The Perfect Scandal (14 page)

His large frame shifted against her body as his mouth crushed against hers savagely, snatching away whatever breath she had left. He slid her further down on the mattress, yanking her beneath him. He groaned, sending low vibrations into her mouth as the buttons on the flap of his trousers and his erection buried beneath them rubbed slowly against her lower half, each rotation of his hips growing more urgent.

She reveled in tasting his hot tongue, letting her hands mindlessly travel across the length of his smooth greatcoat, down, and back and up again, the material bunching beneath her fingertips.

He suckled her tongue into his mouth and shifted slightly off to the side, trailing a gloved finger down toward her stomach. He skimmed the smooth material of her nightdress until his finger paused between her thighs. Gently, he cupped the area, rubbing it through her nightdress with the tips of his fingers, spiking stomach-tightening but thrilling sensations up the length of her body, causing her breasts to tingle.

She gasped against his mouth, her fingernails digging into his shoulders as she desperately tried to keep herself from thrusting against his hand.

He tore away from her lips, his chest heaving jaggedly against hers. “Do that again.”

Her cheeks stung as she realized her nails had excited him. She swallowed and smoothed her hands against the fine wool of his greatcoat, molding it against his shoulders. “No.”

“You milksop,” he growled.

“Better a milksop than a fool.”

“And a fool I am.” He slid away from her body and heaved out a pained breath. “Christ. Here I go.” The mattress shifted as he jumped off the bed with a thud.

She blinked. “Where are you going?”

“Wait here.” The floorboards creaked as he crossed the room. She heard the click of the door as he unlocked it and pulled it open. He hesitated as if he were searching the darkness for something. “Benson,” he hissed out into the corridor. “Benson, where are you?”

“Coming, my lord!” Quick, heavy steps and approaching dim light appeared, swaying and shifting against the shadows of the yellow-wallpapered corridor. A young, strapping footman carrying a lit lantern in one hand and an oversized carpetbag in the other appeared in the doorway. Coiled hemp ropes looped around each broad shoulder of his livery as he glanced around like a thief about to carry everything out of the room.

She yanked the coverlet up to her chin in exasperation. “Assure me those ropes are not for me.”

“Of course not.” Moreland's illuminated broad frame turned. “Pack whatever you can, Benson. Do it.
Now
.”

The footman darted toward the other side of the room, set down the lantern beside the carpetbag and yanked open her large wardrobe dresser. Grabbing gowns by the armful, stays and chemises, he stuffed them all into the open bag.

Her heart felt like it was going to leap out of her chest. “Why is he packing my clothes?”

Moreland rounded her bed and pushed her wheel-chair out of the way, causing it to roll toward the window. He paused beside her. “We are leaving London tonight.”

Her eyes widened. “Leaving London? Whatever for?”

“I will explain in due time.” He hesitated. “Do you trust me? Do you trust me to oversee what is best for you and for us?”

She swallowed and told herself she could trust him. She could. Couldn't she? “I…yes.”

“Good.” His rugged features were half-hidden in the shadows, but she could make out a small smile on those lips. “My footmen have already gathered sixteen of your servants. Are there any more? Or is that it?”

She really shouldn't be encouraging any of this. It was madness at best. “There are seventeen. Not sixteen.”

“We'll hunt down the last servant before we leave.”

She hesitated. “Why are you so intent on rounding up my servants?”

“I cannot have anyone informing the authorities or His Majesty of our departure. From this night forth, you are under
my
protection, Zosia. While His Majesty has yet to agree to the match, I know in time he will. He has to.”

She blinked up at him, her gut tightening.
That
was why he was tying up all of her servants. He was going against his own crown, who obviously didn't approve of him if he had to resort to… Oh, no.
She was being kidnapped!

Zosia resisted her own panicked need to cross herself. She tried not to give away that she was onto him. Instead, she steadied her breathing and said in a most impressive, rational tone, “Though I want to trust you, Moreland, I sense something is very wrong. I cannot leave until you explain why you are opposing your own crown. What are you not disclosing?”

He hesitated. After a pulsing moment, he sighed and leaned toward her, his gloved fingers brushing aside a loose strand of hair that had unraveled from her long braid. “Zosia. There are many things I wish
I could say right now. But I can't. Not yet. I will. I promise, I will. But what I can say now is this—I have unearthed far more than your history. His Majesty is seeking to marry you off to a man of no consequence who will be paid to keep you blind to your own history for the rest of your life. You also won't be able to pursue advocating for the rights of your people if you marry whoever His Majesty intends. The idea is to permanently remove you from anything that might give you a voice. Is that what you want?”

She eyed him, sensing he was telling the truth. “How is it you know of His Majesty's plans?”

“My grandmother and he are cousins, remember? They are very close and share everything, including things that I sometimes wish to God they wouldn't. I am taking you to meet her right now. She has great influence over His Majesty, and it is my hope she will be able to convince him to give his blessing in this.”

She couldn't help but be extremely flattered the man was going through all of this effort.
For her.
But…why? Heaven only knew. Maybe it involved whips. She giggled at the very thought. “Are you going to expect a form of payment in the guise of my whipping your backside? Because I really am not at all too keen on that.”

He jerked down toward her and growled, “I am announcing that I am going against my own king
in your name and you have nothing to offer me but insults?”

“I was only—”

“Have I somehow misunderstood what it is we share? If I have, Zosia, you had best tell me now before I carry you out of this house and into my life. Because there is no changing this once it is done. There is no changing it.”

Her grin faded. She could barely think or breathe beneath the sudden weight of expectations he was placing upon her. She was confused. So confused. About him. About this. About what he wanted. About what he needed.

She shifted toward him. “Why are you doing all of this? What is it that you really want? Why are you—”

“Because
you
matter to
me,
” he insisted in a grudging tone. “I know what I want out of a woman, and you are that woman. The question is, do you know what you want in a man? Am I that man? Will I ever be that man? Because I want to be.”

Her lips parted as she stared up at his taut, heated features that silently awaited her reply. Her pulse thundered as she pieced everything together bit by bit by bit. A man didn't go through this much effort for a woman unless there was a form of personal gain. What could be gained by a British Marquis whose own grandmother was cousin to the King?
Nothing. Which meant… “Are you in love with me?” she blurted.

He hesitated and eyed the footman who had long packed everything and was now lingering in the doorway, listening. “Move into the corridor, Benson, and at least pretend you're not listening.”

The footman bowed and hurried out into the corridor.

Moreland leaned toward her and whispered, “I am sacrificing
everything
for an opportunity to make you mine. Does that answer your question?”

Zosia sucked in a breath of astonishment. Though he didn't say it, the intense deliverance of those words indicated he
was
in love with her.
Her
. A woman who would never bear any grace and would forever wheel herself about in a chair like a horse pulling a carriage. “How can you be in love with a one-legged woman?”

He smiled. “How can I not be? There is no woman like you. And I have met quite a few.”

Her belly was turning to liquid fire, and though she knew she would never be able to do the sort of things she sorely wanted to do and missed, like walking and running and dancing, in that moment he made her feel as if she
could
walk and
could
run and
could
dance.

Without thinking—for she wanted to give in to
feeling
—she whispered, “Yes.”

He searched her face. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, you are what I want and need in a man.”

He slowly grinned, his husky features brightening. “I will never let you take back those words. Not ever.” He leaned closer, his gloved hands slipping beneath her thighs and back. “Grab onto my shoulders. We're leaving.”

She scrambled to sit up as he dragged her across the mattress and rolled her out of bed and into his arms in a single toss. She squeaked, grabbing onto his neck and shoulders as her one bare foot dangled outside her nightdress, which was riding up. “I should probably dress. I most certainly cannot—”

“We are not attending a ball, my dear,” he drawled, turning with her in the darkness and heading toward the door. “You can dress more appropriately once we arrive at my grandmother's.”

As he quickly moved them into the darkened corridor and past his footman, she patted his solid shoulder frantically, trying to convince him otherwise. “But I am not even wearing a stay! I cannot—”

“You can wear my greatcoat so
I
don't have to notice you aren't wearing a stay. Benson. Move ahead of us.”

“Yes, my lord.” The footman scurried around them, dutifully bathing the corridor in light.

A female scream pierced and echoed through the corridor behind them. Moreland swung both himself
and Zosia toward Mrs. Wade, who had stumbled back against the wall, her nightcap tipping to one side, exposing a section of her bundled gray hair.

“Seventeen,” Moreland announced matter-offactly.

Zosia held up a hand and waved it toward Mrs. Wade. “Mrs. Wade! Please. There is no need to shatter every skull in the corridor. This is not as vile as it appears. This is Lord Moreland. He is a friend and means to assist me.”

“More than a friend,” Moreland provided gruffly, glaring down at Zosia. “I am here to marry you. Or did you already forget?”

She winced, knowing whatever they said would sound completely absurd. “Would you prefer I announce we are lovers?” she hissed up at him. “Let us not upset the poor woman more than is necessary.”

“Considering all that I am doing,” he tossed back, “do you really think I care who the hell I upset anymore?”

Mrs. Wade pushed away from the wall and edged toward them, glancing from Moreland, to her, to the footman. “Sir. She is under the protection of His Majesty.”

“Not anymore,” he said, his hold tightening.

Mrs. Wade edged steadily closer, as if she were approaching a feral beast. “She is an invalid, sir, and requires better care than this.”

Zosia gasped and glared at Mrs. Wade. “I am not an invalid.”

“Tie her to a bedpost, Benson,” Moreland grumbled. “Show her what an invalid
really
is and use every goddamn rope you have. When you're done with her, meet us by the carriage outside.”

“Yes, my lord!” The footman tossed the carpetbag and set down the lantern, jogging around them.

Mrs. Wade let out a piercing scream and darted in the opposite direction, her robe and nightdress flapping around her. The footman dashed after her, yanking ropes off each shoulder, his boots thudding against the floorboards in an effort to keep up.

Zosia grinned as Moreland toted her down the corridor. She grabbed his lightly stubbled chin with the tips of her fingers, leaned in and kissed his warm cheek soundly. “
That
is for defending my honor.”

He tightened his hold on her and glanced down at her as they reached the candlelit stairwell. “I will never let anyone disrespect you. That I vow.”

A part of her was already madly in love with this man and everything he was. She kissed his cheek again, only more tenderly, nuzzling her lips across his prickling stubble. “Thank you. Now remove me from this house. I am well and done with His Majesty. I have found myself a new protector. One who actually knows what he is doing.”

He grinned. “I am yours to command.” With that,
he carried her down the length of the stairs, his steps and his hold proud and strong.

Rounding the bottom of the staircase, he quickly headed through a long corridor, which deposited them in an empty kitchen. A footman held open the servants' door leading out, waiting for them to pass through.

Moreland carried her out into the night. The blast of cool, coal-tinged, murky London air made her take in a deep, savory breath as if it were the best air she'd ever had. And in some way, it was. For this was the beginning of a new life.

M
OONLIGHT BATHED
the small terraced courtyard in a haunting, fuzzy gray glow as Moreland swiftly steered Zosia out toward the coach house and through the open gates. He paused before the open door of an unmarked, black-lacquered carriage whose outside glass lanterns remained unlit.

Moreland leaned toward the young footman who held the door and instructed in a low, quiet tone, “We wait for Benson. After we depart, you will stay here with the rest. Don't untie any of the servants until morning. That will give me enough time to be well out of reach. Come morning, return to the house. My secretary will call with fifty pounds in hand for each of you. I will not be informing you of anything more. That will keep you and everyone else out of harm's way should the authorities get involved. Tell them you know nothing and you were only following my orders. My barrister will oversee the rest.”

The footman bowed his dark head. “Yes, my lord.”

Moreland leaned away, adjusting her weight in his arms and added, “When Benson arrives, knock. I will knock, in turn, for you to signal to the driver to depart.”

“May God see you through your journey, my lord.”

Moreland offered a curt nod. “I thank you for those words and your service.”

Turning her sideways, Moreland guided Zosia gently into the coach, leaning forward just enough to place her onto the cushion of the seat inside.

Stripping his greatcoat, Moreland cloaked her with its heavy, soothing warmth. She inhaled the scent clinging to it, which smelled just like him: cardamom.

He stepped up and into the upholstered space, falling back into the seat across from hers, causing the entire carriage to sway. He snapped his fingers and the footman folded up the steps and secured the door.

Moreland gestured toward her. “Lean back against the seat. I don't want you falling.”

She smiled and tapped her one bare foot against the cold floor of the carriage assuredly. “All I need is one foot to uphold myself.” She drew his greatcoat tighter around herself, snuggling inside it, feeling as though she were snuggling against him.

There was a knock on the covered window, announcing Benson's arrival. Moreland leaned forward and thudded his gloved fist against the side door. He sat back as the carriage clattered forward, swaying them and the small, lit lantern above their heads, which appeared to cast more shadows than light.

She scooted toward the window. Lifting the drawn curtain, she peered out as the coach house disappeared and they turned onto the main street. Except
for random passing lampposts, she could make out little else against the darkness.

“Keep the curtains drawn.” Moreland's terse tone indicated it was a command, not a suggestion. “The coach is unmarked and we ride without lanterns for a reason.”

Her fingers instantly released the curtain, letting it fall into place over the window. She glanced toward him.

His fist kept tapping his upper thigh as if he were counting fast to a hundred or waiting for something to happen. Something of a sinister nature.

She stared at him. “Are we in some sort of peril?”

“No. Not you. I.”

Her heart pounded. “
You?
How so?”

He shrugged, still tapping his gloved fist against his thigh. “His Majesty could very well strip me of everything I own—including my title—for doing this. But it's the only path I know to take that will ensure you don't live a lie and that I don't lose you to another man.”

A soft smile tugged at her lips, his words flinging away whatever doubts she might have had. There was nothing more gallant and daring and romantic than a man risking everything for a woman. “You are unbelievably courageous and bold to oppose your own King in my honor.”

He grunted. “Stupid is what I am. But we won't go into that.”

She laughed. “Allow me to express how endlessly grateful I am for your stupidity.”

He shifted his jaw, not in the least bit enthused, and kept on tapping and tapping and tapping that rigid fist.

She cleared her throat. Perhaps it was time to re-focus their conversation. Pulling her long braid down over the front of her right shoulder, she fingered its length, following the threaded grooves of soft hair. “Will you tell me?” she hinted softly.

He paused from tapping his fist. “Yes. Tomorrow morning. When my mind isn't so muddled. Will that be agreeable?”

She half nodded. What was one more day after twenty-three years of not knowing? She shoved her braid back over her shoulder and eyed him. “So what are your plans?”

“Plans?” he echoed.

“Yes.
Plans.
I imagine you have some daring scheme, considering we are practically fugitives.”

He shifted against the seat and glanced down at his hand, which was now picking at the knee of his trousers. He drew in a pained breath and huffed it out. “We won't be staying in London. We can't.”

“Yes, I suspected as much. So where are we going?”

His hand stilled on his knee. The dim lantern light above their heads swayed light and shadows across his face as he met her gaze. “New York.”

Startled, she sat straight up in the seat and jolted against the movements of the carriage. “New York? New York, as in America?”

“Yes. New York, as in America.”

She shook her head and kept right on shaking it. “No. Oh, no. No, no, no. Take me anywhere in this vast world
but
America.”

He leaned toward her. “You have no choice in this. I have already chartered a ship.”

She glared at him. “You obviously thought I was going to submit to anything and everything you had in mind. A bit conceited, are you?”

“No, of course not. That isn't—”

“Despite my willingness to place faith in everything you are saying and doing—
which I am
—I have no intention of neglecting my cause or my people. Not for you or for anyone else. You had best remember that.”

His features tightened. “I am not telling you to abandon your cause or your people. You will simply have to tend to your cause and your people in New York for a small while.”

“But I cannot preach the rights of freedom to a nation that has no concept of freedom! Americans believe in slavery. They keep colored people uneducated
and do unspeakable things to them for their own vile gain. How am I to preach to that?”

He intently searched her face. “His Majesty wants you situated in New York and I intend to honor what little of his requests I can in the hopes of appeasing him. I vow to support you through every breathing moment of whatever you have in mind, but it will have to be done in New York for a while. We can relocate later, after a few months, if that is what you want.”

“I am
not
going to New York.
Or
America.”

His nostrils flared. “Would you prefer I return you to His Majesty and allow
him
to oversee all of your patriotic plans? Because I can do that. I certainly don't want you feeling like you're being roped off to America by some blade-loving savage. That is not what I want for you. That is not why I am doing this.”

She sighed, knowing full well His Majesty would sooner place a habit on her than allow her to dip her hands into political waters. “You are no savage, Moreland, and should never speak of yourself as such.” She sighed again. “I suppose if I am forced to go to New York to appease His Majesty, then I will simply have to assist preaching for colored people, too. Because I certainly cannot voice the freedom of one people and ignore the rights of another.”

Heaving out a breath, he glanced over at her.
“Though assisting colored people is a very noble, and indeed a worthy cause, you cannot take up every battle you come across.”

“And why not? Our wealth and status give us privileges few in society have. We have a responsibility to ensure more than our own voices are being heard. As my mother used to say,
‘Leaders must be reminded that their duty and their morals do not serve them, but their people.'
”

He snorted. “Yes, and your mother knew all about duty and morals to have birthed you out of wedlock and then kept you blind to your own history. Who was that serving? Not you, to be sure.”

Zosia swallowed against the tightness clenching her throat. She had no right to be infuriated by his words. Because he was right. Her mother had indeed lost sight of herself, her duty and her morals to have gone against everything she had preached. But that would never change her own love for her mother.

She fought the tears stinging her eyes. “Regardless of what my mother may have been guilty of, her strength and her wisdom saw me through everything.
Everything
.”

She pointed rigidly to her amputated thigh buried beneath his greatcoat and choked out, “Do you think I was always at ease with my physical state? I sought to
die
knowing I would forever be a cripple and that, with the loss of my dignity, I also lost so much more.
You should have seen my coming-out in Warszawa two months before that wall fell and destroyed my life. I admit to being vain in those days. I was. It was very easy for me to be vain for I was hailed as a beauty. Men lined the hall for hours waiting for an opportunity to dance the Polonaise with me. Only they all disappeared the moment my leg did. And though those men meant nothing to me, it was all too symbolic of what I had been left with.
Nothing.
Or that is what I thought. It was my mother who resurrected me each and every time I wanted to take my last breath. It was my mother who reminded me of my worth. And nothing you or anyone else has to say about her will ever change that truth for me.”

Moreland's shadowed eyes and face held so much anguish, there was no doubt it reflected her own. Very softly and apologetically, he offered, “I had no right to impose upon the memory of a woman I never knew. Forgive me.”

Zosia nodded and blinked rapidly, pushing back whatever tears remained. She set her chin, struggling to compose herself. “She meant everything to me. I cannot imagine her being…deceitful.”

He lowered his gaze. “I understand,” he whispered. “I will tell you about your father.”

She shook her head. “No. Not now. Not yet. I…I am not ready to hear it.”

He kept his gaze on his gloved hands. “All you need do is ask.”

She sniffed, trying to lull herself back into a state of peace, and nodded. “I will.”

They sat without speaking. The thundering clatter of the wheels rotating against the cobblestone overtook all sound.

She hated the way he kept staring at his hands. She also hated the pause in their dialogue. It only allowed for bad thoughts to fester. Needing to push out the tension and the last of the emotions still coiled within her, she released a shaky breath. “Forgive me for having bowed to my emotions in a manner that might have induced you to believe that I am not at all grateful for all that you are sacrificing in my honor. Might we commence our conversation anew? As peers?”

He glanced up. “Are we not more than peers?” His voice was notably cool and distant.

She swallowed, sensing his displeasure with the thought of them being mere peers. “Yes, of course we are. I only meant in conversation.”

“Did you?”

She smiled, trying to show that she was no longer affected by her earlier display of emotion. “I was merely hoping you and I might partake in the sort of conversations men and women do not usually engage in.”

His eyes and his face softened. “And what sort of conversation were you wanting?”

“One involving…politics.”

“I should hope you could converse with me about anything. Especially politics, Zosia.”

“Thank you.” Her smile widened. “Given your years in Parliament, if you were to offer an underling, such as myself, any advice pertaining to my plight, what sort of advice would you give?”

He eyed her pensively, rubbing his fingers against the length of his set jaw. Hefting out a breath, he dropped his hand heavily onto his lap. “I would advise you to remember that a person can only do so much. Choose one battle at a time, not a dozen. The more battles you dedicate yourself to, the less effective you will be. I should know.”

He leaned forward, as if trying to better convey his words. “I went into the House of Lords at the age of four and twenty thinking I would conquer the world, only to discover I couldn't even conquer the votes of fifteen people. I assure you, Zosia, New York will offer you a far bigger platform than you think. The city is quite progressive in its freedoms. Americans are also fascinated by the aristocracy, which will fall in our favor. In New York, you will be a celebrity preaching for a just cause. Whilst here? You would be nothing more than a damn blow book. Something to look at, then forget.”

She blinked. “A
blow book?
Forgive my ignorance, but what sort of nonsensical British word is that?”

He winced and leaned back. “Forgive me. That was not a respectable analogy for me to have used.”

She lifted an inquisitive brow. “So the term
blow book
is crass in nature?”

“Yes. Very.”

“And is a
blow book
an actual book, as the term itself insinuates?”

“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Now please. Stop saying
blow book.
It doesn't sound right coming from you.”

A crass book that was an actual book? Well, it was obvious what it had to be. She leaned forward. “Are you insinuating it is a compilation of indelicate words and pictures?”

“Yes, Zosia. Yes. Now please. I would rather you not—”

“You compared me and my cause to a
blow book?
” she huffed out in exasperation.
“Moreland!”

“Curse me for breathing.” He shifted his entire body against the seat and looked away, seething out a heavy breath. “Do you have to be so sensitive about the subject of your land? I do believe I am lynching myself merely for being British.”