The Perfect Scandal (4 page)

She stared at him. “I only ever do what I believe is best for you, Moreland. Despite your claim that you are well and done with the blade—”

“I am well and done with it.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. I am.”

She observed him for a long moment, her dark eyes flitting toward his coat pocket. “Are you still carrying your razor case? Be honest.”

He glanced away and shifted his jaw, knowing his razor case was in fact in his coat pocket. Not because he used it—hell, he hadn't used it in almost
a year—but because it gave him a sense of…comfort. It also challenged him to try to rise above his baser needs. “I don't use it.”

She sighed. “You will always mar yourself. That is a sad fact I have had to accept. Who is to say it will not lead to more should you end up involving yourself with the wrong woman? I suggest you avoid this neighbor of yours until I find out more about her. Give me a week. My footman will deliver you a detailed letter pertaining to all of my inquiries. You can make a decision then.”

The trouble with her meddling was that she had a tendency to not only expose all of the grisly details to him, but to all of London. Then neither him
or
London would want anything more to do with the poor woman.

He leaned in and pointed at her, barely missing her nose. “The devil you will. Leave it be. Leave
her
be. Your meddling will only expose her to gossip. I will call on her when I am ready.”

She narrowed her gaze. “Remove your finger from my face, Moreland, and then remove yourself from my presence. I have had more than enough intimidation in my lifetime and I most certainly don't need it from you.”

Dropping his hand to his side, Tristan swung away and stalked toward the open door, agitated with her
for always choking him like this. “I'm leaving. Before I realize I don't like you.”

He grabbed at the brass handle and slammed the door hard behind himself, the tension in his body progressively rising. Pushing himself down the length of the corridor, the sudden need to escape not only that corridor, but his entire life, swelled.

No matter how much distance he tried to set between himself and the past, no matter how quietly he went about leading a good, respectable life he could be proud of, his grandmother always managed to burrow herself in and point out how much further he had to go. He was well aware more needed to be done. For one, he needed to stop carrying his razor case.

He glanced toward the long row of paintings and jerked to a halt, noting a new painting was hanging on the corridor wall. He turned and stared at a green field set against a low, setting sun. He swallowed, unable to push away the unsettling clench of his stomach.

He hadn't seen that painting in almost thirteen years. Mahogany-paneled walls flashed within his thoughts, and despite not wanting to see it, he did. He always did. His father's lifeless body forever remained slumped over his writing desk, dark blood smearing the polished wood, tendrils of it spreading over estate ledgers. A bloodied shaving razor lay
angled upon the floor beside his father's booted feet, having fallen from his large hand, whispering of the tragedy that had occurred. Tristan had never thought his own father capable of destroying himself. Especially after they had spent months battling to keep his mother from doing the very same thing.

Noting the painting was crooked, he edged toward it and nudged each end of the carved frame until it was even. He stepped back and pushed out a breath, wishing he had it in him to rip that painting off the wall and smash it through a window. Of course, it wouldn't change anything and would only make him feel like a petulant child.

“I found it in the attic,” his grandmother offered cheerfully from down the corridor. “Rather lovely, isn't it? It was your father's.”

Tristan turned toward the direction of her voice. “Yes. I know. It was also hanging four feet from the desk where he slit his throat. Might I request you remove it from the wall before my next visit? I don't care to see it.”

She hesitated. “Forgive me, I didn't realize—”

“Don't apologize. Just do it.”

“Yes, of course.”

He pointed at her. “And no inquiries. Do you understand?
None
.”

“I beg your forgiveness, but no amount of intimidation will keep me from ensuring you don't end up
like your father. Whilst I cannot protect you from yourself, I can protect you from the vile nature of others. And protect you I will. I intend to fully investigate this woman and set not only your mind at ease, but my own.”

He lowered his hand and stared her down, ensuring she felt the pulsing intensity of his displeasure. “If you expose her to any gossip—
any
—I will marry her without even bothering to know her name, merely to demonstrate who is really holding the reins here.”

She set her chin, her taut, pale features now marked with cold dignity. “I dare you to defy me and what I deem best for you.”

He stepped toward her and tapped on his chest. “I dare you to defy
me.
I define what is best for me. Not you. Whether I choose to get involved with her isn't for you to control or decide. I may be a queer in your eyes, and in the eyes of every goddamn woman I stupidly allow myself to get involved with, but lest you and those women forget, I am first and foremost a gentleman.
A gentleman!
And I will not be treated otherwise.”

“Moreland.” She hurried toward him, her features twisting in anguish. “You are no queer. I have never looked upon you as such. But you cannot expect me to—”

“Good day to you, Grandmother. I take my leave.”
Before I start ripping paintings off the walls and swearing at you for always treating me like a child
.

Without deigning to give her another glance, he turned and stalked off down the corridor, down the stairs and to the entrance door, wishing she would spare him from enduring any more of her stupid manipulation at the cost of his own sanity. It was as if she truly believed he was on the brink of suicide. If she of all people didn't believe in him, who the hell ever would?

Settling into the upholstered confines of the carriage, Tristan impatiently waited until the door was secured by the footman. The need to rip out almost a year's worth of pent-up frustration from his mind, body and soul rose with each uneven breath he took. He couldn't tolerate it anymore. He simply couldn't tolerate forever trying to avoid what he was and what he knew he would always be.

When the carriage clattered forward and away from his grandmother's house, he yanked the curtains shut over each window. What did it matter anymore? He was a queer and would always be a queer.

Shifting against the seat, he stripped his gloves from his shaky hands and dug into his coat pocket, sliding out his razor case. He set it on the seat beside him and rolled up the sleeve of his gray morning coat, as well as the linen shirt beneath, exposing a section of his forearm.

With a flick of his thumb, he unlatched the hinged brass lid of the slim casing, revealing a folded white handkerchief, an ivory-handled razor and that damned faded piece of parchment he could never bring himself to burn despite trying to do so many times.

Setting his exposed arm on his upper thigh, he plucked up the razor and unfolded the straight blade, strategically positioning its edge on a clear patch of skin between the raised scars marring his entire forearm. He paused, his jaw tightening.

He had promised himself he wouldn't do it anymore. He had promised. How was he to become a good husband to any respectable woman when he couldn't even control his demented need to—

He swallowed against the tightness of his throat and hastily refolded the blade. He was going to be making an appearance at the House of Lords, for God's sake. He couldn't show up bandaged and bleeding.

Reorganizing everything back into his razor case, he secured the hinged lid and shoved it back into his coat pocket. Covering his arm, he swiped a trembling hand over his face and prayed he made it to Parliament without giving in to his need for release.

The 12th of May
Evening

D
ARK, DARK TIMES
had descended upon the Kingdom of Poland. Yet again. For upon this day, the Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias had officially crowned himself the Tsar of Poland and all of its people. And here she was, countries away, banished to fester in some town house in London, unable to so much as spit upon the man's boot
or
leave the house.

But that would soon change.

Although Countess Zosia Urszula Kwiatkowska was being bullied into marrying an Englishman by the end of what the British called the Season, she wasn't about to marry just
any
Englishman, despite
what His Majesty thought. It was all about playing the right pawn on the board at the right time, when one's opponents weren't looking. If there was anyone who could single-handedly win at any game, be it chess, piquet, loo, whist, pope or charades, it most certainly was her.

Despite His Majesty's growing agitation, she refused to marry any of the strange men he kept sending to her door. Aside from none of them having a personality or any real influence on London society, they all treated her like she was some feral animal in need of restraint.

There were only so many things she was willing to sacrifice in the name of avoiding the monastery, and dignity most certainly was not one of them. She needed to marry an intelligent, progressive and influential man willing to accept her for what she was. Not whatever he expected her to be.

Of course, finding such a man was an involved process that was making His Majesty think she was overly ambitious and completely daft. Though she wasn't really too worried what His Majesty thought. After all, she could always blame any lapse of judgment on her laudanum.

Locking her bedchamber door with a quick turn of the key so her nurse wouldn't interrupt, Zosia wheeled herself around the bed toward the window on the other side of the room. Maneuvering her wicker chair
before the drawn curtains, she gathered them up and buried herself and the chair within the vast material, allowing them to fall down around her and onto the wooden floor.

She edged the large wheels closer to the window, until the tip of her slippered foot, which was set upon the padded footrest, was propped against the wall below the sill. Readjusting the embroidered curtains around her, she secured them more firmly together to ensure no candlelight filtered out into the night beyond, to better keep her hidden from the outside world.

Well satisfied, she snatched up her spyglass from the sill of the window and extended its brass length, determined to stay privy to all the goings-on with her oh-so-dashing British neighbor, the Marquis of Moreland. The one with the mysterious dark eyes and brooding features.

Although she'd planned to coordinate an introduction between them with the assistance of His Majesty, she was astounded to find him standing beneath her window late one night, observing
her
in the manner she'd been observing him through her spyglass all along. Lunging at the opportunity to meet him, she discovered he was far more impressive in full size than he was palm size.

Everything about him, from his appearance, to his prospects, to his respectability, to his political seat,
to his wit, intellect, demeanor and even his dialect was perfect. Too perfect. It made him untouchable to a one-legged Polish Catholic such as herself. But no man could be
that
perfect. He had to be hiding something beneath that cultivated, regal facade. But what?

Annoyingly, instead of calling on her, as she had invited him to do, his footman had merely delivered a red leather-bound book about British etiquette. It made her wonder if the man was onto her ostentatious scheme. Though it was unlikely. A man only considered a woman to be a threat to his money or his heart. Neither of which she wanted or needed. Wealth she had, and her heart…her heart was already spoken for by something far more important than a man.

With the delivery of that etiquette book—which she'd tossed after briefly skimming—she was beginning to think he was simply too respectable to crack. Until he'd rounded his coach past her home one afternoon, peering in through all of her windows.
That
was when she knew he wasn't as civil minded as he was leading her and the rest of the world to believe.

A movement on the cobblestone street below made her pause and glance down toward it. Her fingers tightened on the spyglass, the cool brass pressing against her moistened palm, upon seeing a broad-shouldered figure saddled upon a snowy stallion,
dressed from head to boot in dark military attire. Lingering beside the lamppost, he was strategically aligned beneath her window.

Her heart skipped, realizing he'd actually been watching her all along while she had been situating herself. A large military hat shaded his nose and eyes, only revealing the shadowed outline of a strong, shaven jaw. He hesitated, as if wanting to dismount.

Instead, he swept off his military hat, revealing dark, shoulder-length hair, and inclined his head, gallantly acknowledging her as he pressed his feathered hat to his chest with a large gloved hand.

She blinked, trying to make out that shadowed face against the dim light of the lamppost, but he had already reaffixed his hat and veered his horse away from her window. Glancing back up at her one last time, he nudged his riding boots into his stallion's sides and galloped down the cobblestone street, his black riding cloak flapping behind him in the wind. He galloped out of the square, down one of the streets and disappeared from sight.

Wide-eyed, she leaned forward, pressing the tips of her fingers against the cool pane. Who was he? And why did he acknowledge her with such reverence? It was very odd.

Instead of being concerned that she and the house were now under military surveillance ordered by the
crown, she sensed there was something far more to him. It was as if he'd been lingering in the hopes of glimpsing her. Similar to what Lord Moreland had done.

She hesitated, then sat back against her wicker chair and rolled her eyes. Glimpse her, indeed. She'd be nothing short of vain to think every man in London ardently longed to linger beneath the window of a one-legged Catholic for a glimpse. Unless it was for amusement purposes.

She paused. Speaking of amusement purposes—

Zosia leaned back toward the window and propped up the spyglass to her right eye. She squinted, edging it toward the direction of Lord Moreland's window, until she could see straight into his candlelit bedchamber. Fortunately, the curtains draping his window were not entirely drawn, allowing her to peer past into a small section of his room. A section displaying a four-poster bed.

It was a very nice bed, actually. Certainly much nicer than her own. It had a silvery, plush coverlet with an assortment of burgundy and dove-gray pillows piled high against the carved headboard. It made her want to marry the man merely for an opportunity to roll around in it.

She smirked at the thought. Her cousin Basia, who'd been married for almost a good dozen years, had enthusiastically informed her all about what
really
went on between a man and a woman. And if she was going to do
that
with a man, he had better well look as good as Lord Moreland.

A shadow passed across the lens, and though she tried to follow the movement, it was too quick. The side of the curtain obstructed the rest of the view. She pulled the spyglass away and eyed his window to decipher where she was supposed to point the lens.

Realigning it, she tried again. A bare, sculpted chest came into view. She fumbled, momentarily losing sight of said broad chest. Her heart thumped as she scrambled to set the telescope back against her eye. She leveled it again, trying to keep it steady.

Having glimpsed many bare-chested men working in the fields during harvest whilst she and her cousin rode out of Warszawa and into the country, she had learned to appreciate a good chest. And this man had a good chest.

He turned away, tossing a robe onto the bed, his broad, muscled shoulders shifting. With a few swift movements, he dropped his trousers and undergarments around muscled legs, leaving him gloriously naked.

Zosia gasped. Only the support of her own chair kept her from toppling over. Whilst she considered giving him his due privacy, ultimately, she decided against it. After all, if she planned on marrying
him, she had every right to know what his body looked like.

The muscles in those long, lean legs and firm backside flexed and rippled like satin as he leaned over and grabbed up his nightshirt. To her disappointment, he never once turned around to present what she was
most
curious to see.

The length of his body disappeared in a single sweep beneath a long, white linen nightshirt. He grabbed up a robe that was also on the bed, slid it on and adjusted it into place around his solid frame.

She'd never thought British men could be as attractive as Polish men. Her cousins were always telling her how stoic and uninteresting the British were. Of course, none of her cousins had ever been to Britain.

Lowering the spyglass, Zosia slid the brass extension back into its casing and set it on the sill of the window, letting out a breathy sigh. She tugged out the braided chain buried beneath her nightdress and fingered her ruby-studded locket, wondering how she could get him to call on her. Without annoying him.

A movement made her release her locket as the partially closed curtains she'd been keenly watching were swept wide open. The bright glow of countless candles filtered out, fully displaying Lord Moreland
as he casually braced the frame of the window and stared out toward…
her
.

Mother in heaven. He was going to think she was obsessed. Her heart pounded as she grabbed hold of the spoked wheels and pushed back. For some reason, her chair resisted movement. Her chest tightened as she glanced down toward each large wooden wheel and realized it wasn't the two side wheels that were caught, but the small wheel behind her chair. The rotating wheel had embedded itself atop the long ends of the curtains behind her, locking her in place against the window.

Jezus i Maria.
Of all times.

She violently jerked forward and back, forward and back, trying to move the chair. The curtain rod above rattled. She gritted her teeth and jerked back again. This time the curtain rod jumped off the hooks in the wall and crashed with a huge clang and a thud behind her. Her hands jumped up to cover her head as the last of the curtains whooshed past, barely missing her and the chair.

She groaned, realizing she had not only completely destroyed the curtains, but was now on full, candlelit display for Lord Moreland. Her cheeks burned as she lowered her hands primly back onto her lap. Knowing there was no point in wheeling away from the situation, she eyed him across the distance of the square.

His hands slid down the length of the window frame he'd been bracing. Though she couldn't make out the expression on his shadowed face, it was obvious he was intrigued as to why she had ripped off the curtains and was flaunting herself before him.

She lifted an awkward hand and waved, hoping that by being friendly she would appear a little less devious.

He hesitated, then lifted his own hand and offered a single, curt wave with the flick of his wrist.

She drew in a shaky breath and let it out. Maybe
this
was the opportunity she'd been waiting for. Words were not always needed to spark interest. Zosia waved again, ensuring this time it was far more enthusiastic and visible.

He casually set his hands on his hips and shook his dark head from side to side, attempting to convey his complete disappointment in her lack of maturity.

But he stayed.

She giggled. Pushing her dark braid over her shoulder, she shifted forward in her chair, closer toward the sill. It was obvious by his stance and the way he lingered that he wanted to play.

Zosia leaned far forward and balanced herself on the ledge of the sill. Setting her lips against the pane, which sent her swinging locket to
chink
against the window, she playfully smothered kiss after kiss across the entire window, before leaning back and
admiring the moist, smeared marks she'd left all over the glass.

He readjusted the belt of his robe, his broad shoulders shifting, and braced the frame of the window again. Only this time, he stared her down as if restraining himself from leaping across the square and collecting those kisses himself.

“So you do like me,” she announced softly. How very curious. Why would a bachelor who was supposedly in the market for a wife avoid a woman he appeared to like? Did he already know about her amputation?

The door rattled, startling her into veering her whole chair toward the direction of the door.

“Countess?” There was a tapping and the rattling of the knob. “You should not be latching your door.”

Zosia rolled her eyes and dropped her hand into her lap. Mrs. Wade. Forever tending to her needs as if she were two. “I am quite well, Mrs. Wade,” she called over her shoulder. “There is no need for you to come in.”

“I heard a terrible noise from within your room. Please assure me all is well.”

“Yes, yes.” She waved her hand about. “The curtains and the rod fell off the wall. As old as this house is, I dare say everything will fall off the wall in time.
But there is no need for concern, I assure you. All is well. You may retire.”

“You cannot possibly expect me to retire without even knowing what—”

“Mrs. Wade,”
Zosia snapped, turning her chair and glaring at the door. She wished the woman would cease treating her like an invalid. A missing leg did not denote a missing brain. “I have a right to privacy. Do I not?”

“Yes, Countess, of course, but—”

“
Good night.
Or as we Poles say,
dobra noc
.”

“And what of your laudanum?”