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

by Melynda Beth Andrews

  "She's plummy good with 'em," Mrs. Smith said, following his gaze. "Kept 'em out of our bonnets and happy all mornin'. She showed up here with your little 'uns while the dew was still wet on the grass. Announced she was here to help. And then she tucks her skirts up into her belt and tries to help, sure as I'm standing here."

  Something in her tone alerted True. "Tries to help?"

  Mrs. Smith turned a pained and apologetic expression up to him. "Ladies like her ain't supposed to be good at such things. Nobody blames her. She didn't mean a lick of it. We all know she meant to help."

  Uh-oh. "What did she do?"

  "Sliced the apples."

  "That doesn't sound so bad."

  "Before we'd had a chance to peel 'em, my lord."

  "Oh."

  "Then she beat the bread dough like it'd been naughty."

  "Beat it?"

  "Yes, my lord. ‘Twas how she thought kneading should be done. She ruined three loaves before we stopped her. They'll be hard as a rock, fit only for the pigs. But that wasn't the worst of it."

  "It wasn't?"

  "No, my lord. The last thing she did before we shooed her off to watch the children was to pluck a chicken."

  "And?"

  A chuckle escaped Mrs. Smith as she said, "It was a live chicken."

  True hooted with laughter. "She tried to pluck a live chicken?"

  Inexplicably, Mrs. Smith scowled at him. Her eyes flicked toward the house and barn. Only then did True notice that his arrival and subsequent hoot of laughter had brought all activity in the wide clearing to a stop. As he glanced their way, the men all took off their caps, the women all dropped a curtsy, and the children just stood and stared.

  His laughter wasn't the only sound that had carried. Apparently, his remark about Mary's ineptitude with the chicken had carried over the calm summer morning air as well, for she was the only one moving. And she was moving in the opposite direction. Stomping in the opposite direction, rather.

  True flashed a rueful smile at Mrs. Smith. "It seems I have something else to repair before I turn my attention to your new house. Pray inform your husband I will be back as soon as I am able." And True sprinted after Mary, leaving a wake of open mouths behind him. Apparently, viscounts were not supposed to know how to swing a hammer or run.

  Mary had gained the cover of a copse of trees before he caught up with her in a pleasant little dell. "Mary," he began, "I must apologize. I did not mean to—" Only then did he notice she was weeping. She was turned away from him, but her shoulders heaved and she dashed away a tear.

  "Mary ... Mary, I am sorry," he said.

  "They all think I am st-stupid."

  "No," he said, taking hold of her shoulders and turning her about.

  She shook her head violently. "They think I am the veriest ninny. I tried to help, but I sliced the apples before they were pared and—"

  "Mary."

  "—and I do not know what I did wrong with the bread, but—"

  "Marianna!" True said.

  She gaped at him. "That is the first time you have ever used my whole name."

  "Do not get used to it," he said with a grin. "Marianna, the people here are glad of your help with the children. Mrs. Smith said so. She said she thinks you are 'plummy good with them.' "

  "She did?" She dabbed at her nose with a handkerchief.

  "Yes. Your skill with the children surprised everyone. But the biggest shock to them was that you came to help at all."

  "Of course I came!" She sounded insulted. "Is it not my duty and obligation as your betrothed to help these people wherever I am able?"

  "Indeed," he said with a nod. "Except that no one expects a lady of the ton to be able to help at all. Not with any practical matters. They might have expected you to send a servant with a hamper of food—"

  "I brought it myself. It was not heavy."

  "—or a basket of flowers—"

  "Rubbish! What need have they of flowers?"

  "—or something equally useless. But they never expected you to help them prepare a meal."

  "I did not help them," she said miserably. "I created more work than I saved."

  "No. But you tried to help. And that is all that matters to them." A strand of her white-gold hair had fallen from its tight bun. He tucked it behind her ear. "I suspect you have made some friends today, Marianna. I suspect you have impressed and surprised them with your generosity, with your willingness to help." He tipped her chin up with his fingertip. "I know you have surprised me. Again." He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before turning and striding away from her. He did not want to leave her side. Hell and blast, what he wanted was to lower her to the soft grass of the dell and ravish her delicate mouth until she was aching with the same desire as he was.

  "Where are you going?" she said behind him.

  "I brought my hammer," he said. "I intend to surprise them, too."

  "WELL?” MARIANNA ASKED, falling into step beside Truesdale as they walked home early that evening. "Do you think you surprised them?"

  "Well," he echoed, grinning down at her impishly, "not as much as you did when you tried to pluck that chicken, but ... aye. I do believe I surprised them." He was leading Journey, and she was leading Mr. Smith's pony, with the girls tucked snugly inside a little two-wheeled cart behind.

  Truesdale stretched out his hammer arm and attempted to rub the soreness from it with his other hand, but the ribbons he held hampered him.

  "Here, let me take him for you," Marianna said. "Come now, Journey." She took the ribbons and patted the horse's neck, and the huge animal fell into step beside the pony. "How considerate it was of Mr. and Mrs. Smith to insist we borrow their pony and trap. The ABC's were so tired, I was afraid they were going to fall off Journey's back on the way home."

  Truesdale looked back at his nieces and Marianna followed his gaze. The three little girls were sound asleep, snuggled together with smooth, angelic expressions.

  "Amazing," Truesdale said, following her gaze. "I've never seen them so still."

  "They played hard today."

  "They had a marvelous time. It was wonderful of you to bring them."

  "I am so proud of them," she said, glancing down at the girls. "I am certain they surprised a few people today, too. They used their best manners."

  "Manners you taught them," he said.

  She looked down at her hands and fingered the ribbons. A denial faded on her lips. He was right. The girls hadn't any manners before she'd arrived at Trowbridge, and she was proud of them. They had come so far in such a short time. Even Eleanor's speech had improved. "Do you know they had never even met any of the neighborhood children, my lord?"

  An angry muscle flexed in his jaw. "Yes. My brother was not the sort to encourage the gentry, much less the poorer country folk. Whenever he was here, he filled the manor with guests from Town. Their behavior was less than ... well, it was shocking—to the country folk anyway." He said more quietly, "I am certain they did not want their children mixing with the ABC's, but now” —Truesdale smiled tenderly as he looked at them and then turned back to the lane—"now they have changed."

  Something about him looked different today, but she couldn't quite fathom what it was. She studied him, watching as he stretched his arms over his head, the white linen of his shirt binding across his massive shoulders and down his back, where it dove into his breeches. A tiny frisson of feminine awareness made her avert her gaze for a moment, but her stubborn eyes soon found him again. He was splendidly made, from his fine hands to his muscled legs encased in their close-fitting brown breeches. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and the setting sun glistened on the dark hair that covered his arms. He'd drawn water from the well and washed before they departed to a chorus of thanks and good-byes, and his hair was still slightly damp. She resisted an urge to pull curls from where they clung to his neck. Unbidden, the memory of what happened between them in the dell that day, and it was as though she could still feel his soft lips against h
er cheek. It hadn't been a kiss of conquest or desire or deception. It had been a kiss of friendship, of comfort freely given and freely accepted.

  "You surprised me today, too," she said.

  He turned to her, a question in his expression. "Oh?"

  "Your behavior today was incongruous with your past, my lord. I cannot reconcile your scandalous reputation with the man who was working and laughing atop the walls of that cottage today. I am not sure I know you at all."

  It was true. He didn't just look different, he was behaving differently, too. It had been as though he'd been another man all day.

  After the first ripples of his arrival had settled, he had blended into the group of men working on the cottage and become one of them. “You worked as hard as any of them. Harder, even. And you were good at it. Even I could see that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “At first, expected you to show the same sort of ineptitude I’d already displayed, but you didn’t.” He seemed to have an innate knowledge of mortise and tenon, of how to swing his hammer or hatchet just right to set a pin or trim an edge. The wood was his to command, and command he did.

  The men were his to command, too, yet he did not. In what was perhaps the greatest shock of all, Truesdale Sinclair had taken his place as a member of the team, not as its leader. And he'd looked like he was having fun.

  In a private moment at their noonday meal, she'd bent close to explain that she'd told her parents they were not married. She'd told him that they seemed to accept her explanation about his Gretna tale. He'd nodded, and then neither of them had spoken of it the rest of the day. They seemed to have an unspoken truce, one that neither of them was willing to spoil.

  At suppertime, he had come up behind her and grasped her waist, whirling her into the air. She'd braced her hands against his shoulders and thrown her head back, and they had laughed together. It was a rare, unguarded moment, and she'd been sorry when it was over.

  She met his gaze once more and let down her guard again. "You know so much about me, but after today I feel I hardly know you. You were a different person out there today. You seem to have three different personas. Man of the people, gentleman—and True Sin. I know the least about him. Please, Truesdale, tell me about True Sin."

  His eyes consumed hers for a moment, and then he seemed to come to a decision. Taking Journey's ribbons back from her, he sighed. "Where to begin?"

  The bees buzzed lazily among the cat's-ears and daisies dotting the fringes of the lane. The shadows slanted over the stone walls and through the hedges and trees, gilding everything a golden pink. The birds had gone to roost and were silent, but the brook, which ran next to the road, flowed over its rocky bed, and a cooling breeze sifted the leaves, creating a pleasant music.

  She waited patiently, and finally he spoke.

  "For as long as anyone can remember, the men of my family have been known as The Sins," he began. "They ruined serving maids and laughed at the poor. They gambled away vast sums while their tenants went without fuel and food. A few, like my brother, spent money they did not have. Every one of them dallied with any cooperative woman who happened along, as well as some who were not cooperative—married or not. Outside of their own social circles, their recklessness and cruelty knew know boundaries. They were even cruel to their animals. Journey's hoof was caught when my brother, to satisfy a wager, blinded both himself and his mount and rode the beast through the brook at speed."

  "Oh, no . . ."

  "That is only one small incident. There were hundreds of others ... " He raked his fingers through his hair. "Suffice it to say that The Sins indulged in every vice, and I followed their example."

  He stared off into the distance and went on with his story, explaining to Marianna that he had become a sensuous rake, a breakneck rider, a daring gambler. But as the youngest Sin matured, he had discovered one significant difference between himself and the rest of the Sins: a conscience. "I learned to despise The Sins' behavior and the society that fostered it."

  "The society? You must mean the ton. Surely you do not blame the ton for The Sins' transgressions!"

  "Mary, the ton celebrates such behavior. Celebrates it, fosters it, even demands it." He shook his head and sneered. "Why else would I have spent thirteen years proving to the ton that I am not one of them. Look at me," he said. "Do I dress like any gentleman you have ever seen?"

  She shook her head. "No."

  He sighed. "I wear my hair long and dress more like one of my sailors than a lord. I've escorted ladies no better than they ought to be to the most exclusive balls. I publicly disdain everything the ton admires: Almack's, Brummell, Bath, and the Prince—nothing is sacred—and still I am invited to every blasted ball, musicale, rout, supper party, and picnic. In distancing myself so infamously, I have succeeded only in fixing the ton's hypocritical fascination. They all want to be seen with me, talking or dancing, but behind my back they still revile me."

  Ophelia's words came back to Marianna: “His infamous outrageous behavior has transfixed the ton. Where another man may have been scorned and outcast, he has garnered their admiration. ... Everyone will wish to be seen with True Sin's betrothed.”

  And then Marianna remembered the conversation she'd overheard between Lord and Lady Wilkinton, who had been disdainful of Truesdale even as they expressed their delight at being invited to Trowbridge Manor.

  "The more outrageous my behavior," Truesdale said, "the more invitations I receive. The ton hangs upon my every move. I grow tired of it. Were it not for the ABC's, I would let the vultures descend upon the estate to carry away all they are owed and settle my brother's debts that way. I would leave the empty hulk of Trowbridge Manor to rot or give it over to the servants to do as they wished with it. The title and land would revert to the Crown. Nothing would please me more. But I cannot let it happen. I cannot allow the ABC's to be sundered from the only home they've ever known. They have already lost too much."

  He fell silent for a time.

  She shook her head. "I thought you needed money because you had spent extravagantly or gambled too deeply. I am ... I am sorry. I should not have assumed the worst of you."

  "Why not?" he asked wryly. "Everyone else does."

  "I will not. Not anymore. You may be quite a wicked sinner, but where it comes to those three little girls, Trues-dale, you are a saint."

  He flashed her a grateful smile.

  "If you could leave Trowbridge Manor," she asked, "where would you go? What would you do? Would you settle somewhere and marry?"

  "I would go back to the sea."

  "You are a navy man?" she asked, surprised.

  He laughed softly. "I can see I was somewhat neglectful of your education. No, I am not a navy man. I own ships."

  "Ships?"

  He nodded. "The one achievement I am proud of, the one thing the ton cannot forgive me for. Seven ships. Six now. One sank with my brother and his wife aboard."

  "Dear God."

  Truesdale shrugged. "We were not close, as I have said. He was much older than I. Close on twenty years older. I must have been quite a surprise to my parents."

  "Indeed."

  He kicked a stone, sending it skipping across the lane. "When I first broke away from my family, my father pulled all support. I spent time working on a cargo ship. Then my mother died, leaving me a small sum, and I bought my first ship. I worked alongside my men for a couple of years."

  He smiled. "That's when I got my first taste of shocking the ton. I found it satisfying."

  The navy would have been the thing for a second son, but Truesdale hadn't been interested in doing what was acceptable. He strove for the unacceptable. Dabbling in commerce was distasteful in the eyes of the ton, and the more successful he became, the better, to his way of thinking. He'd been shockingly successful, increasing his fleet to seven ships in only a few years. And, while it started off as little more than a way to feed himself while displeasing the ton, the business soon became something he was proud of
.

  "It is something I have done all on my own," he said, "and it keeps many families clothed and fed."

  "My father is proud of what he has accomplished as well. It is a shame that it is not quite respectable, is it not?"

  "The beau monde rewards artifice, sloth, and bigotry rather than honesty, hard work, and cooperation. Is that respectable?"

  "Are you saying you would turn your back on all good society?"

  "Blast, Mary, do you hear yourself?” He shook his head and gave her a quizzical look. “Do you still believe that the only society worth aspiring to is the ton? How can you have spent the day in the company of these good country folk, how can you have worked and eaten and laughed beside them all day and still believe that the only people worthy of your admiration is the upper ten thousand?"

  She shook her head. That wasn't what she meant.

  Was it?

  "Before I came to London, before I'd worked at Lady Marchman's School or come to Trowbridge or met any of the common folk in Town or here in the country, I did believe . . ." Her voice trailed off as she realized how shallow it sounded. "I did believe the ton were inherently superior to everyone else. But no longer."

  She paused, carefully constructing her next sentence. "I know my parents are too interested in wealth and position, as you say, but you are wrong about their motive. Their hearts are pure." She held up her palm before he could say anything. "My happiness is paramount to them. They truly do believe the ton is superior to everyone else, and they only want the best for me. I will not disappoint them."

  "Which means you are still determined to marry a title?" His mouth hardened into a grim line.

  "Yes. I seek a titled husband." And then, remembering her refusal of his proposal, she added, "A tonnish husband."

  They walked the rest of the way home in silence. Her last words had opened a rift between them, and she wished she knew how to repair it. She wished the ABC's were not fast asleep in the cart; their chatter would have been a welcome diversion from the ominous silence that enveloped and separated her and Truesdale.