The Perfect Scandal (11 page)

Reopening his eyes, he heaved out a breath. “Tell me what this is about. I want and need to know.”

“Moreland.” She reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling it toward her chair. “I will only tell you if you promise not to get involved. 'Tis black scandal involving very powerful people. Surely you don't intend to—”

“Enough.” Tristan yanked his hand out of hers and rose, pushing back his chair. “I don't appreciate how you always seek to control the decisions I make. Am I a man in your eyes or a child?”

Whoever Zosia was, and however it was going to
affect and complicate his life, it couldn't possibly be worse than condemning himself to the superficial life he'd led all of these years. Always pretending to be ordinary, when he was anything but.

The sizzling connection between himself and Zosia was real. That much he knew. She sought to understand him, not judge him. It was breathtaking coming from a woman who not only understood anguish herself, but had miraculously risen above it. That alone made her a rare breed of woman he would marry within a breath.

Rounding his grandmother's chair, he headed toward a side table laden with silver platters of fruit, tarts and decanters of wine. He snatched up one of the decanters and made his way back toward the table.

Leaning in, he refilled his grandmother's glass just below the rim, set aside the decanter and pushed the wineglass back toward her. “Who is to say whoever His Majesty awards her to will treat her with any respect once that fifteen thousand is in hand? Do you remember the way you were treated by your own husband once
you
were in hand? And grandfather was considered respectable. Imagine putting her into that same situation. I will not have it. I simply won't. I am too fond of her and intend to resolve this matter by making her my wife. You can either support me
in this or you can be a thorn in my thumb I will only seek to remove.”

His grandmother blinked rapidly, tears now glistening against her dark eyes. Her full lips trembled as a lone tear slowly trailed its way down her pale cheek. She glanced up at him. “Moreland,” she pleaded softly. “What if these Russians seek to eliminate you in an effort to retrieve her? Have you given thought to that?”

His chest tightened. Setting aside those heavy words, with the way that Russian officer had addressed him, he had no doubt they had elimination in mind. But what truly moved him in that moment was seeing his own grandmother cry. He'd never seen her cry. Not even when her own son, his father, had slit his throat out of blind grief in being unable to protect his mother.

He sometimes forgot how much she'd done for him. It was his grandmother who had been the iron fist to see him through the black misery of being orphaned at fifteen. She and she alone had seen him through his first days of cutting, not even a week after being in her care. Despite many months of restraints, harsh words, punishment, hiding sharp objects and even threatening him with bedlam, only to find he still always found
something
to slice himself with, she'd finally accepted what he was. A queer.

It was then she compassionately taught him how to
tend to his self-inflicted wounds with brandy, confiding how she herself had tended to many of her own wounds whilst married to his grandfather.

Tristan reached out and smoothed away the tear from her chin. “You cannot protect me from everything. You do realize that, don't you?”

Her hand rose to his and she pressed them shakily against the warmth of her face, releasing a sob.

He placed his other hand to her face, leaned toward her and kissed her forehead twice. “I love you, grandmother dear. And no one and nothing will ever come between us. And most certainly not some damn Russians.”

Another sob escaped her as she grabbed hold of his arms and yanked him toward her, burying him against the soft warmth of her neck. The lulling scent of rose water surrounded him.

He held her for a very long moment, smoothing her soft curls with his hands. “I intend to marry her,” he admitted against the curve of her shoulder. “She is stunning in so many ways and has a rare understanding about life that humbles me. I want to get to know her in a way only a husband can. And unlike other men—” he teased, dropping his voice “—I will not cower in fear, but enjoy whatever blade or lead ball may strike my flesh in her honor.”

An anguished laugh escaped his grandmother as
she pushed away his hands and waved him off. “You have no pity for my sanity, do you?”

He straightened, biting back a smile. “None.”

She swiped away her tears, sniffed and took up the glass he'd earlier filled. Taking a few lingering sips, she set it back on the table and glanced up at him. “Do you truly seek to wed her? Is that what you want for yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Knowing that it may endanger your life?”

He sighed. “I have the financial means to permanently disappear. No one will ever touch her or me.”

“Yes, but is she worth such sacrifice?”

Zosia's mesmerizing gray-blue eyes flashed within his mind. He drew in a satisfying breath and exhaled, nodding. “Yes. I won't ever find another woman like this. She stirs every last part of who I am and who I wish to be.”

“You would have to leave England, Moreland.”

He shrugged. “Then I will.”

“To go to New York?”
she cried in exasperation. “To live amongst horrid, uncivilized Americans who know nothing of gentility or good breeding?”

He let out a laugh. “You exaggerate. New York is very progressive.”

“Yes, you also think Catholics are very progressive.” She groaned and swiped back several misplaced
curls from the sides of her face. “If you leave to New York, what will become of me? We would never be able to see each other. Even worse, I would never have the glorious opportunity to hold my own great-grandchildren. Is that what you truly want for me? Do you seek to be so cruel?”

He cocked his head, rather amused by her dwindling arguments and the fact that she was even mentioning great-grandchildren. That was a first. “Come with us. You can terrorize Americans with your over-bearing opinion of gentility and good breeding. Of course, it would mean you'd have to step outside of this house and board a ship.”

She brought a hand to her throat, clasping it gently as her chest rose and fell more notably. “I haven't left this house in years, Moreland. You know that. I have tried. Believe me, I have. Irrational though it may be, for I am old and gray, I am terrified that my appearance into any circle of society will result in men calling on me. And after your grandfather, I… no. As for boarding a ship?” She shook her head. “I would rather drink prussic acid.”

He leaned closer and nudged her gently. “Come. Come with us. We will create our own little family. The sort of family you and I deserve.”

She dropped a limp hand onto her lap. “My life is here, Moreland. This is all I know and all I wish to know. Understand that.”

He half nodded. “So be it. But don't expect my life to be here with you. I know I have not made the best decisions for myself, and that you have seen the worst of me, but I am a man of eight and twenty now and stand beside you asking that you treat me as such. Will you support me in this or not?”

Smoothing her skirts against her lap, she glanced up at him from where she still sat and nodded. “You will have to acquire His Majesty's permission and strictly adhere to all the requirements pertaining to your duties as her husband.”

He hit the table with a renewed sense of purpose that rattled all her crystal and china. “Done.”

She sighed. “It won't be quite that simple, Moreland. Acquiring an audience with His Majesty will prove difficult. He is in seclusion at Windsor and will see no one. But as you know…he and I are very close.”

She paused and met his gaze. “Bring this girl to me tomorrow. During calling hours. I want to meet her. If I find her to be amiable, I will inform His Majesty of your intent and recommend the match. I am quite certain His Majesty will be pleased to have the girl off his hands, even if it results in the loss of a seat in Parliament. I can only hope another Catholic won't be replacing you. You marrying one is enough to make all of our Protestant ancestors gag on the earth that covers them. Of course…you will
have to get the girl to convert if you mean to marry. Otherwise no church will recognize you.”

“I will convert, if need be. She and I will discuss what needs to done when that time comes. Now, as for you offering up assistance, I find it promising, except for two things—you don't ever find my choice in women amiable, and how am I supposed to deliver her to you? I don't want to offend His Majesty by imposing myself upon his protégé whilst also publicly sullying her reputation.”

She feigned a laugh. “Worrying about her reputation and whether or not His Majesty will take offense is pointless if you are both going to New York. I would worry more about her servants. For that will prove to be far more daunting than trying to save her reputation.”

His brows came together. “Whatever do you mean?”

“By order of the crown, her servants have been tasked to keep her within the bounds of her home at all times. No exceptions, unless ordered by His Majesty. Which means you will have to find a way around them if I am to meet her. Shoot every last one of them for all I care, and whisk her out into the night on your steed. I hear women these days love that sort of romance.”

He laughed. “Your idea of romance will see me hanged.”

She glared up at him. “The situation in which you are about to involve yourself is what will see you hanged, not I. But you have always enjoyed the point of a blade against your own skin, haven't you?”

He rolled his eyes. “Isn't there another way to—”

“No. I want to meet her before I could ever recommend the match. Your only other option in this, aside from my generous intervention, would be to ride out to Windsor and wave your coat of arms outside His Majesty's window. I highly doubt
that
will make him any more fond of you. Especially after you opposed his political stance by supporting the Catholics having their own seats in Parliament.”

Tristan sighed. She had to remind him of that. “If I find a way to bring her to you tomorrow, do you promise to treat her with respect?”

She squinted at him. “I am not a savage, Moreland.”

“I have known otherwise.”

“Bah. That is your opinion. I am far more civilized than
you
ever will be.” She waved him off. “I bid you a good night. Go. Leave. Before I change my mind and insist His Majesty marry her off to the Russians instead.”

“All threats aside, Grandmother, you and I are not quite done.” He set a hand against the table and eyed her. “Tell me who she is. I need to know if I am to
protect her and myself. More importantly,
she
needs to know. It is her right.”

She tilted her face up toward him. “Sadly, Moreland, my cousin insists she remain oblivious to that history. If you mean to marry her, you must accept never knowing who she is.”

“The devil you say. Out with it.”

“I am sworn to secrecy, Moreland. Accept it.”

He shifted toward her chair. “You will tell me.”

“No.”

He leaned closer, growing agitated. “Tell me.”

“
No
. Now go. We are done.”

He stared her down. “Do you want me to carry you out of this house and into the night? I will.”

She feigned a laugh. “That is hardly a threat.”

He smirked. “I haven't even threatened you quite yet.
After
I carry you out of this house and into the night, I will inform every widower of the ton that you desperately desire another husband. Your wealth will be quite a draw.”

She froze and glanced up at him. “You wouldn't dare.”

“Wouldn't I?” He forcefully yanked her chair back from the table, causing her to yelp as she clutched the armrests. He leaned toward her again. “All of these years locked away from the pleasures of the world has probably left you quite in need of a man.”

She gasped as she sank back against the chair. “
Moreland!
How dare you—”

“You have five seconds to tell me. One. Two. Three. Four.” He stared her down as viciously as he knew how, trying so desperately to pretend he was very, very serious and that he
would
. Even though he knew he would never hurt her. “For your sake, don't let me get to five.” He lowered his voice in warning and jerked her chair toward him.
“Five.”

“Oh, cease already!” She narrowed her gaze and snapped up a manicured finger, shaking it at him. “I will only tell you if you vow never to disclose it to her. You
cannot
tell her, Moreland. She is overly patriotic and may very well run off into the world in an effort to destroy herself. Is that what you want for her?”

His jaw tightened as he stepped back. Of course that was not what he wanted, but how could he keep her from her own identity? He'd be betraying Zosia before she was even rightfully his. “No, of course not. But I cannot possibly promise such a thing. She deserves better than that.”

His grandmother lowered her hand. “She requires protection from herself, Moreland. Very much like
you
require protection from yourself. Hardly a suitable match, if you ask me.” She feigned a laugh. “The both of you would make Romeo and Juliet's suicide look like a happy ending.”

Why the hell did nothing ever come tied with a pretty satin bow? He blew out a breath. Who was going to enforce his promise? No one. He and he alone would decide when the time was right. And he would. “I swear she will never know.”

She eyed him dubiously and pointed up at him. “Swear it upon your father's grave. For that I know you will honor.”

She knew him all too well. Of course…his father would understand it was far more honorable to disclose a truth than to withhold it. He set a hand against his chest and tried to look genuine and honorable. “I swear upon my father's grave.”