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

by Melynda Beth Andrews

  She had forgotten what a real bed was like, and she stretched luxuriantly, savoring the sleepy minutes before she fell asleep. Once again, the signs had led her where she needed to be. It seemed she’d found a friend in Belle Chase.

  If not for Orion, everything would have been perfect.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE

  next morning, it was as though nothing unpleasant had happened between them. Artemis ate breakfast with Belle, and Orion joined them after in the morning parlor, where they passed the time amiably enough. Artemis forgave him last night’s outburst—she had provoked him, after all!—and his temper, as it always had when they were children, had cooled. He even apologized quite sincerely that morning at breakfast—something he’d never once done in the past—and he’d acted as a gentleman should ever since, and Artemis had quite relaxed around him. It was lovely to be treated as a lady.

  It had been sixteen years since Artemis had been treated like anything but a common Gypsy, and at first it felt awkward to be treated like the granddaughter of an earl, even if she were the granddaughter of an earl. Her surroundings, too, felt uncanny—familiar and yet unfamiliar. She could remember the tall ceilings with their cared moldings, but she’d forgotten how sound echoed off them. She remembered piano fortes, but she did had forgotten how lovely the smooth keys felt under the pads of her fingers. She knew the candles of the rich were made of beeswax, not tallow, but she had forgotten their sweet, honey smell. Still, no matter how much pleasure she took from drinking tea from a delicate china cup instead of a rough tin mug or from curling her toes in the thick Aubusson carpet, she tried not to show it, for she didn’t want her hosts to feel sorry for her.

  She was having trouble not feeling sorry for herself. And when she considered Anna, who had never experienced such things—oh!—she wanted to cry. In those moments, she almost wished she had not come to Stonechase Manor, but the signs had led her here, and that was that. The signs were never wrong, and there was no doubt that they had led her down the right path.

  After luncheon, Belle declared she would nap, and Orion suggested a walk about the grounds. It was the height of the pear harvest, he explained, and they couldn’t possibly be construed as unchaperoned, for the grounds would be crawling with workers.

  To Artemis’s amusement, they’d ended up at the ruins, where they used to play as children. The afternoon sun was veiled behind a thick blanket of gray clouds, and Artemis sat, watching Orion climb atop the jumble of stones.

  Though he’d certainly changed on the outside, Orion was much the same inside, she fancied. And that which had changed did not seem to fit with what hadn’t.

  He’d been a curious little boy, forever exploring and minutely examining the world around him, and logical to a fault even then. She remembered him being fiercely annoyed with behavior he saw as illogical, and, since people often did things that made no sense, poor eight-year-old Orion had isolated himself.

  That, at least, had changed.

  Orion had become a man of fashion, his mother had told her last night. More than that—he was a regular tulip, to hear Belle tell it. And, apparently, he was often in London attending balls, salons, musicals, picnics, balloon ascensions, the opera, and routs—any fashionable entertainment, really. He’d somehow shed his desire for social isolation. Lady Lindenshire’s account made it sound as though he’d turned completely around. According to her, he didn’t just gingerly, judiciously partake of Society’s offerings; he basked, wallowed, reveled in them.

  And yet he wasn’t looking for a wife. Why?

  Judging by Orion’s intensely negative reaction to the story of how the signs had led Artemis to seek his mother—something Artemis knew he could not fit into his neatly-ordered concept of how the universe functioned—finding a wife was going to be difficult. There couldn’t be very many ladies in the upper ten thousand so intensely interested in fashion and so fiercely dedicated to laws of science and the pursuit of knowledge.

  It was an odd combination of interests, but what had she expected? Orion had always been odd.

  Still, for a man of fashion, he was friendly enough to a wandering Gypsy. He was cordial, if a little too formal for her liking, and he gave free reign to his curiosity about life in a Gypsy caravan. He had questioned her at length about it as they’d walked about the grounds, and their conversation had filled several pleasant hours. It had been a warm and pleasant day, in spite of the dreary clouds that now seemed intent upon filling the sky.

  “I am relieved,” she remarked, watching as Orion leapt confidently from stone to stone.

  The sky was now quite gray and the wind was rising. A sudden gust whisked through the lindens above them and sent autumn’s spent leaves bouncing and wheeling over the meadows. In the orchards, the workers were singing, their voices reaching the ruins on the wind. They were still within view of the orchards, but the farther they’d ranged from the house and the more distance they’d put between them and other people, the more relaxed and open Orion became.

  He stilled and regarded her thoughtfully. “Relieved?”

  She gestured toward the pile of rubble beneath him. “Yes ... well, when I first arrived yesterday, I thought you’d become too high in the instep for such things as climbing the ruins. You are so clearly a man of fashion these days.” Even now, on their walk, he was elegantly attired in a bottle blue coat, silver waistcoat, and expertly tailored black breeches. “You look like you should be paying a morning call at some famous lady’s salon rather than rambling over the countryside with a Romany maid.”

  Orion gave a comic bow from atop the rubble. Beneath him, a great slab of ancient, brown-stained stone teetered. He nearly lost his balance, corrected, and then cocked a self-assured smile at her. “There is no one I would rather impress than you, Gypsy.”

  She laughed. “Perhaps that is because there is no one else around.”

  He shrugged and smiled. “Nothing escapes you,” he said impishly.

  She looked down at her clothes. “I am afraid my own garments do not compare favorably to yours. We must be a curious sight.” She had on the same black skirt, red-embroidered chemise, and boots as yesterday, but she had made an effort to modify the costume by pinning her hair up, rather than letting it flow loosely over her shoulders, as usual. And, though she was still wearing a scarf, it was her blue one, and she was wearing it as a shawl instead of tied about her waist. “I am afraid I would be thrown out of a fancy London salon.” She laughed.

  “Even so,” he said with a nod, “I would not dishonor you by conducting myself with any less decorum than I usually do.”

  “You always dress this way now?”

  “I do.” He nodded and stepped with sure-footed confidence from one giant piece of rubble to another, his golden brown eyes scanning the jumble of lichen-covered stones. Suddenly, he stilled and bent his head to one side. His eyes narrowed, and he bent to peer into the deep shadow under a slab of marble, his expression taking on a serious cast

  At once, she realized he was looking for bugs or some other crawly things, and she well-nigh laughed aloud. There he was, Orion Chase, the dashing young Earl of Lindenshire, a paragon of good taste, a man who had obviously dedicated himself to the pursuit of a fashionable existence, and yet at least one corner of his mind—or more, judging by the look of concentration on his handsome face—was still very much concerned with beetles and salamanders!

  He hadn’t changed one whit, she realized. Not on the inside, at least, but on the outside ...

  “Why?” she blurted, and he tilted his gaze in her direction. “Orion, you are at home, not in London or Bath or Brighton. You are roaming the grounds in the company of a Gypsy. Yet you are still dressed in the first stare of fashion, and your mama says you always dress this way. Why?”

  Pressing his generous mouth into a straight, heavy line, Orion appeared to be framing an answer, but then he looked suddenly toward the horizon. “I believe a storm is coming,” he said. “We should return to Stonechas
e.”

  Without further comment, he climbed down, tucked her arm in his, and set off.

  He had also neatly changed the subject.

  Orion was obviously uncomfortable talking about himself, and Artemis wondered about that, too, but she decided to let the matter drop. She didn’t want to spoil their time together with any further unpleasantness. She was having a lovely time at Stonechase. And Orion was everything that could be expected from an attentive host and friend.

  In fact, thus far, she would have found him a most pleasing companion but for the fact that he had ignored her whenever she spoke of the signs—which, of course, was often. Any mention of portents had him veering off on another subject if they were sitting together—or veering off on another footpath if they were walking together. It was quite annoying. As logical and as intelligent as he was, Orion couldn’t see what was right in front of his nose.

  Perhaps, she thought with a little sigh, he still needs spectacles after all. He certainly could not see the signs clearly—not that it would do any good to mention them. “The woods and fields are as lovely as I remembered them,” she said, instead. “Thank you for the tour.”

  “I had a lovely time escorting you, in spite of the dreary weather.” The sky was now hopelessly overcast with dark clouds, and the rain that had been threatening since yesterday seemed imminent.

  “Do you still play chess?” she asked as they reached Stonechase Manor, remembering that her father had taught them both to play shortly before he died.

  He looked over at her speculatively and then shrugged. “Not much. Boring.”

  “Boring?” she exclaimed. “Then I daresay you do not truly understand and appreciate the game.”

  “Oh, Gypsy, you misunderstand,” he said, his eyes dancing with mischief. “I meant only that the game is not challenging enough for my own enjoyment, for I always win.”

  “Indeed!”

  “Do you still play?” he asked.

  “Well,” she said carefully, “I would not call what I do ‘play,’ my lord. I am quite serious about the game.”

  “Oho! That sounds like a challenge.”

  She inclined her head and smiled. “I suppose I would not mind ... instructing you for a game or two.”

  “By Jove! Instruct me, will you? I see. I think you are the one who has something to learn, Gypsy, not me.”

  She laughed. “If you can teach me anything, Lord Logic, I would welcome the opportunity.” The game was afoot, and they strolled toward the east parlor companionably until they reached the gallery.

  The room was long and narrow, with a cavernously high ceiling and was indirectly lit from whatever sunlight came through the large windows on either end. The high walls were full of pictures and portraits large and small, for the family had been very wealthy even before the first earl. No window that might admit damaging sunlight broke the smooth planes of the dark green-papered walls. Though it was still early in the afternoon, the approaching storm had brought with it a gathering gloom, and a footman came through the gallery as they passed into it, lighting lamps.

  Artemis paused to admire one particularly fine likeness of one of Orion’s ancestors. The portrait was of a young woman dressed in an old-fashioned gown. The eyes bore a resemblance to Orion’s, a striking golden-brown and keenly intelligent, but the hair was well-nigh white-blonde, and the woman was petite. Artemis wondered who it was.

  Seeing that most of the frames including this one had tiny golden nameplates attached, she drew closer, squinting at the tiny, engraved script on the nameplate.

  “This must be one of your great-aunts. I remember them from when I was a girl. They seemed ancient.”

  “They were. They both died in my tenth summer, aged ninety-and-seven.”

  “Very respectable. Which one is she?”

  Orion leaned forward and peered minutely at the nameplate. “Geor-gi-ann-a,” he pronounced, as though he were reading the name.

  “That is not what it says!” Artemis gave a most unladylike bark of laughter. “You cannot see!”

  “What?”

  “You cannot see! I had thought your eyes improved themselves with maturity. I thought that was why you no longer wear your spectacles. But that is not it at all. You are simply too proud to wear your spectacles.”

  Orion looked annoyed—and confused.

  She skimmed her fingers over the nameplate. “There is no name here. It says only Twin Sister. You only pretended to read the name. Come now, admit it!”

  Orion’s strong jaw line set solid, and he said with tight formality, “For once, Miss Rose, even I cannot deny the logic of your conclusion.”

  He moved toward the parlor at a brisk pace, and Artemis hurried to catch him. “But why?” she asked. “I understand vanity, but why lie to me, of all people? Surely you have no interest in impressing me.”

  He stopped next to a tall window in the next room, a small parlor done in golds and greens. He looked down at his hands, and his jaw worked. Somewhere, a clock chimed the hour of four, and Orion blinked, then blew out a small, forceful sigh. “Forgive me, Artemis. It was not my intention to lie to you. It was ... force of habit.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “I have a certain reputation to maintain among the ton. I am much in London, and spectacles are not ... not part of my Town image.” He hesitated for a moment, as though uncertain of his next words, but finally he said. “It is very simple, really. Nothing more to tell. End of story.” Though the clock had just struck the hour, he pulled his watch from his pocket and strode off, looking at it, seeming almost to have forgotten her—though Artemis was not fooled. She was amazed at the vehemence of his response.

  “No more to tell?” she muttered behind his back. “Hah!” It was obvious to Artemis there was a great deal more to tell. And then, at that moment, as Orion examined his watch minutely to cover his discomfiture, the sun broke through the clouds, streamed through the tall window at the far end of the gallery, and limned his brown hair with a halo of golden light.

  He stopped and turned to look at the sky. “Amazing!” he exclaimed. “I thought those clouds were impenetrable.”

  Artemis smiled and shook her head. “I am not amazed at all. I know that sunbeam for what it is: a sign.”

  Orion glanced back at her. “A sign—bah. What rot!”

  She motioned to the watch in his hand. “Beneath the smooth face of a watch lies a complex mechanism, hidden away in the dark and difficult to discern. That break in the clouds, the light streaming in upon you—it is a sign that things are indeed more complex than you let on.”

  He scowled. “You are speaking nonsense.”

  She shrugged. “Then that makes two of us. You, after all, are the one who chooses not to see clearly.”

  He threw two exasperated hands in the air and, grasping her arm, propelled her toward the parlor. “Come lose at chess, Gypsy.”

  To her relief, he did not seem angry, just annoyed.

  “You might be surprised,” she said. “Gypsies love chess. We invented it.”

  “Ah, but you are not a Gypsy. Not a true Gypsy.”

  His words stung, and she couldn’t help wincing a little. Orion noticed. He stopped and gave her a questioning look. “I say, have I managed to put my foot in it?”

  “Not a true Gypsy,” she quoted him. “Please understand, Orion, I have heard those same words hundreds and hundreds of times since ... since ... ”

  “Since your father’s family so cruelly turned you and your mama from your rightful home?”

  There was sudden, white-hot anger in his words that quickly contracted and cooled into a sober, clear hatred.

  Artemis was stunned—and profoundly grateful. “Thank you for your depth of feeling, Orion, but I choose not to focus on that part of my past. I rarely think about Branleigh anymore, and I hold my cousin, the one who inhabits the place now, blameless. That part of my life was only eight short years. The next sixteen were much more important and have had more lasting effect. I have lived the li
fe of a Gypsy all these years—I am a Gypsy! I speak Romany, I cook Gypsy food, dress in Gypsy clothes, and dream Gypsy dreams. But,” she said with a shrug, “I have never truly belonged there, in caravan. To the Gypsies, half Romany is also half Outsider. And, of course, my own blood is only one-quarter ‘pure,’ as they call it.”

  “It seems they distrust us without reason.”

  “Not without reason,” Artemis quickly returned, obeying an impulse to defend her people—for that was how she thought of them. In spite of her having only one-quarter Romany blood, in spite of never having been fully accepted among them and of living the first eight years of her life as any other young English lady had, Artemis Rose still thought of herself as Romany, and she always would. “They are ill-treated everywhere they go. They have been rejected, disparaged, and even hunted down. They have every reason to be wary and distrustful. And yet they took my mother and I in when we had nowhere else to go.”

  “You could have come to Stonechase, I am certain. You would have been welcome here for as long as you wished to stay.” He gave a soft smile. “You still are.”

  A lump formed in her throat. She was certain he meant what he said, but she could hardly settle at Stonechase Manor. Even if she were inclined to accept such generous charity for herself, she still had the baby to consider—a baby of whom Orion and his mother knew nothing. What could Artemis say? Why thank you, Orion! I would love to impose on your generosity and stay here forever, and oh! by the way, I shall be sending for my baby sister for you to feed, clothe, and educate, as well? No. It was simply out of the question. Raising Anna was her own responsibility, and that was that.

  “Thank you, Orion. You are most kind ... but I cannot stay.”

  He didn’t press her, and they found the parlor without further conversation.