And then there was that fact that Lindenshire had not lied to her, attempted to seduce her, or deliberately and methodically disgraced her.
True swore.
He sat on a wide, flat, familiar rock that jutted out into the brook, unwilling to go back to the manor until Lindenshire's carriage was gone. He would not see it roll past from where he was. He had come down the embankment to the edge of the brook purposely to avoid catching a glimpse of her as the coach rolled past. The minutes seemed to crawl by, and he tried to concentrate on his surroundings. This had been a favorite spot of his when he was a boy, a place of refuge where no one thought to look for him. As it had on many other cool mornings, the music of the brook mixed with the buzzing wings of the bees and the occasional bird singing in the trees at the edge of the clearing above him.
"There you are."
True froze. It was the voice he dreaded hearing, the voice he longed to hear. He turned. Mary was working her way down the slope toward him. She was wearing a proper little blue flowered dress and a pair of proper white gloves. Her brilliant blue eyes shone against their backdrop of pale cheeks kissed with a light, rosy blush and her white-blond hair, which she had pulled back into its tight little bun.
"I have come to say thank-you for everything and to give you this." She stopped when she got within a few feet of him and held out her hand. "I am leaving for London without delay."
Shock coursed through him. She has accepted Lindenshire's proposal. He stood, unsure whether his legs would hold him.
She held his mother's ring out to him, the ruby winking in the sun. "I was going to leave it for you in the parlor, but, under the circumstances, I thought it the honorable thing to hand it back to you personally."
He reached out to take the ring. She dropped it into his palm from her gloved hand, and his fingers closed around it. It still held her warmth. He felt a sudden urge to drop it into the water of the brook, to let it reside there with his memories, for all time, but he did not. He did not wish to upset her.
"Lord Lindenshire proposed to me, as you knew he would," she said. "I wanted to thank you before I left, for everything you have done."
"Surely not for everything," he said with a deliberately wry grin.
Her eyes crinkled at the corners. "Yes," she said with an emphatic nod. "Everything."
"Having you here was a pleasure."
"Was it?"
He looked into her eyes. "Marianna, if you had not accepted Lindenshire's proposal, I would have offered for you myself, though I knew you would not have accepted me after what I had done."
Her eyes grew big and round. "You would?"
He nodded. "Yes," he said, and smiled at her tenderly. "I would."
"I refused Lindenshire."
True's heart thudded to a stop. "You did what?" Didn't the silly chit know she was unlikely to receive a better offer? Didn't she realize what a good man Lindenshire was?
"I told him I could not wed him," she said. She took off one glove. "You were right, Truesdale. Lindenshire is not at all the sort of man I need or want. He is too controlled, too disciplined, too conservative. I need a man who will not be shocked, who will not balk at my spontaneous, willful, and wild impulses." She crooked one blonde brow at him and pointedly pulled off her other glove.
What the devil was she up to? "Which impulses do you mean, precisely?"
She showed him, surging into his arms and pushing him off balance. They splashed into the brook, and the water flowed over them. She didn't let go but kissed him—soundly, playfully, passionately—the scent of her mixing with the sweet water and the wildflowers to produce a perfume to rival any that came from a bottle.
True kissed her back with all the joy his broken heart had longed could be his, and then, finally, he pushed her away and held her at arm's length, allowing a tone of mock concern to color his voice as he exclaimed, "Miss Grantham! Such behavior will ruin my upstanding reputation!"
"What upstanding reputation?" she said, droplets of water shining on her cheeks and dripping from her lips and ears and pale eyelashes.
He answered her with a sudden seriousness. "The one I am attempting to acquire. I confess that I am selling my ships so that I can settle down here at Trowbridge and rear the ABC's properly."
"That is not very roguish," she remarked with equal seriousness, but then she grinned impishly. "In fact, it is quite sickeningly respectable."
He nodded. "You are right. I say, Miss Grantham, if we wed, do you think you could find it in your heart to forgive me an occasional lapse into respectability?" And with that, he slowly held out his mother's ring to Mary once more.
She regarded the ring thoughtfully for a moment. True's heart formed a hard, hot lump in his throat. And then, finally, Mary slipped her finger into it.
"I might manage to forgive you," she said, "if you can find it in your heart to forgive me my own occasional madcap behavior."
“Kiss me, Marianna,”
“With pleasure,” she answered.
And so it was.
Sometime later, True drew back, looked at his kiss-addled betrothed, and chuckled. "That must be the most unorthodox proposal of marriage a man has ever offered."
"And the most unorthodox acceptance.”
They stared into each other's eyes and laughed deeply. True could feel the currents of relief and love flowing between them. He pulled from his coat pocket a sodden, folded paper.
"What is that?" she asked, curiosity filling her beautiful eyes.
"It is a special license to marry. I obtained it when I went away that day."
"You mean when you disappeared without telling me where you were going or when you would be back."
"Were you worried?" he asked.
"You know I was. Pray say you will never do that again."
"Hmm ... “ He tapped his chin with his index finger. I think I shall have to add 'termagant' or 'nag' or 'shrew' to my list."
"If you add any of them, then you should probably also add 'dangerous' and 'unpredictable.'" she replied.
He smiled and kissed a droplet from the tip of her nose. "We could marry today. We could marry right now. It is a lovely walk to the church. Or we could wait if you wish. I have not the fortune to give you a grand cathedral wedding, but we could arrange a lovely wedding right here in Trowbridge."
"That sounds lovely, but . . ."
"Hmm?" He hugged her to him.
"But I think a Gretna wedding would be so much more romantic."
Epilogue
THE
coach lumbered along the country road in the quiet sunshine of the late summer afternoon. Autumn's chill nipped the air, and Marianna sighed. They were homeward bound. Home to Trowbridge Manor, where their family— the ABC's, Ophelia, and John—would be waiting for them.
Marianna had a family.
She smiled. Family was whoever truly cared about what happened to you. The people who loved you, stood by you, and guarded your heart. They were the people who mattered in life. No one else mattered—not the ton, not even one's biological parents. She was eager to get back home. She and True, Marianna knew, would be welcomed with genuine pleasure. She hugged herself. It felt good to belong. She was truly happy for the first time in her life.
Marianna and True had been gone for almost a month. There had been one delay after another. The road back from Gretna had been blocked by a rock slide, the road to London wet. Once there, the negotiations for the sale of her jewels and the payment of their debts had taken longer than they'd anticipated. And then they'd had to journey to Portsmouth and wait there an extra two days in order to settle True's lost cargo and free his ships from impoundment.
In spite of the delays, however, they had not been bored or unhappy for even a second. Newlyweds, they had found, did not suffer for lack of diversion.
Marianna looked over at True, twirled one long, loose curl in her bare gloveless fingers, and smiled.
He smiled lazily back.
She reached under her t
he hem of her gown.
His dark eyebrow rose.
Slowly, she pulled off one of the blue stockings she’d fashioned for Lady Marchman, who had arrived at Trowbridge Manor just before they’d left for Gretna Green. Marianna had given the Baroness the outrageous stockings, but Agnes had insisted that they were perfect for Marianna's "something blue" and that she must keep them for her trip to Gretna.
Marianna reached slowly under her gown for the second stocking, knowing she had True's full attention now. A stocking in each hand, she shook the tiny silver bells, which jingled merrily, and then she tossed one stocking out the window of the coach and looked at True, mirroring his raised eyebrow.
"Here?" he asked. "Now? Will you not be cold?"
She shook her head and laughed, gaily tossing the second stocking out the window. "True Sin will keep me warm." She curled onto his lap and, filling her lungs with the cool, crisp air, Marianna Sinclair, the Viscountess Trowbridge, began singing “Greensleeves."
And now, please enjoy this excerpt from the next book in the
Regency Matchmaker Series,
LORD LOGIC AND THE WEDDING WISH.
Wherein our poor, heartbroken Orion—the logical, studious, yet ultra-fashionable Lord Lindenshire—meets his own true love, a stubborn, exasperating, and irresistible Gypsy who insists it’s their destiny to wed. The outrageous blue stockings play a part in their story, too, and you haven’t heard the last from clever Ophelia Robertson, whose story continues to unfold in this not-to-be-missed sequel to The Blue Devil and Miss Grantham’s One True Sin.
A National Reviewer’s Choice Award finalist and Best Regency Nominee!
“Lord Logic and the Wedding Wish is a fresh and inspiring romance, from the magical beginning all the way to its perfect and masterfully thought-out conclusion.
—Diana Tidlund, Writers Unlimited
“A wonderful, sweet love story that will warm your heart and tickle your toes. You have got to read this story. Every page is packed full of romance and fun. I can’t wait to read another!”
—ARomanceReview.com
PROLOGUE
West Sussex, England 1799
HE
had waited all year for this.
The idea had come to him one day last summer, when he was still but seven and his governess was making threats concerning the eating of peas. Orion had thought about his idea all summer, all autumn, as he waited for the first good snowfall. Today was the day. There were six and three-quarters inches on the ground. It was cold. Cold and windy.
As he plowed—chuff-chuff—through the white, his nose hurt and his eyes felt dry, but his feet still carried him gladly toward the river. There wouldn’t be anyone else outside in weather like this. No, they’d all be inside, singing and smiling and draping green stuff all over the place.
That’s what was going on back at Stonechase Manor, and that’s what would be going on throughout the countryside. All the children would be inside, making kissing boughs or ivy wreaths. All the adults, too.
But not Orion. He couldn’t wait to escape all that buffle-headed nonsense. He couldn’t wait to be by himself, to be outside. Today, the outside belonged to Orion. No one around to stare or snicker. He could turn over stones and logs all he wanted, and no one would even know.
Beneath his green woolen scarf, he smiled.
The wind had subsided by the time he reached the river, and he knelt next to one of the huge, bare lindens that had been planted all over the estate long ago by one of his ancestors, the first Earl of Lindenshire. Orion pushed his spectacles higher onto the bridge of his nose and pulled from under his coat a hand spade he’d purloined from the gardener a few days ago. With it, he cleared the snow within the V of two great black roots, taking care not to disturb the earth beneath.
As he worked, he thought about the inherent injustice in an earl being made to eat those wretched peas. Nasty tasting things! He’d had to eat them last week, too. What did it matter that he was only eight years old? An earl still shouldn’t have to eat such things if he didn’t want to.
He was so intent upon what he was doing that he didn’t notice the girl near him until her head of dark, glossy curls popped up out of the blanket of white snow a few yards away, nearly scaring the bubble-and-squeak out of him. Orion’s heart leapt into his throat, and he almost gave a scream.
A girlish scream.
In front of her—Artemis.
That would have been a disaster. He gripped his spade tighter and pretended not to have noticed her. She sat up. He turned his head until she was almost-but-not-quite out of his line of sight, way off to one side. She watched him for a moment and then spoke.
“Hello, Orion.”
He pretended not to have heard her.
“I said, ‘Hello, Orion.’”
Orion looked up into the tree, as though he’d heard an owl or perhaps a dead leaf rasping against the bare boughs.
“Hmmph!” She stood up and walked a few paces away. Orion thought she was going to leave, and he was sorry without really understanding why he should be. But then, quite suddenly, she sat down and lay back in the snow once more.
He stopped what he was doing and stared. Her black clothes stood out against the snow, and as he watched, she extended her arms and legs and waved them parallel to the ground.
“What are you doing?” he asked, forgetting he wasn’t supposed to have noticed her.
“Making snow angels.”
“I can see that,” he said, irritated. “But this,” he said, gesturing around him, “is my experiment place. Why are you doing that here? And why now?”
She shrugged. “Don’t know. Destiny, I guess.”
“Destiny?” Orion frowned.
“Fate.”
“Fate!” Orion scoffed. Destiny ... fate ... what rubbish! Gypsy rubbish, he supposed. He’d heard the servants talking about her grandmother. The old woman was a Gypsy, a fortune-teller. She could read palms and see omens, they said. Orion didn’t believe in all that nonsense, and he didn’t understand how the adults could, either. He knew he was just a little boy, but he also knew what made sense and what didn’t.
Artemis stood and moved to another location, lay down, and waved her arms and legs again. Orion’s fingers clenched and unclenched around his spade.
“There,” she said. “Ten. Should be enough,” she added, getting up and brushing the snow from her ugly black mourning clothes. Her father, a nice man who had taken the two of them fishing once or twice and taught them both to play chess, had died a month ago.
“Enough what?”
“Enough angels. They are going to watch over my boat.”
“What boat?” Orion said, getting really irritated now. She wasn’t making sense—not that that was anything unusual. Artemis didn’t usually make sense, but she didn’t usually laugh at him, either, which is why he put up with her silliness. While she sometimes poked fun at him for other things, she was the only one who didn’t laugh at him for thinking too much. She never laughed at his experiments, and she liked to listen to the songs he made up.
“I am launching this boat,” she said, picking up what appeared to be little more than a bundle of sticks. “What are you doing?”
“I am digging to see if there are any insects crawling around under the snow in the winter.”
“Oh,” Artemis said with a polite nod, though he knew she didn’t have any interest in his bugs. “Well? Are there?”
Orion shrugged. “Don’t know. Haven’t looked yet. You disturbed me,” he accused.
“Sorry.” Artemis knelt at the side of the river. It had begun to freeze over, and she broke apart the thin layer of ice near the edge with a fallen branch. Then she pulled from her pocket a small packet made of paper folded into a neat, white square.
“What’s that?” Orion asked, coming closer, unable to stem the tide of his own curiosity.
“An envelope.”
“I can see that! What’s in it?”
“A wish.”
/>
“Huh?”
“I wrote a wish and put it inside.” She tucked the envelope between two sticks and then pushed the little boat into the current and watched it float off.
“What did you wish for?”
“I can’t tell you that,” she said, turning and crinkling her nose up and giving him a look that suggested he was the stupidest boy in all England. “If anyone but me finds out what my wish is before the boat makes it to the sea, the wish won’t come true. Don’t you know anything?”
“Rubbish.” Orion scoffed again. “Superstitious rubbish. How can you believe in all that Gypsy nonsense?”
“It’s not nonsense.”
“Is too.”
“Orion Chase, you are smart, but you don’t know anything.”
“Hah! Do so. I know you’re silly to believe in all that wish and destiny and omen and fortune-telling rot,” he said smugly.
“It isn’t rot. Mama told me it’s real. She pretends she doesn’t believe in it because Papa’s family would be cross if she didn’t, but she really does believe, and she’s right. It is real. It’s real, and I will prove it!”
“Never in a thousand years. Silly girl.”
She scowled. “Ooo! You ... you ... “ she sputtered, casting about for a suitably despicable insult.
“Earl?” he supplied with a smug grin, knowing it would enrage her. Waving his title in front of her nose always did. Her mama was the daughter of an earl and a Gypsy, and Artemis was always complaining about how unfair it was that her mama—an only child—couldn’t inherit the title.
“I was thinking prig,” she answered.
“Shouldn’t that be, ‘I was thinking prig, my lord’? You Gypsies are all alike—always forgetting your place.”
She looked daggers at him for a moment and then curtsied. “I beg your pardon, Lord Logic,” she finished and stomped off, her breath leaving behind little clouds of warm vapor as she walked, her feet squeaking against the snow with every angry step.
Miss Grantham's One True Sin (The Regency Matchmaker Series Book 2) Page 23