All he wanted was a hot bath and eight hours of mind-numbing sleep.
As they turned up the lane toward Trowbridge Manor, a light in the window shone through the tall trees. It was a welcome sight. Then he saw another. And another. His eyes narrowed. As the hunting party neared, the scene resolved into a blaze of candlelight. Every light in the house must be in use.
"What in the devil’s name?" he muttered.
The drive was littered with carriages, equipages large and small. He recognized several of them. There were Sir Quincy's fine coach and a aging carriage belonging to a pair of spinsters from the next village. There were Squire Gordon's cabriolet and his sister's ancient phaeton. There were a half dozen other carriages he did not recognize, along with well-nigh a dozen smaller wagons and gigs.
True ignored the questions his companions peppered him with and rode to the door in silence. Several grooms and a footman were waiting for them.
"Good evening, my lord," the footman said.
"What is going on here?"
"Why, the ball, my lord." His tone made it clear he thought True knew all about it.
True knew nothing about it. In fact, he was relatively certain no one had known about it when he'd left that morning. A ball took a good deal of preparation, and none of the servants had been doing any extra bustling about that morning as he quit the manor.
One thing was certain: if he had known about it, he'd have been sure to put a stop to it.
His empty stomach rumbled.
The footman directed his attention to the rest of the group. "If you will step this way, gentlemen, I will show you to your chambers." The front door was only a few steps away, but the footman did not turn toward it. Instead, he started toward the back of the house, and the men of the hunting party fell into step behind him. Behind their backs, True sneered. Sheep. They wouldn't dare be seen in their hunting clothes after a day in the field. They'd all be shown up the back stairs and emerge from their bedchambers washed and pomaded and perfumed and dressed as though they'd been lounging upstairs since noon. He doubted any of them had broken a sweat all day, but they'd certainly all demand a bath at once, nevertheless. The poor servants would be kept busy hauling hot water up and down the back stairs. As though they did not have enough to do with a ball in full swing! Well, True would have none of it. He wasn't going to creep up the back stairs of his own house like a thief in the night. No, he was bloody well going to walk in the front door.
He'd make efficient use of the basin and ewer instead of taking a bath. It wasn't even that much of an inconvenience. He'd certainly made do with less than that aboard ship any number of nights, after days when he'd got dirtier, sweatier, and more tired than he was now. He wasn't going to perfume and dress and parade downstairs with the rest of them. Hell and blast, he wasn't going to attend the ball at all! No, he was going to bed. Mistress Mary would not be happy about his absence, but she should not have sprung a ball on him. And he was certain that it was her doing. It was a brilliant way to exact revenge upon him for the race.
He marched into the front hall—and stopped.
She was there, waiting for him.
"I knew you would not go with the others," she said.
"So," True said, taking off his gloves, "you are here to bar my way?"
She did not bother to deny it. "You cannot go up the main stairs. Everyone in the ballroom would see you."
"Everyone in the ballroom knows I have been out hunting since before dawn this morning. Everyone knows I am dressed in hunting clothes, that I am tired, that I am dirty. If I suddenly appear dressed in black-and-whites, they will know I used the back stairs. Do you not see how ridiculous that is, Mary?" He raked his fingers through his hair. "Can you not see how ridiculous it makes you? I thought you were more ... more logical than that."
She recoiled from the remark as though struck. "Ridiculous or no, it ... it is the way of Polite Society."
"Polite Society! Bah! Half of them have not the first idea of what the word 'polite' really means, and the other half does not care."
She stared at him as though he'd grown four extra eyes, and True realized he'd made a grave mistake. Sharp set, weary, and irritable as he was, he had put his foot in it. He'd told her how he felt about her precious ton.
He shrugged. In for a penny, he might as well kick for a pound.
"Mary," he said, "the society you aspire to is anything but polite. I just spent the entire day in the company of men who would give their best friends the cut direct just to be seen standing next to me at a ball or a rout. And their wives! Do not ask me what their wives would be willing to do to be seen with me. Mary, they have not the first idea what it really means to be polite. They pretend to be polite, but it is a jolly thin veneer, indeed. I will not go in there and pretend with them."
"But you are their host!"
"No, I am not. I did not invite them, you did. Without consulting me. Which means that you shall reap what you have sown."
Her eyes flashed with angry fire.
She was dressed in a graceful ball gown of white and deep blue with satin ribbons tied in tiny bows and rows of lace scallops. Her hair was shot with more of the blue ribbon intertwined with tiny white rosebuds. Her slender arms were encased in long, white gloves. "You look lovely," he said, leaning insolently against the door frame. "You should be angry more often. It makes your eyes sparkle." She flushed and blustered. "Now," he said, "if you will excuse me, I am weary, and I'm going to bed." He turned his back on her and started for the stairs.
She laid a gloved hand lightly on his shoulder, stopping him. "You cannot," she said quietly. "For the girls' sake, you must not."
"What do you mean?"
She dropped her hand. "What you do tonight will affect the girls' reputations. You could be playing host to their future in-laws this evening."
"Unlike some people, I do not aspire to marry my charges off to titles."
"Then whom do you wish them to marry? Tonight's company isn't made up of just the ton. Most of the guests are from the neighborhood. Most of the families who live within a half day's ride of Trowbridge Manor are represented. The ABC's must have somewhere to look for husbands. They have got to find a place in some society, be it Town or country—unless you wish them to marry one of your sailors."
He opened his mouth to spit out a terse reply, but there was nothing to say. She was right.
"That," he said slowly, "is the only argument you could have offered me that would compel me to attend."
"I know," she said simply.
He saw the hint of a triumphant smile ghost across her features and knew instantly that she'd planned the whole tiling. "Why have you done this?" he asked.
"My lord," she answered, "yesterday you forced me to experience life from your perspective."
He sighed. "And you are doing the same for me, I suppose?"
She nodded. "Except that instead of forcing you to taste spontaneity and imprudent behavior, I am forcing you to sample responsibility and propriety. I knew you would not let the ABC's down." She smiled beatifically and glided past him. "Do not take long to dress," she said.
Her white-gold hair was piled in curls high atop her head. One errant wisp fell as he watched, trailing down her nape and across her milky shoulder and back, and he had a sudden urge to kiss her there, where the shiny curl brushed her skin, to loosen her hair and let it cascade down her back in waves of silk. Dressed as she was in a gown whose color reminded him of the deep blue of the open sea flecked with foam, she was almost beautiful.
And he was almost a lunatic.
He regained his senses as he washed and dressed upstairs. He ruined four cravats trying to tie the blasted things properly. By the time he descended the stairs in his black-and-whites, his neck itched and he was thinking quite clearly again.
Every man in his ballroom had an itchy neck, and yet, contrary to what was reasonable, every man still wore a blasted cravat. And the women! They still wore stockings and garters and dr
awers and stays and corsets and God-only-knew what contraptions under their gowns. They blackened their eyelashes with soot, they rubbed arsenic into their white skin.
He shook his head as he came off the stairs. No. Not all of them did such things. Mary was naturally pale. Pale, colorless, and uninteresting, he told himself. A milk-and-water Miss. No wonder she was attempting to catch a bachelor's eye here in the country. In London, she would be lost among the crowd. Transparent and unnoticeable.
And yet, somehow, amid the dazzling swirl of rainbow colors in his ballroom, True's eyes found Mary immediately. And True wasn't the only one who had noticed her. She was standing in the center of a cluster of young men. He looked from one face to the other, noting various degrees of fascination, admiration, and ... and lust.
He tugged his gloves on and moved purposefully through the ballroom. As people noticed him, a wave of silence descended upon the company. As host, he would have to make an opening speech, though the ball had clearly been underway for quite some time. He gained Mary's side and executed a crisp bow, then smiled up at her.
"Good evening, my dear," he said as though they'd not spoken a half-hour before. "You look lovely." He straightened and held out his arm. Wordlessly, she took it, and he led her to the dais at the end of the room. Turning, he scanned the crowd. He recognized most of the faces staring back at him. He glimpsed wonder in their expressions. Wonder or skepticism. Most of them had never seen him dressed so formally.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "thank you for attending our little gathering this evening. My apologies for the short notice. It was unavoidable. I wished—we wished," he said, gazing down at Mary, "to include as many of you as possible upon this occasion. We wanted to be here at Trowbridge, among those who lived near home, when we announced our betrothal."
The room exploded into applause. For most of the company, it was not an unexpected announcement. The news of Mary's stay at Trowbridge Manor would have traveled from house to country house with the servants, but all of the country folk pretended they'd not had the first inkling until then, anyway. Most of the tonnish expressions, however, showed genuine shock, for, in spite of the hint he'd given them several days before, in spite of the ring Mary wore, it had not occurred to them that True Sin would ever really wed anyone, and he supposed that the delay in announcing the betrothal only bolstered that belief. Beyond doubt, they'd all been harboring suspicion Mary was a kept woman.
He smiled.
If, where the ton was involved, his goal were to do the unexpected thing, True had accomplished that in glorious fashion this evening, for the respectable thing was the last thing the ton expected True Sin to do! Mary had unknowingly given him the means by which to nettle the ton. He would be a pattern card of respectability and politeness—until his next Town ball! He nearly laughed out loud in anticipation.
He stood politely by Mary's side as they were congratulated and wished happy, and then he fetched her some refreshments before politely requesting the pleasure of a dance. He was satisfied to see more than one set of raised eyebrows, and he chuckled.
They moved onto the floor. The set formed for a country dance, and they went through their figures, weaving in and out of the two long lines of couples until they got to the end and had a moment to talk. "Does my behavior meet with your approval, my dear?"
"You know it does. They all believe I have reformed you."
"Perhaps you have," he said, "for now."
She shook her head, that errant blonde curl swaying over her shoulder. "You cannot fool me. I have only tamed you, my lord. And like any wild creature, you can go back to being wild in the blink of an eye."
"Aye." He bowed and brushed his lips over the back of her gloved hand. "I could, for instance, pull this glove from your hand and kiss your fingers ... your palm ... the inside of your wrist. I could sweep you into my arms and devour your mouth like a starving man."
He looked into her eyes and was struck suddenly by their color—a clear, lovely aqua, the color of a tropic sea atop a bed of snowy white coral. It was a deep, pure color, all the more beautiful when set against the rosy glow of her blushing cheeks. She was certainly not colorless now.
She swallowed reflexively. "You could do those things," she said. "But you will not. Not when the reputations and the welfare of the ABC's are at stake."
"Cunning."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Cunning," he repeated. "I am adding it to my list."
"What list?"
"I keep a short mental list of a person's attributes in my head to keep me from being taken off guard."
"Does it help?"
"In your case," he drawled, "not yet. You keep surprising me. You are a stunningly intelligent woman, Mary." He straightened. "And a beautiful one."
"You lie."
It was time to take their places in the set once more, and the steps separated them. True was glad, for a denial had come to his lips unbidden, a denial he did not want to face, much less to utter. For, at that moment, Mary Grantham really had seemed beautiful.
He glanced down the long line of dancers. Her deep blue gown was quite fetching against its snowy relief of white skin, lace, and pearls. But it was not the gown that drew his eyes, it was her face. In the last half-hour, he'd seen her wary, angry, proud, defiant, strategizing, pleading, and triumphant, all at once. She seemed different tonight, somehow.
And I must be more weary than I thought.
He stole another glance at her. She was smiling now, genuinely pleased that she had outwitted him. Inexplicably, True felt a bolt of happiness surge through him, too.
He scowled. Why should he feel anything but rancor? He should be thunderously angry with her. But he wasn't. He felt curiously off balance. And the rest of the evening did nothing to help him regain his steadiness.
OPHELIA SAT IN an odd corner and affected the appearance of being over-warm. Her fan, which she'd had made of a famously expensive silk, was wonderfully transparent when the light was positioned just so. It had been unfurled and in front of her face for most of the evening, and she had been able to stare directly at everyone without anyone knowing. Just then, she had her eyes on Orion Chase, the Earl of Lindenshire.
In spite of his admirable devotion to fashion, Lindenshire was a serious young man, and right then he was serious about Marianna. He'd had moon-calf's eyes for her from the hour they'd met, and unless Ophelia missed her guess, Marianna had confided in him. He was peering at the gel myopically from an alcove near the rather inexpert musicians.
Ophelia rose from her chair in the corner and moved to his side. He didn't even notice her.
"You could see her much better if you used your quizzing glass," she said.
Lindenshire glanced over at Ophelia and then down at his hands. "Am I being that obvious?"
"Yes."
His face registered embarrassment "Your charge is a fine young lady."
"Come now, we both know Marianna is no more my charge than I am a slave to fashion." She patted her gown, which, except for its high waist, was unlike anything in the Trowbridge ballroom—or any ballroom, for that matter.
He let the first part of her comment slide past, which told her that her guess was correct: Marianna had confided in him.
"Madam," Lindenshire said, "an Original like you does not have to dress in the first stare of fashion to be considered au courant."
"An Original? Is that what they call me?"
He nodded.
She lowered her voice. "Is that what they are calling Marianna now, too?"
He smiled. "Since yesterday's race, I have heard the word seventeen times, from six different mouths."
Ophelia returned his smile. "Good. Just good."
They both returned their attention to the rest of the room. Marianna was sitting amongst a group of ladies—all smiles, Ophelia noted with satisfaction and then sought Truesdale. He was standing in a knot of gentlemen—mostly men from the country, and, for once, not every face was directed at him. Th
is ball was turning out to be a complete success.
"Would you care to dance, Mrs. Robertson?" Lindenshire asked at her elbow.
Startled, Ophelia almost dropped her fan. "Thank you for asking, but I do not like to dance, my lord."
"Thank goodness. Neither do I."
They laughed together, and at that moment Ophelia felt sorry for Orion Chase. Clearly, the dear boy pined for Marianna, but it was Truesdale who had the upper hand.
Truesdale ... Ophelia gazed at him and smiled a secret smile.
MARIANNA WAS JUST attempting to answer a question concerning her nonexistent wedding plans when she saw a flash of white at the tall, glass terrace door. She thought it was an owl, or perhaps a stray dog, but then she saw another. And another.
One, two, three ... oh, dear!
Suddenly Alyse's round face popped over the bottom edge of the glass. She looked directly at Marianna and crooked her finger before disappearing once more.
Marianna left the cluster of ladies in haste on the excuse of visiting the ladies' retiring room, but she slipped down the back stairs and out onto the lawn instead. Stealthily, she crept up the terrace steps and peeked over the railing.
Just as she thought.
Three little girls, hiding behind a potted holly, were peering furtively into the ballroom.
"How many people do you think are in there?" Beatrice whispered to her sisters.
Eleanor shrugged. "I cannot count that high."
"Are you certain we have enough, Alyse?" Beatrice asked.
"Certain," her sister confirmed. "A crockful is a good many when they are spread over the floor."
"Think she'll leave?"
Miss Grantham's One True Sin (The Regency Matchmaker Series Book 2) Page 17
