The Perfect Scandal (5 page)

Zosia smoothed the lace and linen nightdress against the length of her sore thighs and winced. She needed to use her crutches more, lest she become too sore. She hated being dependent on a rancid liquid that made her feel like she was drowning in a hazy fog. She considered pain a much better option than missing out on reality. “I feel content to sleep as I am, thank you. Tomorrow, I intend to make use of my crutches and take a few turns about the square. That should relieve whatever discomfort I am in.”

“You know full well you aren't permitted to leave the house without His Majesty's approval. If you seek a turn about the square, Countess, you must send him a missive.”

She was surrounded by wardens, not servants. She'd already sent His Majesty countless missives
asking for permission to leave the house, only to be told it wasn't advisable. “His Majesty seems to be under the delusion that I have no rights left to my name. I am tired of his games and refuse to be confined to both a chair
and
a house and will find my way to the door whether it pleases His Majesty or not. I suggest you send him a missive telling him
that.
Now I bid you a very good night, Mrs. Wade.”

The door rattled again. “Please. Unlatch the door. What if you should require assistance during the night?”

Zosia sighed. “I do not mean to be ungrateful, Mrs. Wade, but I am increasingly agitated by everyone's misguided devotion to my well-being. Now, I demand you retire and will not ask again.”

Mrs. Wade hesitated. “As you wish, Countess.” Steps clicked down the corridor and faded.

Zosia veered her chair back toward the window, ready to resume her play, only to discover Moreland's curtains had already been drawn shut.

She huffed out a disappointed breath.

She could easily blame Mrs. Wade for interrupting her strategic flirtation, but she sensed she'd intimidated the poor man into retiring. Karol had warned her that the British, especially the aristocracy, were as reserved as nuns during prayer, and that she needed to be mindful of that. She supposed it was time to play God, whilst all of the nuns prayed.

 

T
RISTAN PACED
before the curtains he had dragged shut, wishing he had it in him to dash across the square and be a rake. When he'd earlier wandered over to the window in hopes of glimpsing her, he was astounded to find her enthusiastically waving and smearing kisses all over the glass of her window. Kisses he desperately wanted to feel against every inch of his skin. Kisses he had no doubt every neighbor in the square had seen, including whatever neighbor was spying for his grandmother.

For all he knew, his grandmother already had a very long list bearing each and every one of his neighbor's faults. Aside from being overly protective, his grandmother had always foolishly believed that those who broke the rules of genteel society were of no worth and deserved to be humiliated. Little did his grandmother realize that genteel society and its vicious hold on everyday life had ultimately created the terrible situation that she had been forced to accept as a woman.

Her struggle to retain her dignity despite having been completely stripped of her own mind by society, her parents and a man who was supposed to be her protector, had prompted him, at the age of three and twenty, to unleash his quill and write
How To Avoid a Scandal.

He had wanted to offer women a weapon. The sort of weapon both his mother and his grandmother
never had. One that would give women a true glimpse into the reality of society's ruthless expectations and its governing men. Due to a very sheltered upbringing and no life experience outside of dancing, singing and pianoforte lessons, his poor grandmother had never been mentally prepared to become the wife of one of the most powerful men in London.

Of course, it had been quite a nuisance trying to write anything of value or merit considering he had to censor most of his commentaries, lest the book be considered a scandal itself. Given its unprecedented popularity with the ton, he supposed he had created the balance of respectability and reality he had been looking for.

Tristan turned toward the window again. He hesitated, feeling like a youth of fifteen, and separated the curtains with his hand by an inch. He peered out to see if she was still there watching and waiting for him. To his disappointment, only a darkened window greeted him.

Would she have entertained him longer if he had allowed her to? He released the curtain, letting it fall back into place. Setting his hands behind his robed back, he slowly rounded the room and his bed.

He'd never been pursued by a woman before. Most women gave up on him very quickly, thinking him cool, arrogant and unapproachable. It was a superficial role he played into quite easily, for it provided a
form of protection from those he knew would never accept him for what he truly was.

But this…this was different. He could sense
she
was different, though he had yet to understand how and why. He supposed it was time to cease procrastinating and see if it were at all possible for this fascinating little flirtation between them to lead to something more.

The following day
11:45 a.m.

S
O MUCH FOR TAKING A TURN
about the square.

Or ever leaving the house again.

For some reason, an endless parade of calling cards had been delivered to Zosia's door over the span of one short hour. Even more astounding than that was the incredibly long line of gentlemen, as well as servants and footmen in livery sent by their masters, all patiently waiting to deliver
more
cards to
her door. The never-ending line of gentlemen actually rounded about the entire square!

Even long after the butler had politely stepped outside and announced to the crowd that no more cards were being accepted for the day, they all continued to incessantly linger as if expecting the butler to change his mind. Surely, such outrageous behavior, and on such a vast scale, wasn't normal. Not even for the Brits.

Seeing as none of the footmen were able to answer any of her questions pertaining to this most bizarre situation, she knew it was time to step outside and ask some of these men a few questions of her own.

Zosia swung a slippered foot forward, propelling herself and her crutches across the foyer in the direction of the stout butler and the lanky footman. Both men strategically set themselves between her and the door like the annoying wardens they had all been tasked to be.

She sighed, pausing in the middle of the foyer. “I have a right to know why half of London is standing outside my doorstep. Do I not?”

The butler, Mr. Lawrence, offered an apologetic nod, his tonic-slathered gray hair glinting. “That you do, Countess, but there is no need for concern. We were expecting them.”

She blinked. “We were?
All
of them?”

“Yes. They came to deliver their cards.” He
gestured toward the velvet-lined silver box filled with stacks and stacks of cards, set on the French side table beside the door. “I was instructed to cease accepting any more once the box was full. And as you can see, Countess, the box is quite full.”

Zosia eyed the box and then squinted at the man. “And why are we acquiring such a disturbing number of calling cards?”

“His Majesty intends to personally wade through them.”

“Ah. And I imagine there is a reason for it?”

“Yes, Countess. There is.”

She hesitated, waiting expectantly for said reason. When he did not provide it, despite an insinuated prompt of silence, she sighed. “And what is the reasoning, Mr. Lawrence?”

“His Majesty will decide which of these men are to be granted interviews.”

“Interviews?” she prodded.

“Yes.”

Why did the British never fully convey their thoughts? It was so annoying. She sighed again. “Interviews for what, Mr. Lawrence?”

He cleared his throat. “For your matrimonial consideration. I was notified of it last night by royal courier and thought it best not to alarm you.”

She didn't know whether to be flattered or upset. Shifting against her crutches, she eyed her servants,
trying to understand why they seemed to know far more about her own life than she did. After all, she was the one expected to take a husband. Not them. “Why would His Majesty call for my matters to be conducted so publicly? It is neither respectable or acceptable to have this many men loitering outside my home.”

Bringing his white-gloved hands together, Mr. Lawrence respectfully replied, “We are all but loyal subjects. We never question His Majesty's intent.”

“Someone ought to.” The naughty old sovereign, though kind, was proving to be more of a nuisance than a salvation. Not even a week after her arrival in England from Warszawa, the man had demanded she grace him with an appearance in his private apartment. At night. Alone.

When he wouldn't desist, and had even tried to pussyfoot his way into
her
private chamber, she'd politely informed His Majesty that she was going to require quarters outside the palace lest she set fire to the throne room. Arrangements for separate quarters were granted without resistance or delay. Only now she had
this
to contend with.

The bell rang yet again, annoyingly echoing throughout the vast corridor, reminding them of the crowd impatiently loitering outside. Only this time, the large knocker was being pounded against the
door, causing them all to pause and glance toward the bolted entrance.

The butler turned and motioned to the footman. “'Tis best we take precautions. Watkins? Escort the Countess to her room and ensure she remains there until royal guards arrive and disperse the remaining crowd.”

“Yes, Mr. Lawrence.” Watkins advanced, politely gesturing toward the direction she was supposed to go.

Zosia shifted against the padded crutches digging into the pits of her arms. She was not about to hide in her room merely because one of the men had decided to use the knocker. “Forgive me, gentlemen, but I have no desire for this to give way to a riot. 'Tis obvious you are in need of intelligent leadership and I intend to offer it. Mr. Lawrence, open the door and keep taking their cards until the guards arrive. Mr. Watkins, you will coordinate the line to ensure order. That should provide enough structure to keep the masses from panicking.”

The butler sniffed. “Remove her from the foyer, Watkins.”

The footman leaned toward her, gently touching her arm in an awkward form of compliance. “Countess. If you would please—”

“No. I will not please.” She shifted away and glared at them. “Need I remind you both, gentlemen,
that I am not the one getting paid to serve you. You are the ones getting paid to serve me. Now, for the better good of our safety, as well as the safety of those unfortunate souls being forced to wait in that crowd outside, open the door and do as you are told. 'Tis a simple matter of courtesy that will ensure order until the guards arrive.”

The butler set his jaw and hastened toward them. “I think it best we take away her crutches, Watkins.”

She gasped and clutched at the oak posts holding her up. “You will do no such thing!”

Watkins jerked toward the old man. “Mr. Lawrence. You don't expect me to actually—”

“Do as you are told, boy,” the butler commanded in a harsh tone. “Or you will find yourself without a position or a reference. You know our orders. To oppose them is to oppose your own King.”

Zosia lowered her chin in disbelief as Watkins sighed, leaned toward her and tried grabbing hold of her right crutch. She jerked away, stumbling against her crutches and tightening her hold, hopped back on her one foot. “This is outrageous! How dare you—I demand to know what orders His Majesty has given and why!”

Watkins grabbed hold of her crutch again and yanked at it, each pull growing all the more firm and insistent. “I will carry you upstairs, Countess.”

Her eyes narrowed. “No one ever carries me. I
carry myself. Now I am demanding you disclose your orders.”

“Those orders are confidential,” the butler supplied in a flat tone. “Now, please—”

“No! I—” She gritted her teeth and savagely held onto her crutches, despite swaying against Watkins's each yank and tug. Since when was it acceptable for servants to assault their mistress in the name of the King, who was supposed to be her protector?

Her bare fingers slid against the smooth oak, her grip loosening bit by bit. Though she didn't need her crutches to balance herself on one foot, her very dignity was being pried away. And while she couldn't physically take them on, unless she planned on beating them with the crutches they were so intent on having, she supposed there was only one way to go about this. She would unleash a weapon no man expected a genteel lady to use. A weapon she hadn't used since she was ten, and one she hoped would also draw the attention of every single man outside.

Sucking in a huge breath, Zosia released a long, piercing scream that pulsed against the respectable silence surrounding them.

Watkins jumped away, releasing his hold on both crutches. His eyes bulged as he snapped up both gloved hands. “Countess! Please.
Stop!
Mr. Lawrence, what—”

A rapid pounding against the door rattled the
crystal chandelier above as a male voice boomed from the other side, “
Open this door!
Open the goddamn door!
Now!
”

Zosia paused, bringing an abrupt end to her charade, and regally eyed the butler, well satisfied with the result it had produced. “It appears we have our very first concerned citizen. I suggest you open the door, Mr. Lawrence, or I will continue screaming and make every man outside think I am in desperate need of assistance. Then it will be
your
safety at stake. Not mine.”

Mr. Lawrence's eyes widened. He edged back, then heaved out a sigh and muttered something, his thin lips curling. Swinging his stout frame toward the door, he unbolted the latch and fanned it open just wide enough for her to peer past the opening beyond his shoulder.

Shouts echoed from the street as men frantically pushed and shoved their way up the stairs, holding out and waving their cards. Zosia sucked in an astonished breath, not only in response to the chaos, but in recognizing the man looming in the doorway just beyond the butler.

Lord Moreland.