The Perfect Scandal (24 page)

He laughed in a boisterous, jovial manner, grabbing the pillow out of her hand. “Have you no humor?” He whipped the pillow aside with a laugh, grabbed hold of her and gently tugged her down onto the couch, his hands skimming her face. He grinned. “We Russian officers have a savage fondness for Polish women. Why else do you think we keep invading your country?”

She gargled out an exasperated laugh, smacked his
hands away and pushed his body off to the side. “Off with you. Off my bed, you ungovernable Russian.”

He jumped up to his feet and adjusted his uniform. He pointed down at her, his features stern. “Write your letter tonight. I will ensure your missive is sent by express military courier. It will arrive in London faster than any other courier available.”

Zosia blinked up at him, and sat up, touched by his sentiment. “Maksim? Can I really trust you? Are we friends? True friends?”

“Someone has to keep you from being sent to Siberia. It might as well be me. So, yes. We are friends. All I ask is that you now name your first son in my honor. Maksim is a good name.”

She grinned. “I highly doubt Moreland would allow me to name our first son after a Russian I used to fantasize about.”

He lowered his chin, his brows rising. “You used to…?”

“
Used to,
Maksim. I have long since learned that the British are
far
more reliable than you Russians will ever be.”

The 18th of September
Early afternoon

A
CURT KNOCK MADE
T
RISTAN
open his eyes. He blinked, realizing the side of his face was plastered against the parchment of an open ledger he'd earlier set upon his desk. He sat up, swiping his face and blew out an exhausted breath.

Though his never-ending crusade to rally support for Poland had ended weeks earlier, his body and his mind were still recovering from the stress. His scheduled debate had been a good one, his best by far, but it had roused little sentiment from a Parliament that was still transitioning to accepting its new Catholic peers into the realm. He only hoped America would prove to be more supportive.

Another knock against the closed doors of his study reminded him how he'd been roused from a state of slumber.

He cleared his throat. “Is it urgent?”

“A letter arrived by express royal courier,” the butler called back. “His Majesty ordered it delivered into your hands at once.”

News. From His Majesty. Zosia. It had to be news pertaining to Zosia. It was the first he'd been privy to since he had last seen her over four months ago.

Tristan jumped up and onto his booted feet. Jogging around the desk and across the room, he threw
open the doors, a renewed burst of energy overtaking him. “Where is it?”

The butler stepped toward him, stoically presenting him with the silver mailing tray.

Tristan reached out and was about to swipe up the correspondence, but paused. He edged back his hand. On the tray's reflective center was an old faded parchment with spattered discoloration and sloppy creases that had been strategically refolded into a letter and sealed with a large red wax embossed with a Russian eagle crest.

His breath hitched, recognizing the parchment. The lone piece of parchment he had slipped off his father's blood-smeared desk thirteen years ago, shortly after his body had been removed by the doctor and authorities. It was a parchment Tristan had folded away and kept, wishing it held his father's last thoughts. The parchment he'd given to Zosia. What did it mean? Was she done waiting? Had she already married her Russian and taken her place as Grand Duchess?

Tristan met the butler's gaze but did not reach for it. “What instructions came with it?”

“You are to read it, my lord,” the butler confided, still holding out the tray.

He shifted toward the man in agitation. “Yes, I gathered as much. But am I to respond to it? Is there a request for a response?”

“No. There was no request for a response, my lord.”

Tristan swung away and swiped a hand over his face. He didn't know if he was strong enough to even touch that parchment, let alone read whatever words Zosia had written upon it. Dearest God. She'd actually written words upon a parchment still bearing his father's own blood. She'd actually written words upon it.
Words!
Damn her. Damn her!

He swung back to the tray and snatched up the letter. “Leave. Now.”

Bowing, the butler lowered the tray and departed.

Tristan slammed the doors into each other, turned and paced back and forth, tapping the parchment against the open palm of his hand. “It's only been a little over four months, Zosia,” he growled aloud, tapping it against his palm harder and harder. “If you aren't capable of dedicating yourself to me this long, there is no hope for us. None.”

He stalked over to the desk and slapped the letter onto it with a big downward sweep of his arm. He raked his hands through his hair and then turned, trudging over to the nearest sideboard to keep himself from even
thinking
about the blade.

Brandy. He needed brandy. He deserved to get soused after choking on Catholic politics for weeks and weeks on end. Hell, if it hadn't been for the boys
at Jackson's, where he'd thrashed out every single one of his frustrations over the fact that no one gave a spit about Poland, he would have never survived.

Grabbing the crystal decanter of brandy, he toted it back to his desk, eyed the letter and slammed the decanter onto the gleaming surface beside it. His throat tightened and he suddenly felt his skin swell with heat.

He couldn't breathe.

Stepping back, he lifted his chin and unraveled his cravat as fast as his fingers would allow. Yanking it off, he whipped it aside. He then stripped his coat, his waistcoat and his linen shirt from his body, lashing them all one by one onto the floor of the study.

Though the pricking heat against his exposed skin was rapidly cooling, he felt restless as he rounded his writing desk. He grabbed up all of the ledgers, stacking them, and paused before the row of carved wooden drawers. He stared at that bottom drawer, knowing his blade from Nepal was buried within it. All he had to do was ask the butler for the key.

His chest tightened as he struggled to steady his breathing. He shook his head, knowing he was stronger than this. He was stronger than resorting to the blade. He'd proven that to himself when he opted to box every time he felt like slicing himself out of frustration.

He was going to have a drink. The way an ordinary
man would after a long day. Only he wasn't about to use a glass or limit his intake. God, no.

Leaning over, he tossed the glass stopper from the decanter onto the desk, causing it to chink, and grabbed the decanter, the amber liquid within sloshing. He brought the rim of the smooth crystal to his lips, tilting it and his head back, guzzling the burning liquid into his mouth. He swallowed and swallowed and swallowed, trying to finish as much as he could without coming up for air.

Only…it didn't feel right. He felt like he was drowning himself, instead of facing reality. It was but a different form of the blade.

Tristan broke away from the brandy, but couldn't level out the decanter in time. Cool, razor-stinging liquid exploded across the front of his chest and trousers. He winced and hissed out a breath.

“You clod,” he muttered. “You can't even drink.” He slammed the almost-empty decanter on the table and swiped at all the liquid covering the expanse of his bare chest. His brows creased, and he paused as his wet fingers slid against sections of his scarred skin that felt…smoother.

He glanced down, drawing away his hands, and stared down at himself. He didn't look the same, and had been too damn preoccupied to even notice it. Despite the discolored scars creating jagged angles
that whispered of every incident that had ever upset him, his upper body looked…decent.

His chest was far more muscled, far more taut and far more defined from all the countless hours of boxing he'd thrown himself into. It was as if his skin had been pulled tight against whatever scarring there was. He'd never looked this fit in all his eight and twenty years.
He
did this. He had done it all on his own, without anyone, not Zosia and not even his own grandmother, holding him up by the collar.

He was finally his own man. He felt it. He knew it.

He leveled his gaze toward the desk where Zosia's letter waited for him, his nostrils flaring. Her face and her body echoed within his mind, and though he still desperately needed her and desperately wanted to be with her, a part of him dared her to defy him. He was his own man now and could damn well box his way through anything. No matter what that letter said, he would survive. He would.

Tristan set his jaw, rounded the desk and snatched up Zosia's letter. Drawing in a calming breath, he cracked the red wax seal and unfolded the parchment.

He stared at the perfectly scribed words that had filled the yellow, faded, blood-spattered page.

 

Mój Kochany,

Though I have much to share, and most of it
does not bode well for my people, I intend to only share what matters most: my love for you. We never had a chance to truly come to terms with all that has happened to us, but please know that all is forgiven. I am humbled by all that you have already done. I am humbled by your attempt to prove your worth to yourself and to me. I apologize for writing upon what I know is sacred to you, but I thought it fitting I share my wondrous news upon a page that I hope will replace all of the sorrows you have ever known. You must come to the Winter Palace in Saint Petersburg at once. I am with child. Your child. We must be wed before this belly of mine becomes too noticeable and these Russians begin to think I am the Virgin Mary reincarnated. In truth, if you do not come, the Emperor will insist I wed Maksim as a means of ensuring I take my place in the Russian Court. You must come. I do not wish to be anyone's bride but yours. Please. Please come. All of my love and our child await you.

Twoja zawsze,

Zosia Urszula Kwiatkowska

 

Tristan staggered in disbelief. Zosia was…
damn
… he was…
damn
…a babe? After only one moment of intimacy?

Upon all that was holy.

The words on the parchment blurred as tears overwhelmed him. He was going to be a father. Him. A father. He was going to be a father.

He sniffed hard, and then let out an exasperated laugh, shaking his head, unable to suppress all of the emotions bursting and whirling through him. He was going to be a father! And here he'd thought—

He huffed out a breath and glanced around his study. So much for the rest of his campaign. He had to get to Saint Petersburg and protect her honor. Before the Emperor—

He fumbled to refold the parchment and dashed out of the room, his heart pounding. “Winslow!” he shouted at the top of his lungs to his valet.
“Winslow!”

He sprinted up the staircase, skipping three full steps at a time. “Winslow! Where the blazes are you? Christ, we need to pack. Winslow?
Winslow!
”

“Yes, my lord?” his valet echoed from down the corridor.

Skidding to a halt at the top of the stairwell, Tristan whipped toward the direction of the young man he'd hired when his other valet had dashed off to Scotland.

Tristan pointed at Winslow repeatedly with the parchment. “See to it you pack all of my best clothes, boots, hats and gloves into every trunk I own. Some summer clothing, too, but overall, the warmer the
better. Oh. And include my beaver hat. Have yourself ready, as well. You're going with me.”

Winslow stared at him. “Wherever to, my lord?”

“Russia.”

“Russia?”
Winslow cleared his throat and set his chin. “I regret to inform you, my lord, that I will… require time to inform my wife and therefore cannot leave quite yet.”

“Send a missive to your wife telling her if she lets you go, you will each receive an additional thousand pounds on top of all your regular wages.”

Winslow slowly grinned, his full face brightening. “I will send a missive at once, my lord, and ready us both for the journey ahead.”

“Good. Once you do that, and pack all of my clothes and yours, have all of our trunks delivered to Benson so they can be attached to the coach. Oh. And have the butler gather all of my traveling papers. I will oversee the rest. Now go.
Go!
We need to leave within the hour. No less than an hour.”

Winslow blinked at him, his lips notably thinning.

“What?” Tristan demanded. “Too many instructions?”

Winslow cleared his throat. “No. Not at all, my lord. Will you require assistance into a set of traveling clothes before I commence my round of duties?”

“There is no time for bloody traveling clothes!” he
exclaimed in exasperation, waving toward the man. “I'll go as I am. Now go.
Go!
Get packing.”

Windslow smirked. “As you wish, my lord.” He bowed and departed with an amused swagger.

Tristan blinked, wondering what the devil that swagger and smirk was about. He then paused and glanced down at himself, realizing he was only wearing a pair of boots and brandy-covered trousers. He cringed. It appeared he was going to need a set of traveling clothes, after all.

 

“M
ILORD?”
M
ISS
H
ENDERSON ECHOED
, pulling open the entrance door he'd been pounding against. “What—”

Tristan darted past her and skidded into the foyer, swinging back toward her. “Where is my grandmother?” he demanded. “Where is she? I must speak to her.
Now.
”

Miss Henderson wordlessly gestured toward the staircase. He whipped around and glanced up toward the very top of the sweeping stairs.

His grandmother lingered, her pale hand already on the railing, her cream-and-lilac morning gown rustling with her movements. “Moreland?” she echoed, her silvery brows coming together. She slowly descended the stairs to greet him. “Whatever are you doing?” She
tsk
ed. “With all that rude pounding I thought my husband had risen from the dead.”

He bit back a grin, waiting until she found the last step. The moment that slippered foot touched the marble floor, he sprinted toward her and yanked her up into his arms with a single sweep and whirled her around the foyer, unable to contain himself.

“Moreland!”
She laughed down at him. “What—”

He plopped her down onto her slippered feet, readjusted his traveling coat and leaned in close and confided in a very low, cocky tone, “I'm going to be a father. I'm leaving for Russia on the next ship out to ensure our babe isn't born without me.”

She covered her mouth with the tips of her fingers, her silver brows flickering. “Moreland—” She smothered an astonished giggle. “I'm going to be a…”

“Yes. A great-grandmother. Congratulations.”

She paused. “But how is that even—” Her eyes widened as her hands came plopping down to her sides. She gawked up at him, her cheeks heightening in color. “Moreland. You didn't actually…”

He winced. “I did.”

She gasped, leaned toward him and smacked the side of his arm. “
That
is for being a libertine and a lecher of the worst sort! Is this what I raised?”