The Perfect Scandal (20 page)

Tristan slowly got to his feet, a pulsing knot rising from his stomach to his chest. Zosia was not happy. His Zosia was not happy despite the fact that he had let her go without resistance and she now had everything she had ever wanted, including her hero.

Which meant…

She loved him. She really did.

His jaw tightened so hard his teeth ached. He couldn't leave her to suffer like this. He couldn't walk away and leave her to think he had never cared or loved her in turn. It would be violating her trust all over again and that he swore he would never do.

Tristan drew in a steadying breath and stepped forward. “I need to approach the Grand Duchess.”

“Leave,”
Maksim warned as he stepped back, bringing Zosia up higher against his chest. “I will not spare your life twice.”

The cavalry surrounding him inched in, as if sensing something was about to detonate.

Tristan narrowed his gaze. “I will not leave unless
she
wishes it. Grand Duchess. Might I approach and amend my earlier words? That is all I ask. Allow me to amend my words.”
Zosia. Show me you will not turn me away in senseless anger, but that you will fight for me, and in turn, I vow to make you proud
.

She jerked her head back toward Tristan, her tear-streaked, shadowed face softening under the moonlight. “Let Moreland approach.”

Tristan sucked in a breath and fought from growling,
God, do I love you. How I love you for always extending more faith in me than I have ever had in myself.

Maksim glared down at her. “He seeks to sway you.”

“No man sways me. I sway myself.”

Maksim huffed out a breath and grudgingly toted Zosia toward him. Maksim paused within an arm's length of where Tristan stood and coolly stared him down.

Odd though it was, Tristan couldn't help but
respect this Russian. After all, he was proving to be a far greater gentleman toward Zosia than he himself had ever been.

“Moreland?” Zosia expectantly met his gaze. “What is it? What do you wish to say? Now is the time before our paths divert and nothing can be changed.”

Mere words were going to be meaningless. He needed far more than words to prove to her what he felt. Which is why he was going to openly offer her that one piece of his heart he'd kept hidden from everyone, including his own grandmother, for thirteen years.

He dug into his coat pocket, his fingers pressing against the razor case, and pulled it out. Opening it, he dug out the aged, folded parchment and tossed aside the empty case. He swallowed and held out the page, hoping to God she knew what it was. Hoping to God his grandmother had told her about it during her little pity fest so he wouldn't have to explain things. Because he didn't have the strength to explain.

Zosia's eyes widened. “Why are you giving that to me?”

Though he had never once spoken of it or removed the folded parchment from his razor case in her presence, it was obvious by the dread in her face she knew exactly what it was. His grandmother
had
told her. And he, for one, was thankful she had, for he was
able to silently convey how important this moment was for him—for them—without shattering the last of his resolve.

He stepped closer, still holding it out. “I hope one day you will be able to forgive me for all that I have said and done. By giving you this, I vow to become a better man in your honor. You must understand that I could never agree to you giving up an opportunity to help your own people. Not when so much is at stake. It has nothing to do with what we share and what I feel for you. Do you understand?”

Her eyes jumped to his and searched his face. She hesitated, reached out and slipped the faded parchment from his fingers. Edging it back toward herself, she pressed it against her chest with both hands and leaned back against Maksim, who was already stepping back. “What will become of us?” she whispered, clearly wanting to understand what he was saying.

He leveled her with a firm gaze and offered, in a soft tone that he hoped conveyed all the love he held for her, “Perhaps our paths will cross again when I am more deserving.” He bowed and stepped back, trying to control the trembling in his body.

Tristan gestured toward the carriage, his hand quaking visibly. “Take my carriage, sir,” he announced to Maksim. “Her condition will not allow her to ride upon a horse.” He turned and yelled over
to Benson and Clayton, “Escort her to Windsor and ensure her safe arrival! Is that understood?”

Benson and Clayton, who solemnly stood in the driving box, offered compliant nods.

Tristan swiveled back toward Maksim. “I will ride on any horse you generously offer, though I have no qualms about walking, either. After all, my life was spared and for that I am grateful.”
Although I do need a damn horse. Give me a horse, man
.

Maksim eyed him, blew out a breath and offered matter-of-factly, “Allow me.” He issued a few curt words over his shoulder to the surrounding men.

A saddled stallion was brought over.

Tristan silently offered an appreciative nod toward Maksim, ensuring his gaze didn't meet Zosia's. Or he'd never leave. He yanked himself up and swung his leg over and onto the horse, shoving his booted feet into both stirrups. Tightening his hold on the reins, he veered the horse away from the carriage and toward the direction of what he knew was Windsor.

He dug his heels into the sides of the horse and galloped into the night, which was beginning to fade and give way to the soft pinkish-blue hue of day that illuminated the long road ahead. The cool wind whipped at him, flapping and lifting and pushing his coat all around him. As dirt kicked up from the hooves of the horse, stinging his eyes, he
welcomed the discomfort and pushed the beast faster and harder, praying he got to Windsor long before Zosia and Maksim.

Late morning, on the outskirts of Windsor Castle

“V
ELIKAYA
K
NYAZHA
.”

Zosia opened her eyes and blinked, realizing she was still tucked against the upholstered seat of
Moreland's carriage. Only it wasn't Moreland sitting across from her. It was Maksim.

She swallowed and glanced down at the yellowing, folded parchment still pressed between her fingers. She hadn't been able to bring herself to open it. Eerily, she felt that if she opened it, Tristan would cease to exist. That
they
would cease to exist.

Maksim slid his dark, wide, feathered hat onto his lap. He cleared his throat, squaring his broad shoulders against the seat. “We arrive soon.”

She tried not to dwell on how terrified she was, anticipating stepping into the Russian Court without knowing the language or the faces or the politics or the expectations or the customs. How was she to fight for her people's cause when she couldn't even do it in their own language? She had always wanted to be a voice, that she knew, but with each step she took that brought her closer and closer to her dream, she was beginning to realize that becoming a voice for a nation meant giving up one's
own
voice and, in turn, sacrificing everything. Including one's own heart.

Maksim lowered his gaze, his gloved fingers rounding the rim of his hat. “You will find the Emperor to be most welcoming. He is your uncle. He believes you will create a symbolic union between Poland and Russia. One that Russia needs. He will listen to your views and apply them as he sees fit, but expects you to convert and become part of our
Greek church. By becoming part of our church, we will then be allowed to marry.”

It appeared that majestic manipulation—better known as male politics—had already commenced without her having even stepped into Russia. She knew that by submitting to being Grand Duchess she would never be anything more than a symbol to be emblazoned upon whatever flag the Emperor wanted to hold up. But if the Emperor thought he would ever be able to control her or her thoughts or her religion, he didn't know anything about Polish women. Which she still was, despite the Russian blood she now knew warmed her veins.

Her fingers tightened on the parchment Moreland had given her. She drew strength from it. “I have no objection to any church outside of my own, but I do object when others think my church is worth less than theirs. I was born a Catholic and will die a Catholic, like my mother before me. And though I may become Grand Duchess, I will not become anyone's pawn. Which is why, despite the decree, you and I will not wed.”

He glanced up, his green eyes sharpening. “You have a duty to Russia and to me.”

She slowly shook her head. “No. I have a duty to Poland and its people first. Russia comes second, though only out of respect for the father I never knew.
And as for you, Maksim, though I do owe you my life, regrettably, there is no place for you at all.”

He rose, swaying against the movement of the carriage, and settled beside her. Leaning toward her, he gently pushed her braided hair over her shoulder. “I have not forgotten that day. I have not forgotten what we shared. It haunts me.
You
still haunt me.”

She glanced toward him and swallowed, leaning away. “You lost whatever claim you might have had, Maksim, when you abandoned me and left me to never even know your name.”

“Do you not remember anything?” he insisted. “Do you not remember when I…” He searched her face.

She shook her head, wishing he would stop. She didn't want him digging into her head or the past. Not when her heart belonged to Moreland. “I only remember you being kind. That is all I remember.”

“I did not abandon you willingly.” He leaned closer, his hand curving down her shoulder, his fingers grazing the sleeve of her gown in a lingering manner. “I inquired many, many times, but your mother demanded I cease. And so I did. Out of respect for the love a mother has for her child. She knew what was best for you. Not I.” He reached into her lap and grasped her hand. The one holding Moreland's parchment.

Zosia's heart pounded as she tried to yank her
hand away, feeling he was violating whatever was left of her and Moreland.

He tightened his hold and threaded his fingers between hers, crinkling the parchment between their hands. “As I was leaving for my military duties abroad, several months later, the Emperor requested to see me and hailed me for my heroism in assisting you. He apparently followed all the events of your life as well as your mother's through various informants. I learned everything I wanted to know about you from your father, including who you were and how, despite my efforts, your limb had been amputated. He boasted of your strength in having survived what usually killed his own soldiers, and went on to insist you had formed an attachment to me—a Russian—and that you had forced your own mother to post monetary awards throughout Warszawa to find me. I was touched, as was the Emperor. He thought we would be a good match. I agreed.” He squeezed her hand, crinkling the paper even more.

Zosia yanked her hand out of his. “Please do not impose yourself upon me like this. That part of my life no longer exists. I still hope to wed Lord Moreland and ask that you respect that.” She tucked Moreland's letter into her bosom and scooted toward the other side of the carriage, even though there was nowhere to go.

He was quiet for a moment. “Your title of Grand
Duchess will only be extended to you through our union. It was ordained by your father that if by your twenty-third birthday you had remained unwed due to the tragic circumstance of your amputation, you would be married to me and brought back into the Russian Court.”

Zosia jerked toward him, her throat tightening. Oh, God. Now she understood why Karol had made use of that old private agreement her grandfather had made with England offering protection during any revolt. Karol's fear had been far greater than that of revolt when she had arrived in London barely before her twenty-third birthday. Karol had feared she would become part of the Russian Court.

Much like her mother, her cousin's patriotism had caused him to overreact. “I must marry you if I am to be reinstated as Grand Duchess?”

“Yes.”

“And did Karol know about this decree?”

“Yes. Several months prior, he was contacted and informed of the upcoming decree and its expectations. He agreed to submit, as was expected of him, and gave us an appointed time and place for you to be passed into the Emperor's hands. A spy informed the Emperor that you had been removed from the country and placed into England's hands. The Emperor was anything but pleased.”

She swallowed. “Karol has not been harmed or reprimanded in any way for his intervention, has he?”

“No. Out of respect for you, I requested that the Emperor offer your cousin leniency.”

She drew in a shaky breath. “I thank you.”

He hesitated and added in a low tone, “Thank me by allowing me to reinstate you to what is rightfully yours.”

A pounding fear crept into her heart, paralyzing her as the carriage pulled in beneath the arching stone portico of Windsor. If she became Grand Duchess, she would have to marry Maksim and give up Moreland forever. And she was not ready to give him up. Not yet. It was time to take on her
own
voice. One she refused to silence.

She gathered her locket with trembling hands, a locket that had not been removed from around her throat since it had left her mother's four years earlier, and slipped it up and off. She kissed it, turned to Maksim and draped it over his head. She lovingly adjusted it around his neck. “My father, your former Emperor, gave this to my mother. I am now giving it to you, Maksim. By doing so, I announce that we are friends and only friends, and with it, I end whatever duty my father sought for me to uphold. I will do right by Poland in another way.”

The carriage door opened. Royal footmen
unfolded the steps, formally announcing their arrival at Windsor.

Maksim's gloved hand fisted the locket, the leather around his knuckles creaking softly in protest. He hesitated before finally saying in Polish, “You will give up your heritage, your honor, your right and your duty for a man who did not respect you enough to tell you the truth?”

She nodded. Staring out before her, she replied in English, “Moreland is still learning how to love himself. He is bound to make mistakes. And for that, I cannot fault him.”

Maksim leaned in very close, causing the hilt of his dagger attached at the sash of his uniform to graze against her thigh. “Come with me to Saint Petersburg. Meet your people. Meet your Emperor.” His warm lips traced her cheek. “Offer me the same chance you offered him,
Velikaya Knyazha
. Do I not deserve it?”

“Cease,” she choked out, leaning away. “Cease this. Cease touching me.”

He leaned closer. “No. I will not. Not until—”

She shoved his solid body away from her. Grasping the thick silver hilt at his side, she yanked the heavy blade out of its scabbard and pointed the tip of its steel blade toward his chest. “
Never
touch me or think you can sway me, or I will carve off whatever
makes you a man and serve it to your own horse after I grind it into a barrel of oats.”

Maksim let out a gruff laugh and held up both hands, rising to his booted feet and away from the blade. “I genuinely fear for myself and all of Russia.”

“As well you should.”

 

S
ITTING IN THE SILENCE OF
the oversized gray, red and gold receiving room, whose sweeping walls were covered with gilded paintings of former royalty, Zosia fingered Moreland's parchment.

She had waited long enough. She needed to read it.

Shakily, she unfolded the yellowing, frayed paper, dreading the words she was about to read. She blinked and stared at what she had unfolded. Aside from faded ink unevenly spattering the parchment, there was not a single word written upon it.

She turned it over and then back again, confused. As she stared at the splatter of ink, trying to understand, her eyes widened and her breath caught.

It wasn't ink.

It was dried blood.

Blood from thirteen years past.

Her fingers slid to the edges of the parchment. There had never been a letter. He had been cruelly left to never know why. “Oh, Moreland,” she whispered
brokenly, tears blinding her as she tightened her hold on the edges of the parchment. “I am so sorry. You deserved more.”

She sniffed, carefully refolding the paper so she didn't have to look at it. She swiped away the tears with the back of her hand. She couldn't abandon him. Not after he had entrusted her with his greatest secret. He deserved an opportunity to redeem himself.

“Damn my cousin for all eternity!”
a booming male voice echoed in the huge room, making her jump. “This is all her doing, you realize. That is all women are ever good for. Gossip.”

Zosia tucked Moreland's parchment into her bosom, and glanced up as His Majesty's stocky frame stalked across the room toward her. Patting her face dry with her hands, she slowly rose from her gilded chair. She regally balanced on her one leg, arranging her traveling skirts about herself, and offered the King a deep bow of her head. “Your Majesty. Please forgive the intrusion and the hour.”

“Sit, sit.” He waved her back into the chair, the rubies and emeralds on his gold rings glinting against thick, white fingers. “I have had more intrusions this morning than I have had in my entire years as King. Damn annoying is what it is.”

She sat, wobbling for a moment, and took a deeply needed breath. She was thankful Maksim had been forced to wait in the adjoining room.

His Majesty swiped at wizened gray hair, shoving it away from his prominent brow, and then dragged a chair closer to hers, wafting the subtle scent of almond powder toward her. With a hefty breath, he sat, adjusting his long morning robe. Smoothing the lace neck cloth against his throat, he eyed her. “Be forewarned. The Russians will use leeches the size of my scepter to bleed out whatever love you think you have for your country.”

She smiled. “You will be pleased to know that I am relinquishing my right and claim to the title of Grand Duchess.”

His gray, bushy brows rose. “Relinquishing, you say? Rubbish. Whatever for? I thought you would dash at it.”

She drew in a shaky breath and let it out, setting the tips of her fingers against Moreland's parchment hidden within her stay. “Since coming to England, Your Majesty, I have learned something invaluable from a remarkable man who has yet to recognize how remarkable he truly is. I have learned that I must fight one battle at a time, not a dozen. For the more battles I dedicate myself to, the less effective I will be. Which is why I must learn to conquer what matters first and foremost first: my heart. I come to thank you for the protection you have so generously bestowed upon me, and humbly ask to remain
in England so that Moreland and I may wed. I intend to convert to the Protestant church.”

He pulled in his chin and gawked at her for a long moment. “You jest.”

She laughed. “No. I know my God will forgive me, for I submit to love.”

The King chortled and shifted in his chair, smacking a hand against his thigh. “In my opinion, you may be better off drinking arsenic, my dear, than becoming a Protestant and marrying that boy. A scandalmonger is what he is. A damn scandalmonger. To have reduced you to this!”

“I confess I have always been fond of scandal-mongers.”

“Is that so? I happen to be an even greater scandalmonger than he. So why the devil do you continue to deny me? Eh? Too old? Or is it—” he slapped his protruding belly “—
this?
The belly isn't quite as large as what lies beneath it.”

She pinched her lips together, her cheeks unexpectedly burning like fire. She lowered her gaze, unwilling to entertain the man with so much as a reprimand, for she knew it would only rile him and his naughty nature.