"Ophelia!" Marianna gasped.
"Well? 'Tis true!" Mrs. Robertson defended herself. "You have had out with the truth, have you not? He does know why you have come?"
"Yes, Ma’am. It just seems so ... improper to speak of it!"
"I see no reason to waltz around the truth, my dear. It is all simple enough: he needs the money, and you need a bit of play-acting," the old lady said, but then she changed the subject anyway. "Did you enjoy the trip out, my dear? The fields and woods are so delightfully fragrant this time of year."
True sipped his tea thoughtfully as the ladies had a comfortable coze. He gathered theirs was a warm yet brief acquaintance. It seemed the two had met when Mrs. Robertson's great-niece had attended the boarding school where Marianna taught, and they'd struck up an immediate friendship. True could see why: independent and stubborn, Ophelia Robertson and Marianna Grantham were both bold as brass and twice as cold.
Casually, they informed him the Robertsons were to remain at Trowbridge Manor the entire month, whereupon a steady stream of heavy thumps and muffled curses commenced in echoes down the halls as the servants hauled the Robertsons’ baggage was hauled upstairs. Mrs. Robertson, it seemed, did not travel lightly, and his servants were annoyed. They cursed and swore louder and louder as the minutes dragged on, and Marianna's speech faltered with each of their epithets. The language did not bother True. His sailors raised cursing to an art form, and he was able to ignore it, but he could see that Marianna was not immune. Perversely, he chose not to put a stop to it and simply pretended not to notice.
A few minutes later, something fell with a sudden crash: a heavy trunk perhaps, for a particularly long and colorful string of words reached the parlor. Marianna flinched upon the yellow damask sofa and turned to True. "My lord, I simply must ask you to—"
"Oh, my!" Mrs. Robertson cried. "Marianna! Is that a mouse?" She pointed, and, as Marianna's head swiveled in that direction, the old lady executed a quick, furtive movement and then said, "No, I am mistaken." She clutched at Marianna's wrist and patted her own chest. "But I may still swoon. Do be a lamb and fetch my vinaigrette from my reticule upstairs."
"Which chamber is yours?" Marianna asked.
"Just follow the baggage and ask the servants. Hurry, my dear!"
Marianna left in a rush.
True scoffed and shook his head at Mrs. Robertson. "Your reticule is under your skirt, Madam, where you just tucked it,"
Ophelia turned to him. "With each of your servants' coarse epithets, that gel's spine grew straighter. I feared it might snap. Your servants' manners need correction, Trowbridge. Immediately."
True rubbed his neck tiredly. "Madam, there is jolly little at Trowbridge that does not need correction. If it is not my servants' manners, it is my stables." Or my nieces, he thought wryly. "Everything needs my attention."
"Oh ... and now you've had to add a wayward heiress to the list. Poor boy," she added without a shred of real sympathy. "If you take my advice, Trowbridge, you'll move that gel to the top of your priority list. Marianna was reared carefully. She is used to a great plenty where attention is concerned."
"I gather she is used to a great plenty where everything is concerned," True remarked. "She was quite unabashed at telling me how wealthy her parents are."
"Indeed," Ophelia agreed.
"I gather all they lack is a bloodline."
"Of that” —Ophelia threw him a significant look—"I am not so very certain."
True regarded her obliquely. "What do you mean?"
"Only that you might ask yourself what else they might lack and if there is not some reason her parents did not accompany her to London."
True nodded. "Think you it has something to do with the fact that they sent their daughter equipped with color rather than drab?"
"You mean the rubies and emeralds?"
True nodded. "Instead of pearls—or diamonds at the outside. It is still considered improper for the newest misses to wear color, is it not?"
She nodded. "The new crop of misses always wear white muslin and pearls, you know that Trowbridge. Colored gems and anything but the palest muslin are quite beyond the pale."
"I thought so. Then there can be only one conclusion: the elder Granthams are not, shall I say, quite as polished, as our Marianna."
Ophelia shrugged. "Perhaps. They were both born and reared on English soil, but I gather they made all their vast fortune at trading in the West Indies, and they may be quite rough, for all I know. For all we know. And yet it does not signify. As you have seen, Marianna's manners are impeccable. Her entire life has been spent in preparation for taking her place among Good Society. Which reminds me, you really ought to speak to your servants, Trowbridge." She glanced down the hall from whence the occasional curse still emanated. "Marianna hasn't much tolerance for sailor talk. She possesses refined tastes and sensibilities."
"Would those be tonnish tastes and tonnish sensibilities?" True asked, allowing his well-known distaste to creep into his tone.
"Of course," Ophelia snapped. "And if you've any intention of winning her, you shall remember that. Marianna will be repelled by anything improper."
"Of a certainty. And of course that is why she came to me. 'True Sin' is known for his sense of propriety."
"Sarcasm becomes you." Ophelia paused with her teacup halfway to her lips and peered at him keenly over the rim. "Anyone but a fool would wish to wed her in your situation."
"I do not dispute that, Madam. And I ask you again, why send Marianna to me?"
A smile ghosted across her lips. "I convinced Marianna to come to you because ... because I happen to know you are not a fool."
True grunted and allowed one eyebrow to climb high on his forehead.
She waved her hand expansively. "You disbelieve me. You may not know very much about me, Trowbridge, but I know a great deal about you. I have watched you for a very long time. Knew your mother, rest her soul. So young . . ." Ophelia tasted her tea and made a face. "Too sweet." She rose, plucking her reticule from the sofa as she did so. "Ah. Here is my reticule. No doubt Marianna is still searching for it upstairs."
"No doubt," True said dryly.
Ophelia threw him a conspiratorial look, a pair of dimples appearing on her lined face, and True was suddenly struck by what a Diamond she must have been in her youth. "I am going upstairs," she informed him.
He nodded.
Ophelia swept toward the doorway and then paused halfway through. "Trowbridge . . ."
"Madam?"
"I meant what I said when I told you she was certain you were jesting."
True shook his head to indicate he had no idea what she was talking about.
"When I arrived! Do you not remember? Methuselah's kittens, you are forgetful, aren't you, Trowbridge? Forgetful and buffleheaded and—"
"You just said I was not a fool."
"—and impertinent as well."
"Guilty," he agreed.
Ophelia flashed her dimpled grin at him again and shook her head. "Marianna thought you were jesting about wishing to kiss her. She has no idea of the attraction she holds for a man—"
Neither did True.
"—and she has come to believe she is beyond plain and bordering on ugly. I trust you will do what you can to make her see herself as she really is."
True resisted raising a mocking eyebrow. Did Ophelia really believe Marianna was anything but colorless, rigid, and plain?
"Marianna is a fine gel, Trowbridge," the white-haired lady continued, "a good gel, and if you hurt her . . ." Her keen blue eyes pierced him, and her voice took on a hard edge. "If you hurt her, I will see you punished." She disappeared in a rustling swirl of magenta and yellow.
True frowned after her. Despite having attended some of her celebrated balls and routs, he'd never had occasion to speak at length with Ophelia Robertson. Unlike the rest of the ton, it seemed she had no interest in getting to know him. In fact, he'd fancied she actually avoided him, not that he had ever ca
red. She was a member of the ton, after all.
But after speaking with her now, he found he actually liked the flamboyantly garbed woman. He found her outrageously direct, ridiculously opinionated, and startlingly intelligent. Her frankness was refreshing, and he admired her loyalty to Marianna Grantham—though he certainly couldn't imagine what had inspired such feelings. Thus far, he thought sourly, he'd seen little in Miss Grantham to admire beyond a pair of large blue eyes and two other large features, which also came in a pair but lay a bit lower down.
Then the salamander slithered into his mind.
Well, perhaps she wasn’t completely devoid of good qualities in spite of her social aspirations. Her behavior toward his nieces forced True grudgingly to add calm-headed, compassionate, and clever to her list of qualities. Any other young woman of his acquaintance would have first screamed at the sight of the creature and then demanded the girls be punished. Not only hadn't Marianna Grantham screamed, she had also tried to hide the girls' transgression from him. And then, when she'd discovered that he'd known—and ignored—the prank, she had smiled at him.
He almost added perfect teeth to the list and scowled. It wasn't the sort of thing that belonged on his list. Such an addition was of no use. Come to think of it, of what use was the list at all? It did not matter what her qualities were. He was going to wed Marianna Grantham, and that was that.
No matter how much he loathed social climbing young women like her.
Presently, she rejoined him downstairs. He fixed his gaze on her and forced a smile. "Did Mrs. Robertson find you?" he asked as though it were a question of the greatest interest, as though Miss Grantham were of the greatest interest
"Oh, yes," she answered. "Ophelia declared herself fatigued and said she would rest. She thought Mr. Robertson might need a rest, too, and she asked me to send for him. They were up late last night after having attended a ball in Town."
True well-nigh chuckled, doubting the old couple would have had any rest at all. They'd been married only that spring, and they'd been remarkably demonstrative in public since. Their marriage had been all the talk in Town, a match between a family servant of many years and a rich old spinster was enough to set tongues wagging even without their frequent public displays of affection. And then there was the manner of their marriage.
"It is rumored they eloped to Gretna Green," he said.
Marianna sighed, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Yes. I know. It is exceedingly romantic, is it not? At their age, of course."
" 'At their age.' Do you disapprove of Gretna weddings for the younger set, then, Mary?"
"My name is Marianna—and, yes, a Gretna wedding is most improper."
"Ah. And are you always concerned with what is proper?"
"I am." She looked bemused. "Should I not be?"
"On the contrary," he said, "if you wish to secure a position among the ton, it is a necessity." He was unable to keep a note of scorn from creeping into his voice, and she detected it right away.
Her pale eyebrows rose. "You do not approve of the ton, my lord?" She looked appalled.
Blast. True knew he had to tread lightly. As practical, precise, and thorough as Miss Grantham was, she would certainly have learned of his more infamous behavior. She must know he didn't give a fig about what anyone thought of him. But he couldn't very well tell her exactly what he thought of her precious, bloody ton now, could he? Not if he wanted her to marry him. No, he'd let her believe his feelings were limited to a singular unconcern for propriety, for if she knew the actual depth and breadth of his contempt for the ton, she'd never marry him.
"You may call me True." He threw her a smile. "And no, I have never been excessively concerned with the opinion of Society," he said carefully.
"But surely you agree the opinion of Society—Good Society—is paramount, my lord."
"'Good' Society. I presume you mean the ton."
"Of course. What else could I mean?" She looked genuinely perplexed with her pale eyebrows bunched together and her lips slightly pursed.
What else could she mean? Astonished, True realized Miss Grantham's bias ran deeper than he'd thought. It wasn't simply that she held the ton in greater esteem than she did other people, it was that the ton were the only people she held in esteem at all!
True thought of the men who sailed on his ships—hardworking, stalwart men it had been his privilege to know. He thought of the wives and sweethearts who waved to them from the docks, women who'd probably never owned a kerchief of silk, much less an entire gown of it. Those people worked hard, loved hard, lived honestly. They were, as far as True was concerned, the best sort of people, people from the finest society. Surely, in her guise as schoolteacher, Mistress Mary had met many such people. Had she not seen some of them for the good people they were?
"Mary, have you ever considered setting aside your goal of marrying into Society?"
She looked startled. "Well ... yes, I suppose I have. But such thoughts are silly, of course. The only good society—the only society worth being a part of—is the ton."
Her response only confirmed his suspicions: to Miss Marianna Grantham, the ton was "good" and everyone else was ... beneath her concern. He felt a stab of irritation but shook it off. After all, what else had he expected of her? The heiress had her cap set on securing a place among the beau monde, and nothing would steer her from that course. He supposed he ought to be grateful for her shallow bigotry. Was he not counting on it, in part, to secure her regard? That, and a few trinkets and fripperies and fancy words? He glanced at the mantel clock. "Eleven o' the clock," he said. "I've a surprise for you, and it should arrive any minute now."
She blinked at his abrupt change of subject. "What sort of surprise?"
"A dressmaker. You need a new wardrobe."
"Oh, but I cannot afford—"
"I shall give her the emerald you gave me."
"Oh, but I cannot let you make such a—"
"Indulge me, Mary. It is not a strictly altruistic gesture. Your appearance will have a direct impact on my own status," he lied. "You cannot have much in that one little trunk upstairs. Certainly not enough for a month's house party. I wish for my betrothed to be properly gowned. Properly attired," he said, turning a lethal and lazy smile upon her, "a young woman as lovely as you shall be the envy of all of my lady house guests—and I shall be the envy of the gentlemen." The compliment brought a soft pink to her cheeks, and she smiled at him shyly. True felt a corresponding glow of satisfaction. This was going to be very easy.
He'd be wed within a fortnight.
"Well ... I suppose I do need a few new things. A schoolteacher has little need for finery. I am afraid that this—" Her delicate fingers lit upon her pale, blue muslin skirt and her blue sash before trailing along the lace that trimmed her neckline. "This is the best I have." Her nose wrinkled, reminding him of Eleanor when something vexed her. "It is not exactly en vogue, is it?"
True ignored the question and, leaning back on the sofa, asked, "Why have you been masquerading as a schoolteacher, Mary?"
"Why are you always so blunt?" she countered.
"Why are you so secretive?"
She hesitated, then fiddled with the ends of her blue sash. "I can see no reason not to confide in you, my lord. As you pointed out, we must get to know each other very well and very quickly, and now is as good a time as any to start.” She poured herself more tea and seemed to be collecting her thoughts. "As you know, I came to London alone a little over a year ago. I was supposed to be fired off into Society by a lady my parents hired for the task, the elderly daughter of an earl, Lady Charlotte Cunningham."
"Cunningham. I thought she was—"
“Dead?” Marianna nodded. "She is. It happened just before I arrived. And just after I arrived, my maid deserted me. She was gone as soon as the gangplank was lowered. She was a native of Shropshire ... " She gave a small shrug of her shoulders. "I knew no one in London, and I was utterly alone. I should have sailed home forthw
ith. But I knew my failure to marry well would disappoint my poor parents."
True thought to point out that the failure could not be construed as hers, but she went on too quickly.
"I decided not to up and sail back home to the islands." She gave a delicate cough. "Instead, I decided to stay in London and find a husband all on my own."
"A titled husband."
Mary nodded. "Of course."
"So you decided that living and working under an assumed name at a girls' boarding school was the best way to snare a husband of the first consequence?"
She threw him a wry look. "Hardly. The school was my only option. As I said, I knew no one in London, and living by myself was out of the question. So I hid the jewels I had brought with me—they were in the ship's safe, fortunately, for my maid stole everything else I had, including most of my clothes, and I took a position under an assumed name—Mary Gant—at Baroness Marchman's School for Young Ladies. At the time, I thought it an ideal solution, for I did not wish to attract fortune hunters who might deliberately conceal their true characters in order to entrap me. Truth to tell, I hoped to make a” —a blush suffused her pale white skin a becoming shade of pink—"a love match," she finished.
Nothing she could have said would have surprised him more. "A love match?"
She nodded. "I know it is ... unusual, my lord, for a woman in my situation to be so inclined, but I assure you that you have nothing to be concerned over. In all other matters, my behavior has been quite unremarkable."
"In all other matters? Such as in masquerading as a schoolteacher, for instance?"
She bit her lip, looking for all the world like a recalcitrant child, and True laughed. She corrected herself: "Most other matters, then."
"Go on with your story. What happened next?"
"There is little more to tell, really. I lived the life of a schoolteacher and wrote to my parents that I was living the life of a belle-of-the-ton under the wing of a celebrated London hostess.”
“Ophelia Robertson?”
Miss Grantham's One True Sin (The Regency Matchmaker Series Book 2) Page 5
