As they neared the house, True tugged the pony's ribbons from her hand. "I will take the trap to the stables and ask John to help me carry the girls to their beds."
"Yes. Well ... I had best go wash and then see my parents. I made the decision to go to the Smiths' place without telling them. They may be worried at my absence."
"They will not be worried, they will be annoyed."
She scowled at him. “You do not know them.”
"I know enough. Your parents control you, Mary. You dare no spontaneity. You are a timid flower in a field of thorns, afraid to raise your head lest you be noticed, afraid to assert your own desires. You deny your true nature, your capacity for spontaneity so vehemently that you couldn’t enjoy a genuine moment of true spontaneity even if you were by yourself with no one to witness it."
"Rubbish!"
Suddenly, he pulled her into his arms, and she found herself being kissed—not by the Viscount Trowbridge, nor even by Truesdale Sinclair, but by True Sin. The kiss was unmistakably sensuous and impossibly demanding.
When she did not respond, he broke the kiss.
"See?" he said. "You have proved my point."
Chapter Sixteen
MARIANNA
was unsure if it was hunger or uneasy dreams that drove her out of bed before dawn the next day. She'd been angry all night, lying awake and thinking of what Trowbridge had said, or falling asleep and hearing his words in her dreams, mixed with her parents chanting the words "duty," and "disloyalty" and "disappointment" over and over and over again.
Just as the first rays of the sun glowed on the horizon, she quit her bed, dressed in haste, and, after a breakfast of hard rolls, cheese, and fresh milk pilfered from the kitchen, she escaped the house where True Sin slept. He not been in her bed, her chamber, nor even in her wing of the house, but he still seemed too near.
The grounds and gardens were no better. They were his grounds, his gardens.
She thought about taking Dover in order to put more distance between herself and Trowbridge, but she decided against it. Dover belonged to him, too. Instead, her feet led her farther and farther away from the manor. She wandered over fields and through several pleasant copses, following the gentle slope of the valley so as not to get lost. The sun rose higher, and the shadows told her it was well-nigh ten in the morning when she came to the brook at the bottom of a wooded dell. It was already a warm day, and she was perspiring. She was thirsty too, and, thinking to take a drink before she started back, she took off her shoes and stockings and waded a few steps into the brook. The cool water was soothing against her tired feet. With the trees crowding the banks, and arching overhead to lace their branches together over the water, the brook was a shady tunnel, wonderfully cool and humid. She bent to take a drink and then straightened, pulling uncomfortably at her damp clothing, which stuck to her skin.
All at once, she thought how lovely it would be to submerge herself in the water, but she discarded the notion immediately. Her clothes would become sodden, and she could not return to Trowbridge Manor in such a state.
The obvious solution came to mind unbidden. She could disrobe. She hadn't seen a soul since she'd come away from the estate, she was a long way from Trowbridge manor—much farther than any of the guests would venture, she was certain, and there was no dwelling nearby. No one would see.
Ah, but she couldn't. She shook her head. She just couldn't.
She stepped back up onto the bank and struggled to pull her stockings back on over her wet feet. They itched her immediately.
Unbidden, Trowbridge's words flashed into her mind. He'd said she worried so much about what people thought of her that she denied her own desires even when no one was there to witness it. He said she wasn't honest with herself. That she was timid. That she was afraid.
His words still stung. He'd said them with such conviction. He actually believed the things he was saying.
But he was wrong.
In a moment, Marianna's clothes were draped over the branches near the bank, and she was paddling in the water dressed only in her chemise. But the material chafed at her skin, and she thought of discarding it. Truesdale already had the guests certain she made a regular practice of swimming sans clothing. And they weren't there to see her anyway. Not that I care, she thought defiantly as she undid the buttons of the chemise and yanked the white material from her body. She tossed the garment over another branch and dove self-consciously into the cover of the deep water. She was completely naked now. The water flowed sinuously over her body as she glided through the clear brook—a delicious sensation! Still, when she surfaced, she looked around her nervously.
Nothing moved.
She chided herself. There was no one around. She was completely alone.
She relaxed and struck out up the brook against the gentle current. The exertion felt good, and she swam for quite a distance before she subsided and let the current float her back to her starting place. If only True Sin could see her now! He would take back every word he'd said about her. She had half a mind to tell him about her adventure in the brook, not that he would believe her. He thought she was some timid flower with no personality, no will of her own.
Why was she even thinking of him? She should be enjoying herself, and here she was, thinking of True Sin. She pushed him from her mind. She wouldn't let him spoil her adventure. No. She wouldn't think of him at all. She would have an adventure and it wouldn't involve him.
She grasped an overhanging branch and floated, letting the cool water flow past her, feeling her long hair fan over her back like a mermaid's. She blinked at the sky over the brook, where the sun sparkled through the thick canopy of tree branches overhead, and her eyes followed the sweep of one of them, which leaned so close to the water that she could sit on it if she wanted to.
On impulse, Marianna pulled herself up onto it and walked it, arcing high over the water. She knew what she was going to do before she got to the top. She was going to jump. She was going to stand naked in the top of a tree and then plunge into the water with a glorious splash.
"Who has a lack of a personality now, Trowbridge?” she called out. “Who has no sense of adventure?" She was poised to jump into the clear, deep water below, when she heard a high-pitched yip, and a small fox leapt into the air from high up on the far bank. She watched, amazed, as the animal landed and scrambled down the grassy bank and into the shade of the trees at the bottom of the hollow before crossing the brook almost directly beneath her. It must have sensed her presence, because, wet and dripping, it didn't even bother to shake its fur dry before it disappeared up the near bank. She was still staring after it when she heard another sound and froze.
Dogs.
And hoofbeats.
And suddenly a hunting party thundered over the brink of the hollow!
Down the grassy bank they came, down to the water's edge, where the dogs cast back and forth along the bank for the scent of the fox, and the group of mounted riders all gaped at the sight of Marianna's clothing—wet chemise and all—draped over the bushes.
Chapter Seventeen
SHE
considered climbing higher into the tree. She considered jumping into the water. She considered staying quiet and hoping no one would spot her. She considered grabbing a tree branch and trying to cover herself as best she could.
She considered curling up and dying.
In the end, she didn't have to make a choice. One of the hounds spotted her and gave a yelp, and in a moment the entire pack was baying and jumping at the base of the tree.
"I am not a fox, you stupid dogs! Go away!" she cried, though her voice was lost in the cacophony. A moment later, they did as she requested. One hound caught the scent of the fox and bounded across the water and up the bank after him. The rest followed.
Unfortunately, not one of the riders moved off. No. They were all staring, open-mouthed, at Marianna. She had not a stitch of clothing on. The only cover she had was her long hair, which clung to her breasts, making her feel even
more naked than she was. She felt faint and clutched a branch to keep herself from falling with one hand even as she attempted to cover her ample breasts with the other. As though in a fog, she recognized several faces. The hunting party was from Trowbridge, of course.
"I say," a man intoned as though bored, "where is the Viscount Trowbridge?" Marianna recognized the speaker as the tulip who had harassed her the day the guests arrived. "I should have thought he would be here," he said. "Stroking the swells, perhaps?"
A few of the party had the grace not to laugh at the quip, but many more didn't even make the attempt.
"What are you looking at, Raymond?" a lady at the back of the pack asked, though everyone knew very well that Marianna was visible to the entire group.
"Nothing, my dear," her husband said and turned his mount. The rest seemed to gather their wits about them, and most wheeled away and galloped over the hill—though several of the bachelors' gazes lingered a bit longer. Marianna marked them all off her list of possible husbands.
She might as well mark them all off, she realized.
It was no use attempting to winnow her list of bachelors. She'd be lucky now if any of them would take her. This disgrace was the final nail in her social coffin. She would never find a place amongst the ton now. She climbed down from the tree and dressed, tears flowing from her eyes so that she found it difficult to see.
Everything was ruined. She was ruined.
It wasn't just that a score of the ton had just seen her naked, swimming sans clothing in the brook. Now the suspicion True Sin had planted in their minds, the idea that he and Marianna had been swimming naked together, was all but confirmed.
She made the long walk back to Trowbridge, dreading her arrival. Her heart hammered in her chest as she entered the manor and climbed the stairs to her chamber. On the way, she passed two servants and six house guests. The servants both averted their gazes. Obviously, the news had already reached them, and they were uncertain what to say or do, or even where to look. The house guests, however, suffered from no such malady. Their smiles were large and falsely gay, their voices cheerful. They engaged her in conversation, but their eyes, flicking from one side to the other, told her they had more interest in being seen with her than in talking to her. She was True Sin's betrothed. And now she had a notorious past, too.
She held no hope that her parents would remain ignorant of the matter. She was certain they already knew of her disgrace. The house guests would have rushed to be the first to tell them, just as they had rushed to Marianna's side to tell her of True Sin's many disgraces. She could imagine their eagerness as they told her poor mama and papa how they'd happened upon their daughter naked in a tree.
She could imagine how they'd laughed together as they'd ridden back to the manor. How they'd scorned her even as they planned to pursue her acquaintance for their own social gain. She was nauseated, humiliated. And utterly disillusioned.
Is this how it felt to be True Sin?
Was that what he was trying to make her see?
She was angry, but not at Truesdale. She was angry with the ton.
How could she explain that to her parents? Would they understand? Would they listen to her when she told them what she'd learned about the ton? Would they believe that Polite Society wasn't so vastly polite after all? They had worked their whole lives so she could take her place amongst the bon ton.
There were good people amongst the ton, just as there were bad people outside of it. She would simply have to find a good man, an understanding man, one who would judge her based upon the balance of her character, not upon some momentary lapse in judgement. Marianna would still marry within the ton, but she would have to find a sensible man, a fair man, an honest man.
An image of Lord Lindenshire sprang into her mind and, along with it, a pain so sharp that she gasped. He was a very proper gentleman. He was a very fashionable gentleman. Young women who swam naked, raced astride, and consorted with True Sin were not proper or fashionable. Lindenshire knew the truth about her, but the rest of the ton did not. By all reports, he stood proudly at the very pinnacle of Society. He would never ally himself with her now. Very few gentlemen, titled or not, would even consider marrying her now unless they needed money very desperately indeed.
Debtors' prison or Marianna Grantham-—the choice might not be very clear.
Her heart ached at the thought of facing her parents.
Once in her bedchamber, she changed her clothes, donning a modestly cut, soft gray cotton day dress to which she added a brown shawl and crocheted gloves. Her hair had dried on the long walk back with no benefit of comb. It curled about her temples now. She gathered it, pulled the curl out as best she could, and pinned it once more into a tight bun at her crown. Her reflection stared out at her from the cheval glass. She did not look different. She looked as though nothing had happened, as though nothing had changed. Yet she knew everything had changed.
She had changed.
A knock sounded on her door. She opened it to a servant, who brought word that her parents desired the "pleasure" of her company in the winter parlor.
The white and gold room was an apt setting for their meeting, with the elder Granthams' frosty demeanor evident as soon as she was shown into the room. Her mother sat on a chair, her back rigid and her expression hard, while her father stared out a window. Neither of them bothered to turn to her when she was led into the room and announced. Without being asked to do so, the servant retreated from the room and closed the double doors behind him.
Marianna sat opposite her mother. "Mama, I—"
"Do not speak to me."
Marianna blinked back a tear. She looked down at her hands. "I am sorry," she said.
"You are stupid, that's what!" her father said, rounding on her.
Her mother nodded. "Your reputation is in tatters, and we are being laughed at." She waved her hand in the air, her fingers clutched around a delicate lace-edged handkerchief and shaking with fury. "It was a mistake to send you alone to London. We should have known you were too silly to pull it off all by yourself. First that race, and now you're caught parading about the countryside with nary a stitch on."
Her father stepped up behind his wife. "Daughter, you have sealed your reputation as a hoyden ... a hussy, a ... a ... " He cast about for another word.
"A slut," her mother supplied.
Her father's face hardened into a sneer. "Yes. A slut!"
Marianna shook her head, her eyes filling with tears.
"That ruffian you have betrothed yourself to has no reputation to speak of either, but I would not be surprised if you are too much even for him to stomach. If he decides you are too much of a hoyden to marry, then you will be utterly ruined, and we will have sacrificed all for nothing."
A fat tear fell into her mother's lap. Marianna stared at it.
She should have been feeling sympathy for them. She should have been feeling guilt. But she did not. A curious numbness had taken hold of her, and she sat in silence, saying—and feeling—nothing at all as her parents heaped the violence of their words upon her, weighing her down with their disgust and their broken dreams and their angry disappointment.
She remained silent as they castigated her, their words seeming to slur and blend into each other until they were no longer discernible as anything but a droning dirge of pain. She crawled down into a deep well of guilt and shame.
And then, suddenly, her mind fixed upon one word, “sin,” and her attention resurfaced.
"True Sin." Her father seethed. "Do you know he is almost a pauper, daughter?"
Mrs. Grantham nodded. "We heard it from Lady Allen, who knows a certain solicitor in Town. Trowbridge owes more than he has! Without us, he would have to sell this house and all he has in it to settle his debts. A title is all we are likely to acquire from the marriage, but he did not tell you that, did he? The blackguard! No. He pretends to love you because he wants our money. That libertine doesn't give a fig about you. He just needed some
one brainless enough to marry him."
Gerald Grantham hooked his thumb in Marianna's direction. "They are a good match for each other, I say, since he cannot be quite bright if he wants to chain himself to a gel as witless as that one." He made a rude noise. "He'll probably throw our money away on light-skirts or dice. I hear his father and gaffer were just the same. Wasted all they had—two fortunes in the father's case, for he married twice. Heard both of them was the same as you. Heiresses, wed for their money. Neither had more than one child. Both boys. Probably ruined their insides, the evil brats."
"That's enough." Marianna's voice was hardly more than a whisper, and she wasn't sure she'd said anything at all.
Her father hadn't heard her. "I knew he was a dissembler the moment I laid eyes on him. He dresses like a Sunday sailor, the miserable toad."
"That's enough!" Marianna roared, molten anger hardening into a granite resolve. Her parents turned to her, their pinched faces caricatures of shocked silence. She had never dared raise her voice to them.
Marianna shook off her docility as though it were water streaming over her face, and she looked around her, seeing her parents clearly for the first time. "I can bear your spiteful words. Bells in Heaven, I even agree with you about me. I have acted foolishly, imprudently. But when you launch your ire against Truesdale Sinclair, I will oppose you."
Indeed, something inside her had broken loose from its moorings.
She stood and lifted her chin. "Truesdale is a good man, a wise man. He is a loving guardian to his nieces and a kind and reasonable master over the servants, and nothing—nothing!—you can say will ever change my opinion of him. He has told me naught but the truth, while you” —she felt bile rising in her throat—"you have told me nothing but lies."
Her father blustered. "Preposterous! What lies have we told you?"
"From the cradle, you made me believe the ton was the only segment of society worth being a part. You instilled in me an innate contempt for all other people. I am just like you. And I am ashamed of myself."
Miss Grantham's One True Sin (The Regency Matchmaker Series Book 2) Page 20