“I was not specific at first, but they enquired, and by that time Ophelia and I were acquainted and I took her into my confidence and asked if I could ... “
“If you could lie to your parents and tell them Ophelia was your London chaperone and social shepherd?”
Miss Grantham’s shoulders shrugged her guilt. “I told them I was staying with Ophelia, not that I was working at the School.”
"Why not tell them the truth?"
She shook her head. "They would have been sick with worry. No, no, fabricating a story was the only way." She pinched her nose. "You must think I lie as a matter of course. I do not. I wrote every one of those letters with a heavy heart. The only thing that kept me going was imagining my parents' pleasure as they opened and read each one. If only I had been having half as much success as I told them!"
"And then?" He looked at her intently. "What happened then?"
"And then . . ." Her voice trailed off and her eyes fixed on her teacup. "And then the summer wore on, and I did not find a husband," she said quietly, her blush deepening to an alarming shade of crimson. She looked down to finger the sinuous handle of her teacup and hesitated in spite of her spoken resolve to confide in him.
"Why not?"
She looked up suddenly. His question was impertinent and rude, and he expected for her to look him daggers, but her eyes held little more than ... something True couldn't quite put his finger on. Embarrassment? Shame?
"I would rather not talk about it, my lord." She rose. "I believe I am fatigued, after all." Without another word, she quit the room for her bedchamber, leaving behind the faint aroma of starch.
He'd expected nothing less than a blistering set-down, and he felt an odd pang of disappointment. He shook the feeling off. By the devil, what did he want from her? A stern protestation that her personal matters were her own? An indignant display? An argument? Certainly not! The last thing he needed was to quarrel with her.
Blast, True didn't truly give a deacon's arse about why she'd come to London or what she'd been doing since she came. The only details he needed were those to make his seduction easier: what were her favorite foods, colors, amusements, flowers, and gemstones. None of the rest of it mattered.
He wondered at whatever impulse had made him ask such personal questions in the first place. He supposed it was the old warrior's urge to "know thine enemy." Not that he really needed to know anything more. He was certain he knew exactly what sort of woman Miss Grantham was, exactly where her priorities lay.
If seeking a love match had been her first priority, she would certainly have found one by then. Though she was no beauty, she was not entirely without positive qualities. She possessed sound, even teeth and a pleasing figure. She moved gracefully, if a bit stiffly. Her face and hands were expressive and nimble. With her quick mind, she might have found any number of shopkeepers or solicitors to satisfy her heart in spite of her lack of looks. But Marianna Grantham's heart was clearly not her first priority. She'd come to London to marry a title, and True had known in his heart the first time he’d set eyes on her that, given a choice between love and position, she would abandon her heart, as any young woman of the ton would do. She was no different from any of them.
She was already one of them.
Chapter Five
SHE
was different.
True tried not to notice just how different as the next three days passed in a blur. While his body was busy bestowing flowers and devastating smiles upon Miss Grantham, he tried to keep his mind busy elsewhere. There should have been enough to keep himself distracted. He should have been able to dwell upon his lost cargo, his impounded ships, or the welfare of his sailors and dock-hands and their families. But she kept stealing his attention.
He'd expected her to begin behaving like every other hopeful uncut, unpolished diamond. He'd been prepared for her to demand to be introduced to his more lofty-titled acquaintances—or to the upper gentry living within a few miles of Trowbridge. He'd been prepared for her to start ordering the servants about as though they existed solely to satisfy her personal whims. And he'd been prepared for her to question him concerning his infamous behavior within the ton. But she hadn't done any of those things. It was unsettling.
In the quest to know his enemy, it seemed True was failing miserably.
As he waited in the great front hall for everyone to assemble for a picnic on their fourth afternoon together, True took comfort in the predictable way she'd behaved toward her new feminine fripperies. It was one of the few areas where she hadn't managed to surprise him.
He'd expected her to order thrice as many gowns as needed, and she had. She'd ordered twenty. True knew because he'd told the seamstress to send him the bill.
He'd expected Mary to be impatient to get her hands on the new gowns, and she had. She'd paid extra to have the first of them delivered in only three days' time. Not only that, but she'd paid even more on top of that to have the first several of the gowns delivered all at once. Three boxes had been delivered early that morning and taken upstairs. True sneered. Like all the other ladies of the ton, Marianna Grantham cultivated her own capricious, impatient nature. It wasn't enough to have one new gown all on the same morning. She had to have three. Otherwise, how could she keep everyone waiting as she decided which to wear first?
He took out his watch.
"Stop scowling," Ophelia Robertson told him. She was staring out the window in the direction of her husband, who was speaking with the coachman about the condition of the barouche that had been prepared for the seven of them—True, the Robertsons, Miss Grantham, and the ABC's.
True's nieces were still upstairs with Miss Grantham. Ever since she'd refused to betray them for the salamander, the ABC's had been her constant shadow. He supposed it was only natural. His late sister-in-law hadn’t exactly been the maternal type, but Marianna Grantham seemed to like children. He supposed he should be grateful for that small boon, but he couldn’t bring himself to rejoice. He wondered how interesting she’d find the ABC’s in comparison to London’s charms. Would she leave the girls here rusticating for months on end here in the country as had his brother and sister-in-law? He wouldn’t doubt it for a second.
Mrs. Robertson grunted. "Marianna will believe you are cross with her for being late if she catches you with such a sour expression."
"I am not scowling."
"Humph!"
True wanted to ask Mrs. Robertson why she cared what Miss Grantham thought of him, but he knew better. Over the past three days, the old lady had been exasperatingly close-lipped, making it clear that she would divulge information in her own time and not before.
True paced the marble floor a few more minutes and then glanced at his watch. "Miss Grantham has been an early riser until now. Do you think I should have a maid check on her? Perhaps she has gone back to sleep." Or perhaps the ABC's have lured her to the tower garret and tied her in order to have her to themselves the entire day.
They'd been quite put out with True for having to share her with him.
Ophelia Robertson shook her head. "New frocks demand extra time for dressing, Trowbridge. She shall be down presently—and you shall be properly appreciative of her efforts if you know what you are about."
A movement at the top of the stairs caught his eye, and True turned to see the ABC's. His eyes widened, for they were floating downstairs in a cloud of pristine white muslin. They each wore a clean frock with lovely wide ribbon sashes—one yellow, one pink, and one green.
Their shiny hair was dressed in matching ribbons. They were perfect, from their washed and glowing faces to the dainty black slippers they each wore on their usually-unshod feet. They tried to act serenely dignified as they descended the stairs, but before they reached half-way, they spoiled their grand entrance by dissolving into excited giggles and running to crowd around True, where they posed and twirled for his benefit and all spoke at once.
"Are you surpwised, Uncle Sin?"
"Mary
curled my hair to look just like hers!"
"Do you think we look all the crack?"
Mrs. Roberston spoke. "You should not say 'all the crack,' dear. It is not proper."
"Ophelia!" All three little girls squealed and ran to pose and twirl for her. The old woman admired their frocks, clucking over them appreciatively and, True took note, not reprimanding them for using her given name.
True smiled after them, and Miss Grantham appeared suddenly at his elbow. "I apologize that I kept you waiting, my lord. Beatrice's curls were dreadfully knotted."
"Miss Grantham," he said, marveling at the change in the girls' appearance. "Even God took six days to perform some miracles. You have managed to complete one in four."
She wrinkled her nose. "I wouldn't call this one complete. Eleanor still refuses to wear gloves, as you can see, and I had to bribe Alyse with the promise of an extra hour of reading to her tonight in order to get her to wash behind her ears. But I think I am making progress."
"Indeed," he said. "I would hardly recognize them. Do you know, I have never seen them wearing their good clothes."
"Why, that is because they had none, my lord. I took the liberty of examining the children's wardrobes and then had these dresses made," she said. "Do they not look lovely?" She went to join “Ophelia” in praising and admiring the girls, and it was only then that True noticed what Miss Grantham was wearing.
Or what she wasn't wearing, rather.
She had on the same plain brown traveling gown she'd had on the day she arrived. He touched her elbow to get her attention.
She turned to him. "My lord?"
"Pray, take your time in getting dressed. There is no need to rush. We shall be happy to wait."
She looked lost at sea. "But I am dressed."
"No, I meant that we will wait for you to don your new gown. Mrs. Robertson informed me that new gowns take extra time. Think nothing of it. Waiting will be a pleasure." He almost meant it. The change she'd wrought in his nieces was nothing short of miraculous, and it would truly be a pleasure to sit and watch them pirouette and preen for the time it would take Miss Grantham to change into her new dress. "Take your time," he said again.
"Thank you, my lord, but my gowns have not been sent 'round yet. I asked Mrs. Bailey to complete my order for the girls first." She turned. "Out the door, young ladies. And remember, not one dot of dirt on those new frocks, or I shall not let you wear any of the others for two days." She herded the ABC's out the front door.
Ophelia Robertson chuckled. "Close your mouth, Trowbridge, or you shall have it full of flies." She glanced from Miss Grantham to True knowingly. "Not what you thought she was on first glance, hmm?" She gave a satisfied nod. "Good, because neither are you!" She sailed out the door.
True frowned. Nothing was going according to plan.
AN HOUR LATER, Marianna smiled. Everything was going according to plan.
They’d driven until they’d found a lovely meadow dotted with fine elm trees. There was a quiet brook that had been dammed to build a small, sparkling pond and a gurgling waterfall below. The footmen had set up a several large picnic blankets and a pair of chairs for the ladies—though Marianna had eschewed the chairs to curl up upon the blue blanket, where she sat with a lap full of daisies she’d just gathered. John and Ophelia were strolling amongst the trees. The weather was fine, and a gentle breeze blew over the verdant meadow grass, carrying the children's laughter to her on currents of clean, summer air. She tilted her head back and looked up through the green leaves of the ancient elm and listened as they played. Their uncle was with them, shepherding them on their hunt for tadpoles.
Marianna smiled. Yes, everything was going according to plan, and Ophelia deserved a medal for directing her to Truesdale Sinclair.
Though the beginning of their acquaintance had not been promising, the Viscount's behavior ever since had been nothing short of perfect. It had been three days, and he hadn’t displayed any bad manners since. Surely, if he was a habitual drunkard or philanderer or wastrel or any other sort of blackguard, she’d have seen evidence of it by now. But she’s seen none, not since the night she’d arrived, and everyone had a lapse in good judgement now and then, she thought, giving a silent nod to her own transgressions.
Trowbridge was not perfect, but—except for a few lapses she suspected had more to do with a somewhat fast sense of humor—he’d been a perfect gentleman.
Though the rumors concerning his stunning good looks hadn’t been exaggerated, Marianna’s steadfast application of logic coupled with well-nigh a week's observation told her that the balance of the Town rumors concerning True Sin had to be complete falsehoods. The very idea of Trowbridge having had hundreds or even dozens of romantic liaisons was ridiculous. He was a gentleman, and gentlemen simply did not behave in such a manner.
No, the Viscount was everything that was amiable. Polite and attentive, he seemed genuinely glad to be of help to her, and he was eager to learn everything he could about her. Of course, that was only because that was what was required of him according to the terms of their bargain and not because he desired to seduce her. She looked toward the Viscount, who was bent low, peering into Alyce’s cupped hands and bit her lip. As he had pointed out that first day, they had to learn all they could of each other in order to carry out their ruse successfully.
Still ... there had been moments these past two days when she’d thought his interest ranged beyond that which was strictly necessary. Take, for instance, the flowers he had brought her yesterday morning and this. He'd presented them, saying he was acting his part as thoroughly as he could now, so that he might be more convincing when their guests arrived later. And the lovely, single pink roses were no more than a besotted suitor might bestow upon his beloved, to be sure. Yet the way he had placed them into her hand, his fingers lingering over hers as he had looked into her eyes ...
She shook her head and looked away from him. She was telling herself tales. Truesdale's interest in her lay no deeper than the bottom of her gem bottle. She wondered if he would have agreed to help her at all if she hadn't had any gems to offer him. Three days ago, she would have rejected the idea, but now . . .
He had surprised her.
He was not the gruff, unbending man she'd thought he was at first. Especially toward the ABC's. When they’d come down the stairs in their new frocks an hour ago, twirling and smiling proudly, he’d exclaimed over them, praised them. And she was certain his pleasure was genuine. He knew how long it had been since they’d had new clothes. He knew Alyce hated ruffles, that Beatrice loved them, and that Eleanor always mispronounced them “rough pulls.” He even knew that the sashes on the frocks were the girls’ favorite colors.
Nothing in Marianna’s education—or her upbringing—had led her to expect a gentleman to take such an active interest in children.
She doubted her own papa, who loved her excessively, knew her favorite color even now. He’d told her a thousand times that he wanted only what was best for her, yet he hadn't had much contact with her. Taking an interest in one’s children simply wasn’t normal behavior for a proper gentleman.
As she watched, Truesdale began playing blind man’s buff with the girls. He was forcing Marianna to re-examine her views. Either Truesdale Sinclair was an unconventional man, or ideas of child rearing had changed since her parents left England some twenty-five years before.
She sighed and began weaving flower crowns to surprise the girls with. She wondered if anyone had ever taught them how to make daisy chains. Perhaps Truesdale had shown them. Three days ago, she’d have doubted it, and if she’d not been living as a schoolteacher this past year, perhaps she’d have missed gathering any intelligence to the contrary. But where the girls were concerned, Marianna didn’t Miss much.
Each day, the neglected condition of his late brother's estate demanded more time than the Viscount had to devote to it. Yet, as busy as he was, Trowbridge still took time out to speak with the girls whenever they asked, and he made i
t a point to breakfast with them each day. He loved them. Of that Marianna was certain. And so were the ABC’s. They’d told her even tucked them into bed at night, kissing their brows and smoothing their hair and telling them silly stories of sea monsters with sore tentacles or mermaids who forgot how to swim.
She sighed, missing her own papa and wondering what sorts of bedtime stories he would have told her if ever he'd had the time. Poor Papa, he worked so hard when she was small. Too hard. She gave a guilty flinch, for she knew all his toil had been for her, and here she was, perpetrating a ruse to fool him into thinking she was going to marry the Viscount Trowbridge. She finished one daisy crown and began the next, dwelling upon her reasons for the ruse.
She wanted to marry for love. She wanted it so badly that she’d foolishly ignored the fact that her parents might very well insist upon staying in London rather than returning post-haste to the West Indies after her false engagement to the Viscount Trowbridge was broken. She didn’t think they would be that disappointed. Not at first, anyway. No doubt they would expect a flood of eligible partis to suddenly appear. They might even be happy that she and the Viscount Trowbridge had cried off their engagement. Marianna’s parents wanted the best for her, and a viscount wasn’t as lofty as an earl or duke, after all.
But Marianna had no illusions about her allure to earls and dukes. She didn’t even hold appeal for clerks and merchants!
Her poor parents had worked so hard to see her happily settled with a man of distinction.
She looked down, closed her eyes, and swallowed, coming to a hard, fast decision.
If she could not hasten her parents back aboard a ship bound for the West Indies, if they stayed in London to console her—or to see that she chose her next fiance more wisely ... Marianna knew her duty. Her parents had sacrificed for her and deserved to be happy. If they stayed on in London, she would marry before the next snowfall whether she found love or not.
Miss Grantham's One True Sin (The Regency Matchmaker Series Book 2) Page 6
