The Perfect Scandal (26 page)

“I'll be right there to punish you in turn,
after
I am done.” He unclasped the two buttons at his throat that held his shirt closed. The collar fell away, exposing the upper portion of his chest. In a single sweep, without any hesitation, he yanked up the linen shirt and stripped it from his body, leaving his entire chest bare.

He set his hands on his trouser-clad hips and blew out a breath, eyeing her. “I've been boxing.”

“Oh, that you have,” she purred.

He cleared his throat. “So, what do you think? Tolerable?” He sounded like he needed an answer.

She drew in a breath and let it all out in vast, vast appreciation. The faded scars on his chest and arms rather delectably emphasized every well-defined, taut muscle on that broad chest and chiseled stomach. It was like beholding her own personal warrior. Even the bulk of his arms appeared more defined than the rest of him.

“Moreland,” she breathed, her chest rising and falling unevenly out of her own desperate need to touch him. “You are torturing me with the perfection I see. Now remove your trousers and come here. I need to know that you are more than a fantasy.”

He smoothed a hand against his chest as he angled toward her. “So you like it?”

She groaned in disbelief that he still could not see what she saw. “I am madly in love with it. Now let
me touch it before I call in the Russian guards just so they can drag you over to where I am.”

He chuckled and fumbled to unbutton the flap on his trousers. He stripped both his trousers and undergarment, his thick erection now on full display, and tossed both items away.

Kneeling on the cushion of the oval couch, he slowly crawled toward her as if he were no longer a man but an animal, the muscles on his arms shifting as he drew closer. “How I have missed you.”

Her heart pounded as he whipped off her robe.

His arm circled her, dragging her toward the carved armrest of the couch. “After a good long kiss, we are going to turn you around so that there is no bumping against our babe. Are we in agreement in this?”

“Full agreement.” She ran her hands over his smooth skin, fingering the scars scattered across his chest.

He wrapped a muscled arm around her neck, locking her nude length against his own velvet naked body, and grabbed her face with his other hand.

He brushed his lips softly against hers.

“There is no need to be
that
gentle, Moreland.” She grabbed a handful of his hair and forced him to press his lips harder against hers, thrusting her tongue into his mouth.

A low growl escaped him, echoing within the quiet
chamber. His hot, wet mouth devoured hers as his hand slid down to her right breast. He rubbed and flicked her nipple, his tongue delving so deep into her mouth she could hardly breathe. He drew her even closer against his hard body until his erection dug into her side.

The urgency within his tense, muscled body grew as did her need to touch him. She slid her hand down the length of his hard chest. Down his stomach, down to—

Her fingers gripped the hard length of his erection.

He groaned. His hips jerked against her hand, shoving the head of his erection harder against her entire palm. She rubbed its length up and down, enjoying its smooth yet rigid feel.

He released her mouth, his chest heaving.

The rush of cool air drifted against her lips and for a few passing moments, she couldn't even bring herself to open her eyes, let alone move. All she could do was focus on their heavy breaths and how his erection, his body and warm hands felt against her.

“I will turn you,” he said in a low tone, lifting her and turning her.

She opened her eyes and kneeled, setting her hands on the carved armrest. She watched their reflection in the massive gilded mirror set directly before her as his muscled body kneeled behind her.

He glanced down, his hands spreading her thighs apart. He leaned her forward just a bit more and slid his fingers in between her folds and slowly rubbed.

She moaned, her fingers digging into the carved wood as she closed her eyes to the sensations overtaking her.

“Watch everything I do,” he challenged, rubbing faster and faster, until she felt as if she would collapse.

She gasped and reopened her eyes. She met his heated gaze in the reflection as he positioned himself and his erection dug into her backside.

“We will do this slow,” he whispered.

“Slow,” she repeated in a whisper.

She saw his hand position his length against her incredibly wet opening. Their gazes remained locked as he slowly pushed into her, sliding his entire hard length inside. They both moaned at the same time, their lips parting in unison.

His hands grabbed hold of her waist and he stilled against her, his chest heaving. His dark eyes held hers in the reflection. “How does it feel?”

Though it felt tight, she was so wet, it also felt so incredibly—

“Divine.”

He pulled out and pushed in, slow out and slow in, repeating the easing motions against her tightness until they were both gasping. “Should I go faster?”

“Yes,” she choked out.

He increased his pace and pumped until nothing but their ragged breaths, moans and flesh slapping against flesh echoed throughout the room.

She watched her breasts swaying with each gentle thrust as she pushed back against him, trying to remain balanced even as the mirrors around her seemed to spin and she could no longer see but only feel. She edged closer and closer to bliss. She gasped, feeling her core tightening, and lowered her head.

“Hold up your head,” he growled from behind, jerking in and out of her tightness faster and faster. “I want to see your beautiful face. I want you to watch yourself and me as we cry out. Do it.”

She lifted her head and watched him as he pushed her toward that perfect rapture she knew was going to overtake her at any moment. Her cheeks were so flushed, her hair was hanging over her shoulders and one side of her face. She hardly recognized herself as her body and her breath folded into one and she cried out against the onslaught of pleasure that was reflected all around her. She cried out again in disbelief as Moreland kept jerking in and out of her, causing the rapture to last longer than her body was capable of enduring.

Soon, it faded, and though weak and almost unable to keep holding herself up against the armrest, she remained in place, waiting for him to finish.

His fingers dug into her hips as he leveled a feral gaze at her and ground into her one last time. A guttural groan exploded from his lips, his body stiffening against hers. She felt his seed pulsing into her, and saw him seethe out fierce breaths through his teeth in a rigid resolve to keep holding not only her but her gaze in that reflection.

It was the most erotic thing she had ever seen. Him, in the ultimate moment of pleasure, desperately wanting
her
to see him in that ultimate moment of pleasure.

He stilled, his chest heaving, and lowered his head, as if he, too, were unable to keep himself upright.

She smiled as he pulled out and gently turned her, pulling her and himself flush against the large, soft cushion. She nestled herself against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her.

Her finger traced all the different jagged scars, following them around the curves of his muscled chest. “One day,” she whispered, “you will never even know they exist.”

His hold tightened on her. “That day is today, I assure you.”

She kept tracing and tracing them. “Are you walking without your razor, Moreland?”

“I am. Why else do you think my body looks so damn good?”

She let out a soft laugh, poking him. “A bit conceited now, are we?”

“A bit.” He chuckled, smoothing a hand against her hair. “I was going to ask if you were being treated well, but judging by the amount of tarts on the tray over there, I don't need to.”

She sighed, nuzzling her cheek against him, and confided, “Those tarts made life bearable while I waited for you to come. The chef has been most kind. He makes them every week just for me.”

He hesitated. “And how goes it with you and the Emperor? Any progress? At all?”

Her heart sank as she replied in a soft, sad tone, “I might have had an opportunity to make progress, but he is set in changing nothing and so the people will continue to be nothing. Revolt might very well be the only path if people seek change. Which is senseless. Why can words never be enough to settle the world's battles? Why can words never be enough to make that rainbow appear?”

He drew in a deep breath and let it out, kissing the top of her head ever so softly. After a long moment, he replied, “
Non sine sole iris,
my dear.”

She blinked, translating the Latin aloud, “No rainbow without the sun.” She sighed and half nodded, closing her eyes. “True. Right now, there is no sun. Only dark, dark clouds, thunder and rain.”

“It can't rain forever.” He tightened his hold on her.
“After we marry, we will wait for our babe to be born. Then you, I, the babe and our dear grandmother can board a ship and start dining every American willing to listen. What do you say?”

She smiled against his chest, taking comfort in knowing that perhaps all wasn't lost. “Yes and yes.”

“Good.” He rubbed her shoulders. “I regret to inform you that if we have a daughter, her name is already spoken for.”

She adjusted her chin against him. “Oh? And what name is that?”

“Camille. After my grandmother. 'Twas all the woman ever talked about on the way over. Little Camille this and little Camille that. We had better have a girl or she may very well name our poor son after herself.”

She giggled. “And what if we do have a son?”

“Then I will give you the honor of naming him yourself.”

She shifted against him so she could better meet his gaze. “Maksim.”

He lifted a brow. “Oh, I see. And is the man going to be godfather, too?”

“The man has earned both privileges. On that point, you cannot argue.”

He shrugged against her. “Maksim it is.”

She kissed his chest lovingly. “Might we leave Russia?”

He paused. “In your state? God, no. We stay until the babe arrives.”

She sighed, knowing he was right. “Might we at least leave the Winter Palace? Before the Emperor takes it into his head that we name our child after him instead?”

Tristan rumbled out a laugh and kissed the top of her head. “We leave tomorrow morning. Will that be soon enough for you?”

She breathed out a huge sigh and closed her eyes, finally feeling at peace. “Yes. That will indeed be soon enough for me.”

W
HILE THE MAIN CHARACTERS
in this story (Maksim, Zosia, Tristan and Lady Moreland) are but figments of my overactive imagination, the historical facts underpinning this story are for the most part true. Before Count Poniatowski became the King of Poland in a formal coronation that took place in Warsaw in 1764, he was indeed Catherine the Great's lover. The Empress, despite already being married, bore Poniatowski's child, Anna Petrovna (not to be confused with Catherine the Great's daughter, Grand Duchess Anna Petrovna, who died at age twenty).

As mentioned in the story, the child's birth was recorded to have taken place in Saint Petersburg in 1757. Anna Petrovna mysteriously died fifteen months after her birth and, oddly, there is very little to no information about this child. This sparked a “what if” Anastasia-like story. What if that mysterious death had, in fact, been staged? There certainly would have been reasons for it and it whispered of possibilities. Possibilities I tweaked in order to create Zosia's story.

Not even a decade after the Empress had assisted Poniatowski in seizing the throne, everything rapidly fell apart under his rule and the whole of Poland was partitioned into three sections by Prussia, Austria and Russia. The first partition occurred in 1772, the second in 1793 and the third and final partition that eliminated Poland as an independent nation was in 1795.

King Poniatowski was promptly dethroned. Interestingly enough, Poniatowski was kept under close surveillance in Saint Petersburg and was given a pension by the Empress until his death in 1798, even though the Empress herself unexpectedly died two years before he did.

With that last partition of Poland in 1795, the liberties offered to what little remained of Poland and its people were set under a new constitution, established by the Congress of Vienna and regulated by the Russian Empire. Those liberties quickly eroded. Freedom of speech and press ceased to exist under the Emperor's dread of intellectual improvement. Any Polish noblemen who didn't succumb to the wish of the Emperor soon found themselves replaced by Russian noblemen who were far more cooperative.

By 1825, to be a patriotic Pole was to be a rebel that Russians sought to crush through secret organizations similar to the KGB. Relentless oppression kept stacking until it created a revolt. What riled the
first Poles into revolting was the recovery of Russia's plans to use Polish officers and its military to suppress other countries.

On November 29, 1830, a young Polish cadet by the name of Piotr Wysocki from the Imperial Russian Army's Military Academy, seized arms from that Academy with fellow Poles in Warsaw. They stormed Belweder Palace, which held Russia's governing seat, thus sending a clear message to the entire Russian Empire that freedom was what they sought.

The city's main arsenal in Warsaw was seized as Poles took back their city, and soon they sought to take back their entire country. More and more Poles jumped onto the revolt and, in December of 1830, the entire Polish Sejm (their administrative council) joined in and announced the National Uprising against Russia.

Emperor Nicholas I sent approximately one hundred eighty thousand troops to crush Poland's approximate seventy thousand. Of those seventy thousand Poles, about a fourth had no formal military training, but simply the will to fight for freedom. Poland surrendered to Russia on October 5, 1831, with approximately twenty thousand men remaining of the original seventy thousand. After their surrender, Poles were stripped of all rights, many fleeing into other countries. Polish women were known to wear
tokens of black in mourning for their men and their lost homeland.

During that revolt and bloodshed, the British paid little to no attention to the Poles. It wasn't until after Poland was crushed that the sentiment arose in Britain, and an idea to preserve an understanding of Poland bloomed in 1832, creating a society known as the London Literary Association of the Friends of Poland.

Due to the sad outcome that I knew could not be reflected within this story, as there was no happily-ever-after for Poland, I commenced the action in THE PERFECT SCANDAL a year before the uprising, to pay homage to the bubbling patriotism that was about to explode.

After another attempted uprising against the Russians in 1864, which also failed, Poland didn't regain its independence as a country until one hundred and twenty-three years later, during World War One. Sadly, Poland only remained independent for a brief twenty-one years (1918-1939).

The Nazis brought a quick end to its short-lived independence when they marched in, assisted by Russia, which was now led by Stalin. Together, they seized the still-frail Poland, eliminating the country from the map again, as England and the entire world stepped back, allowing Hitler and Stalin to effort
lessly crush Poland without offering assistance until it was too late.

Stalin assisted Hitler in overtaking Poland by conducting mass murders separate from Hitler's own agenda of exterminating Jews. Stalin personally arranged the Katyn massacre, rounding up and executing approximately twenty-two thousand Polish officers, doctors, police, professors and public servants, all as a means of eliminating intellectual resistance within the country itself and, in turn, achieving complete control. Stalin also supplied Hitler with every possible resource he needed so Germany could continue to fight against the rest of the world.

Despite being Hitler's accomplice throughout most of World War Two, when Hitler fell, Stalin strategically aligned himself with the British (Churchill) and the Americans (Franklin D. Roosevelt) and found himself well rewarded. World War Two ended, and despite Poland pleading to the world for its freedom apart from Stalin's regime, Poland was handed off to Russia. Yet again.

It wasn't until the Solidarity movement and the fall of the Communist Wall in 1989 that Poland
finally
achieved its freedom after a total of one hundred and seventy-three years of oppression under the Great Russian Empire.