Miss Grantham's One True Sin (The Regency Matchmaker Series Book 2) (16 page)

Chapter Eleven

T
HE

elder Granthams slept until well-nigh noon. Marianna hardly slept at all, rose with the sun, hovered outside their door, waiting for them to wake up. When she did hear them rise shortly before ten-o’-the-clock, she hovered some more, waiting for them to dress.

Finally, she knocked.

“Eh?” her father answered through the thick wooden door. “Come in, come in! What took you so— Oh. It ain’t my lazy valet but you, daughter. Or, should I say, ‘Viscountess Trowbridge’?”

Marianna winced. “Papa, I need to speak with you.”

“Who is it, Gerald?” Her mother’s voice stabbed its way out of the dressing room. “Oh,” she said, coming out to see for herself. “It’s you.”

“Says she needs to speak with me,” her father said.

Marianna held out both palms. “With both of you, actually. May I sit down?”

“We do not wish to be late for breakfast,” Violet Grantham said.

Marianna eyed the sharp light slanting through the tall window. At this time of the morning a week ago, she and the Viscount had already breakfasted with the ABC’s, been out for a morning ride, and shared of a pot of tea. The Viscount preferred early hours, as she did, and it was one of the more pleasant surprises she’d been faced with a Trowbridge Manor. She turned to her parents and folded her hands in front of her. “What I have to tell you will not take long,” she told them. “Please—” She motioned to the chairs at the fireside, her stomach in knots. “Please sit.”

“Marianna, this is most irregular. What could possibly be so important that you delay our introduction to the house guests downstairs?”

For the first time, Marianna took note of how they were both dressed. They looked more ready for a ball than for breakfast. Her father wore formal black clothes with white silk stockings and silver buckles, while her mother wore a pink flounced gown with a black lace over-skirt. Fluffy black ostrich feathers swayed in her hair, and long, formal black gloves encased her arms and hands, while at her neck lay a dazzling display of diamonds.

“She don’t look well,” her father commented. “In faith, she looks a fright. Didn’t you sleep last night, daughter?”

Mrs. Grantham rolled her eyes. “They
are
newly wed, Mr. Grantham.”

“Eh?” he looked at his wife. “What’s that? Oh. Yes. Yes, of course.”

Marianna realized with embarrassment what the two of them were thinking. She shook her head. “In truth, I slept exceedingly well all night, in my own bedchamber. Alone,” she added. She was about to tell them why, when her father spoke and rendered her speechless.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t yet allowed him to bed you!”

“No!” Marianna cried.

“Then you have made a mistake, daughter.”

“A mistake?” Violet Grantham cried. “You must be suffering from an excess of Spanish coin. What the girl’s done is acted stupidly.” She turned to Marianna. “Did you give your wits away as alms? You had a perfect opportunity last night.”

“Aye. I seen—”

”Saw,” his wife corrected him.

“
Saw
how he looked at you.”

“How he looked at me?” Marianna murmured.

Her mother turned to Mr. Grantham. “She’s blind as well as witless! Good God, Marianna, that man wants to bed you.”

“Mama!” Marianna felt as though she’d been struck.

“If you think I’m speaking too plainly, then you’ll truly be shocked at what I say next, my girl. Listen well. Gretna weddings are sometimes contested.”

“Aye,” her father said, “and even with our kind of money, the nobs would win at court. They always do. You’ve got to allow him to bed you. It’s the only way to make the marriage stick.”

“We are not married!” Marianna blurted. “We did not truly go to Gretna Green.” She hadn’t known what to expect, but it wasn’t the expressions of pure rage that slashed across her parents’ features like winter lightning.

Marianna rushed on. “What I mean to say is that we are not married
yet
. Trowbridge is a great prankster, you see and . . .” She recited her carefully rehearsed explanation. She’d had all night to perfect it, and it did what she expected it to do. As she spoke, her parents’ faces relaxed into understanding. She chided herself for a fool—something she’d been doing a lot of lately. Truesdale was wrong. Her parents were not the selfish creatures he imagined them to be. No, they cared about her, loved her. They only wanted the best for her. “And we plan to announce our engagement quite soon.”

“When?” her father asked.

“I ... I am uncertain.” It was the truth. After what had happened last night, she was unsure when the announcement might take place. He would have to ask Truesdale. “It should be any day now.”

Her parents traded looks, and something seemed to pass between them. Her father walked to the window. “Tell her, Vi.”

Violet Grantham leaned closer to her daughter. “Your father and I came to a decision on our journey back to England. We know the ways of the world. We know what is best for you. A gentleman sometimes cries off his engagement. When his first rush of excitement over his bride’s fortune wanes and he discovers he is about to be bound for life to a girl who is less than fetching, he may get it into his head to run. I am sorry, but there is no delicate way to say this, Marianna. You are not beautiful. You never have been. Even though you are not yet married, you must do everything you can to entice the Viscount into bed with you."

"Into his bed,” Marianna repeated flatly.

"His bed, your bed, a bed of hay. Makes no difference. If he gets you with child, he likely won’t back out of your engagement, and our place in Society will be assured."

Marianna absorbed her mother's words with shock. She shook her head. There had to be some misunderstanding. She looked to her father, but he only stared out the window, silent. He had to have heard what Mama had said. But that was impossible, wasn't it? He could not possibly want her to— "I do not understand."

Her father slashed one angry hand through the air. "Just do as you are told, daughter. As you should have done last night."

Mrs. Grantham nodded. "We cannot allow him to break the engagement."

"But . . ." Marianna murmured, "what if he is not the one who wants to break the engagement?"

"What? Nonsense!" her father thundered. "After all we sacrificed! You've got a title in the parson's mousetrap, my girl. It took you a year to snabble this one, and plain as you are, it may be the last."

"You would break your engagement?" her mother asked plaintively. "Do you wish us to hie back to the islands in disgrace and die in obscurity? Are you so ungrateful?" She broke a sob.

Marianna bit her lip. She didn't know what to say.

Mr. Grantham tugged at his cravat. "Perhaps the Viscount is still abed. Go to him now."

"Yes, Marianna." Her mother sniffled. "Obey your father this time, as you should have done last night." She reached to pat Marianna's hand in the very same spot Ophelia had patted her last night, but her fingers felt cold, her touch distant, somehow. "You will find that the act is not as unpleasant as you imagine. And even if it is, Marianna, only think of all it will bring us. Everything will turn out as it should. Go."

Woodenly, Marianna obeyed the command to leave, but she did not go to Truesdale's bedchamber. Instead, she wandered back to her own room, her footsteps as heavy as her heart.

Was Truesdale correct? Marianna knew her parents loved her, but was Truesdale right when he’d said they were selfish? They actually wanted her to—to give her maidenhood to Truesdale. Before marriage! And they didn't appear to feel any guilt over the notion, either. They’d delivered their harsh reactions, bleak pronouncements, and stern orders with not a hint of contrition.

The thought of enticing Truesdale into bed with her brought a blush of shame to her cheeks. Her parents would never expect her to do such a thing if they knew she had never had any intention of marrying the Viscount. They would not expect her to submit her body to him if they knew there was never a real understanding between them.

Would they?

She shook herself. Of course not! Their motives were pure. How could she expect them to understand the situation when they were victims of such terrible subterfuge? Especially after what her mother had witnessed last night. Marianna was the one who should feel guilty, not her parents.

Their reactions and demands were perfectly understandable, given their knowledge of the entire maddening mull. Were they not entitled to their happiness? Did they not deserve a respite after years and years of hard work and sacrifice? Of course they did! And that certainly did not mean they cared nothing for their daughter.

She dressed hastily in a white-and-gray-striped walking dress with pretty rose-embroidered ribbons she thought would please them, and quit the house, feeling sorry she had doubted her parents. Drat Truesdale Sinclair for planting a foul seed of mistrust in her mind!

Though she knew she ought to inform Trowbridge she'd told her parents they were not wed, and she knew the question of when to announce their betrothal should be settled between them, she steered clear of the stables, the fields, the outbuildings—all of the places he might usually be found. She would speak to him later. Instead, she struck out through the East woods and tarried under the cover of the green leaves and soft shadow.

It was a relief to be alone there, away from questioning eyes and plaintive expectation. She relaxed a little, letting the cool dampness seep into her rattled soul.

It was a place where she could have taken out her feelings and examined them, but she didn't. Instead, she deliberately kept them locked away and concentrated on the feel of the loamy earth beneath her feet. Taking off her gloves, she sat for a time on a wide, flat rock near the footpath, which had obviously served as a bench for wanderers like herself since time out of mind. She took a deep, soothing breath of the moist air and leaned back to stare up at the forest canopy, which was alive with birdsong on that summer morning. It was easy to lose her thoughts within it for a time, but inevitably her mind came back around to the problems that awaited her, and she found herself wishing she could be happy and carefree like the birds that sang and swooped overhead.

Lucky things. You do not have another fortnight's lies to suffer through!

After a long while, she headed for a pleasant meadow of bluebells lined with birch she'd passed while riding a few days before. Bluebells were her favorites, and yet she hardly looked at them. She was in such a sour mood that she almost missed Lord Lindenshire as well. He was kneeling, examining a fallen log in dense shade near the edge of the wood. Wearing a fashionable coat of bottle-blue superfine trimmed in black velvet, a startlingly white shirt, and gray breeches, he looked like he had just walked off St. James's Street, yet he was hunched over the log like a cobbler repairing a shoe. Peering through a spying glass with all of his concentration, he was oblivious to her presence.

"Is that not the spying glass from the library?" she asked, admiring the fact that her voice did not seem to startle him. Instead, he just calmly lifted his head.

"Guilty," he affirmed, and Marianna could hear the grin in his voice. "Think anyone back at Trowbridge Manor will Miss it, Miss Grantham?" He hadn't even seen her, yet he knew her voice.

"Oh, most definitely it will be missed," she said, "for I believe it is every lofty-titled guest's fondest wish to examine a . . ." He turned to her and she nodded toward the fallen log with a question in her eyes.

"A fungus," he supplied.

"To examine a fungus," she finished. "Or, lacking so refined a notion, perhaps they will discover a burning desire to discern the location of the Spey or the Tay."

"Will you expose my crime?"

"Not if you tell me what that fungus is," Marianna said.

The two of them, Marianna and Lord Lindenshire, spent the next half-hour roving over the meadow. The air was warm yet crisp with newly fallen rain, and the birds were singing joyously in the trees. The meadow was so pleasant, seemed so perfect a sanctuary, that she was almost able to forget what she had come to escape—until it emerged from the wood.

As Trowbridge emerged from the shade of the trees, the sun limned his head in golden light. The wind blew his dark, unfashionably long hair this way and that, and his gait was easy and relaxed in spite of the width of his shoulders. His penetrating eyes swept the meadow. He was obviously searching for someone.

Herself
, she concluded, when he caught sight of her.

His gaze fixed upon her for a moment before flicking once, twice to Lord Lindenshire. And then True Sin frowned, but the expression was swept from his face almost as soon as it appeared, and he approached.

"There you are, Mary," he said. "And Lindenshire. What a surprise."

"Yes," Marianna said, taking note of his just-slightly-wry tone. "To me as well. I went for a stroll, but Lord Lindenshire had already laid claim to my favorite meadow."

"She just arrived," the younger man said, though Marianna had been there above a half-hour. So, she was not the only one who had taken note of Truesdale's jealousy. "Since it is time for tea, perhaps you will escort Miss Grantham back to your magnificent house?"

"What about you?" Marianna asked the Earl. "You have been here most of the day. Are you not quite sharp set?"

His face reddened. "I ... carried a meal with me." He patted his pocket, which bulged slightly. "A cold chicken leg and a roll," he said, and gestured to the log. "I had passed by these fungi earlier on horseback and wanted to get back to them."

Marianna gave him a smile. Eating luncheon out of one's pocket was not the proper thing to do, but it was an endearing thing. She found she liked Lord Lindenshire more and more.

Truesdale coughed and offered her his arm. "Shall we, my dear?"

"You do not have to 'my dear' me in front of Lord Lindenshire, Trowbridge. He knows our secret." She was satisfied to see a scowl blossom on Trowbridge's face and even more satisfied to see the Earl straighten his spine and lift his chin slightly, taking a stance that was not quite a challenge but which was definitely not subservient. Marianna stepped around the Viscount without looping her arm through his and made for the footpath that led back through the woods to Trowbridge Manor. He fell into step behind her. She could hear the moist leaves crumpling beneath his feet. The woods were fragrant and alive with wildflowers and butterflies and swooping birds. The wind and the light sifted through the canopy of green leaves, turning the woods into the grandest cathedral. Were it not for the Viscount Trowbridge, it could have been a most pleasant walk, but Marianna was all too aware of his presence. He followed her like a shadow, dark and silent, without a single word.

When they'd reached the center of the woods and were out of ear-and-eyeshot of the meadow, he grasped her wrist and pulled her to a stop.