The Perfect Scandal (19 page)

The dimple-toting Russian popinjay had only met her once! “'Tis a strong sentiment to hold for a woman you don't even know.”

Maksim set his knee-high black-leather boot on the unfolded steps of the carriage. “You have no right to mock me after all that you have done.” Maksim stared him down. “We will take this matter before your King and allow the Grand Duchess to decide how this will end.”

Tristan clenched his jaw tighter and dug his fingers into Zosia's softness. How was he ever going to let her go? He couldn't. He wouldn't.

“So I am not expected to go?” Zosia asked softly. “I am not expected to become your wife? Or Grand Duchess?”

Maksim leaned toward her and lowered his voice as if wanting to keep Tristan out of their conversation. “Though I have the right to seize you and hold you to what has been decreed, I am a gentleman
and will submit to whatever decision you make.” He hesitated. “Might we speak in Polish? I prefer it over English.”

Zosia let out an impish laugh against Tristan's shoulder, nudging herself into it. “He wishes to speak in Polish. How charming.”

Tristan refrained from punching the man in the face, knowing Zosia was tripping over her own blushes. Even worse, he knew how this was going to end if it went before His Majesty. His Majesty held no patience for those who went against his name. Tristan would be fortunate if he wasn't stripped of everything he had, including his title. It was a mess. One that he and he alone had created, and one he doubted Zosia would ever forgive him for once she knew the truth.

Tristan lifted her off the floor, rising with her, and set her on the upholstered seat, removing himself completely from her arms. He couldn't hold her anymore. Not knowing—

“Moreland.” Her hands grabbed hold of his arms once again, ferociously holding on to them and yanking him back toward her.

He stared down at her, trying to conceal the torment of wondering if this would be the last night he'd ever see her. “We ride to Windsor. You have a decision to make.”

She shook his arms. “There is no decision to be
made in this. Count Nikolaevich may be ordained to be my fiancé, but I could never…” She shook her head. “No. I am not prepared to play a role of this magnitude, Moreland. I do not speak the language, I know nothing of the customs or the people or what will be expected of me.” She feigned a laugh. “Can you imagine me and my one leg hobbling into the Russian Court and commanding the Emperor to free all of Poland or die? The very notion is laughable. Nothing would ever come of it.”

It wasn't laughable at all, and he sensed she was only saying that it was because of whatever attachment she might have formed to him. Somehow, and he knew not how, he had allowed his passion to not only destroy the last of his own values, but hers, as well. Because the Zosia he had come to passionately know and love would have never turned away an incredible opportunity like this. Not when it came to helping her people.

He was going to lose her. He was going to forever lose her to a politically important marriage, that he knew, but if didn't let her go, if he didn't let her do this, he would hate himself for the rest of his life. Because this was so much bigger than him and his stupid happiness. A nation's fate was at stake. Christ, he
had
to let her go.

Swallowing against the tightness of his throat, he
glanced toward the Count, who was intently watching them. “Allow me to speak to her alone, sir.”

Maksim angled a tasseled shoulder toward him and leveled his pistol at Tristan's chest. “Speak to her at the point of my pistol or not at all. You have taken enough liberties with her good name. She will be returned to His Majesty at once.”

“I only wish to speak to her.” Tristan tried to remain calm.

Maksim kept the pistol pointed at Tristan. “Then speak.”

Knowing he had no choice, Tristan turned to Zosia. He leaned toward her and cupped the sides of her soft face with both of his hands. Her face was still moist and streaked from earlier tears, which reflected his own agony. “Zosia,” he whispered. “This is an opportunity you cannot turn away. Not for me, not for anyone. Leading others is not only your duty, but your birthright. It is in your blood, in your words, in your mind. It is who you are and what you will always be. Imagine what you could do for Poland if you became part of the Russian Court.
Imagine.
No battle is ever won without a fight from within. You must go. You must do this.”

She hesitated, crinkling her brows. “I suppose I could try to guide and influence the Emperor, but—” Her gray-blue eyes lifted and searched his
face, her grip tightening on his arms. “What about us, Moreland?”

He vowed not to break beneath those words and that sentiment. Now was not the time to break. He needed to love her in a way no one else had. In a way not even her own mother had. It was time to let her go and allow her to pursue not only who she really was, but the dream he had never been a part of to begin with.

He met her gaze and held it intently, willing her to understand that her happiness was all that mattered to him. “There is no us, Zosia. There never was. You were always meant for far greater things than I. I knew that from the moment we met.”

Her eyes widened. “You mean to let me go? Completely?”

“Yes. There is no other way. You must marry Count Nikolaevich.”

She gasped. “After everything we have shared?”

“Zosia, please. Do not—”

“What if I told you that I love you, Moreland? Would that change anything? Would that change how you feel about this or me? Because I love you. I do. And you love me. You do love me, do you not?”

His jaw tightened as he fought against claiming those lips and thanking her for honoring him with the words he longed to hear. He traced his thumbs against the smooth, soft contours of her face, hoping
to sear this moment in his mind always. A moment in which she believed she was in love with him even after everything he had done. Of course, she had yet to understand what he had done. “Your hero whom you have loved long before me is no longer nameless and stands here beside us. As was ordained by your father,
he
is your rightful husband. Not I. I knew who he was, Zosia. I knew it all along.”

She searched his face. “Whatever do you mean?”

He swallowed and focused on the words he knew he needed to say. “It was my plan to never tell you about Count Nikolaevich or the opportunity Russia was giving you as Grand Duchess.”

Her fingers dug into his arms. “What? Why?”

“Because my happiness meant more to me than yours.” Tristan squeezed her face hard with his palms, willing her to feel the twisting pain he was feeling inside. He needed to ensure she took the right path. The only path that was left to take. And it was up to him to lead her in this. “You asked me if I loved you, Zosia, and I must answer in earnest. No. I never loved you.”
I never loved you enough…

Her eyes widened as she drew in a sharp breath. Her hands slipped away from his arms. “Did I mean nothing to you? At all?”

He couldn't breathe. Though he tried. “You and I are done. There is nothing more to say. Accept it. I have.”

She choked. “Why are you saying this? Why are you doing this?”

Because I will
never
put myself before you again. Never. And as much as it rips my soul apart, I cannot have you abandoning everything you are for a man who does not deserve you.

“In time, Zosia, you will forget. As you should.” Tristan released her, feeling as if one massive weight had been lifted only to be replaced by another, much heavier one. “I will ensure you are returned to His Majesty so this can be resolved appropriately.” He quickly turned away from her before his resolve fissured.

Maksim had long lowered his pistol and taken several steps back and away from the door of the carriage. The man had no doubt been expecting more resistance.

What Maksim didn't realize was that Zosia's aspirations and happiness meant far more to Tristan than his own. Stepping toward the ledge of the carriage, Tristan jumped down, his riding boots thudding against the gravel. He squared his shoulders and met Maksim's gaze.

Prominent green eyes dimly displayed by the surrounding lanterns and the flitting moonlight above continued to warily observe him. Everything about the man was annoyingly perfect. His stance, his attire, his noble, sharp features, the color of his eyes,
his square shaven jaw. He even had a dimple. It was as if he'd stepped forth from a painting on the wall of a gallery.

Fisting his hands, Tristan strode toward him, wanting to swing at his skull out of rage and jealousy but unable to do so out of pride and respect for Zosia. “Honor her at every turn or, by God, I will kill you.”

“Fine words coming from a man who has no respect for his own King and has no doubt defiled what is rightfully mine.” The man's pistol jumped up, pointing at his head. “You blackguard! On your knees.
Now!
”

“Maksim!”
Zosia's commanding voice echoed around them. “Makim,
nie. Przesta
!
”

A thud against the gravel behind him made Tristan snap around. His pulse thundered as he realized Zosia had fallen from the carriage, her traveling gown scattered around her sprawled body. She gasped, trying to push herself up, her lone shapely, stockinged leg exposed to the knee as Russian soldiers hurried to her side.

“Zosia!”
Tristan sprinted toward her. He slid to her side, shoving men away from her, and stumbled onto the gravel. Hoisting her up off the ground and into his arms, he quickly covered her exposed limb from the eyes of those around them, smoothing her dress against her leg. His hands trembled
as he cradled her in his lap and rocked her against himself.

She shoved him and hit his shoulder with his own razor case, which she clutched in her hand. “Though I cannot walk when it matters most, I still have my pride!” she shouted. “I have my pride, damn you, and I will not allow you to take away the last of it. Release me.
Release me!
”

He swallowed and grabbed her wrist, yanking the brass case out of her hand. He didn't want her touching his own shame in their last moment together. Shoving it into his pocket, he seized her again and held her even tighter against himself. “I am so sorry,” he whispered. “I am so sorry I violated you and your trust. Forgive me. You and I simply were not meant to be.”

She let out a choked sob, still punching at his arms.

He wanted to die knowing he was breaking her and making her cry in an effort to ensure her happiness. It seemed so wrong.

Maksim kneeled beside them. “Release her!” He forcefully pried Tristan's hands and arms from Zosia, dragging her over and gathering her into his own.

Tristan didn't resist or stand. His body was too numb to do either.

Maksim tucked Zosia protectively against himself as if she had always belonged there. He rose with her,
as she continued to sob, and towered above Tristan. He stared down at him beneath the large rim of his feathered hat. “Why is she like this?” he demanded. “Have you defiled her? Is that it? You defiled her!”

He was
not
about to let him smear the last of Zosia's name in front of a group of soldiers. Her good name was going to be her greatest weapon in the Russian Court. “Mind your bloody tongue and her honor. I never touched her. Not once.” His voice was cold and to the point.

“You lie. And I will defend her honor in the only manner I know how.” Maksim stepped back, readjusting Zosia in his arms, and shouted a curt command in Russian.

Death was a universal language. Tristan knew he was a dead man.

The crunching of gravel beneath boots thudded closer. Two large cavalry men swept out their swords from their sides, the clang of metal sweeping through the night air.

He closed his eyes and waited, one knee still on the ground. How ironic that a blade was going to end it all.

“Maksim!”
Zosia choked out. “You would be a savage to do this. This is not how a man defends a woman's honor. Leave him be. Leave him be and take me to His Majesty at once. It is my duty to set him
aside and oversee my father's wish and the rights of my people. Now, please…leave him be.”

There was a moment of silence.

“As you wish.” Maksim issued another command and, except for the horses shifting their hooves and huffing through their nostrils, nothing more happened.

Tristan reopened his eyes and snapped his gaze toward Zosia, who had wrapped her arms around the broad shoulders of her Russian. Though Tristan tried to hold her gaze to silently thank her for her mercy, she averted her tear-ridden face, burying it against Maksim. Her shoulders sagged. It was as if she were no longer that strong born-leader he knew and loved, but a rag doll unable to even hold up its own head.

“Leave,” Maksim announced.