yours.”
Marianna bit her lip. “Can it be so easy?”
“Trust me.”
“I do. But my parents . . .”
“Not to worry about your parents,” Ophelia said. “I will speak to them in the morning and make them understand that an alliance with True Sin means certain acceptance within the ton.”
Marianna knew she should have been comforted by Ophelia’s assurances. And yet she felt strangely unsettled. Shy should the ton revere a man such as True Sin?
The ton was all that was good and worthy. To be a part of the upper ten-thousand was all that mattered. She had worked her whole life toward it. She had thought she understood the ton. But now she found she didn’t understand the ton as well as she thought. She was at sixes and sevens, unbalanced. Why would the ton accept a scapegrace like True Sin, much less esteem him? Her head pounded even harder.
“Things are seldom as they seem on the outside,” Ophelia said as though guessing her thoughts. “Everyone has hidden motives. Secrets. Even you.” Ophelia gave her a pat. “Off with you now. You need your rest, dearling.”
OPHELIA USHERED MARIANNA from the chamber and then wandered over to the tall window. Moving the gold velvet curtain aside, she stood staring forlornly out at the full moon, deep in thought. Behind her, her beloved John emerged from his connecting room.
“Were you eavesdropping, as usual?” she asked him.
“Aye, you old dragon, that I was.” From behind, he wrapped his arms around her and gave a loving squeeze. “Why didn’t you tell ‘er?”
Ophelia sighed and leaned into his embrace. “The time is not right,” she answered.
“Maybe the time ain’t never going to be right. What then?”
“I do not know,” Ophelia whispered. “I do not know.”
Chapter Eleven
THE
elder Granthams slept until well-nigh noon. Marianna hardly slept at all, rose with the sun, hovered outside their door, waiting for them to wake up. When she did hear them rise shortly before ten-o’-the-clock, she hovered some more, waiting for them to dress.
Finally, she knocked.
“Eh?” her father answered through the thick wooden door. “Come in, come in! What took you so— Oh. It ain’t my lazy valet but you, daughter. Or, should I say, �
��Viscountess Trowbridge’?”
Marianna winced. “Papa, I need to speak with you.”
“Who is it, Gerald?” Her mother’s voice stabbed its way out of the dressing room. “Oh,” she said, coming out to see for herself. “It’s you.”
“Says she needs to speak with me,” her father said.
Marianna held out both palms. “With both of you, actually. May I sit down?”
“We do not wish to be late for breakfast,” Violet Grantham said.
Marianna eyed the sharp light slanting through the tall window. At this time of the morning a week ago, she and the Viscount had already breakfasted with the ABC’s, been out for a morning ride, and shared of a pot of tea. The Viscount preferred early hours, as she did, and it was one of the more pleasant surprises she’d been faced with a Trowbridge Manor. She turned to her parents and folded her hands in front of her. “What I have to tell you will not take long,” she told them. “Please—” She motioned to the chairs at the fireside, her stomach in knots. “Please sit.”
“Marianna, this is most irregular. What could possibly be so important that you delay our introduction to the house guests downstairs?”
For the first time, Marianna took note of how they were both dressed. They looked more ready for a ball than for breakfast. Her father wore formal black clothes with white silk stockings and silver buckles, while her mother wore a pink flounced gown with a black lace over-skirt. Fluffy black ostrich feathers swayed in her hair, and long, formal black gloves encased her arms and hands, while at her neck lay a dazzling display of diamonds.
“She don’t look well,” her father commented. “In faith, she looks a fright. Didn’t you sleep last night, daughter?”
Mrs. Grantham rolled her eyes. “They are newly wed, Mr. Grantham.”
“Eh?” he looked at his wife. “What’s that? Oh. Yes. Yes, of course.”
Marianna realized with embarrassment what the two of them were thinking. She shook her head. “In truth, I slept exceedingly well all night, in my own bedchamber. Alone,” she added. She was about to tell them why, when her father spoke and rendered her speechless.
Miss Grantham's One True Sin (The Regency Matchmaker Series Book 2) Page 13