The Perfect Scandal (7 page)

She dared not move or look up into his eyes, lest she forget the words she needed to speak. She hated how vulnerable he was making her feel. “Better for you, I suppose. I am the one at a disadvantage. I am asking you to return my crutches to me at once, if you please.”

“You don't need them whilst in my presence,” he offered quietly, his face leaning down more toward hers, as if trying to better see her face. “Though I would never advise you to trust me, I am asking you to do so. Do you trust me? Do you trust what it is I am about to do?”

Her breath hitched. “It depends. What are you about to do?”

His hold on her body tightened, causing the buttons of his waistcoat to dig into her gown and skin. “You aren't going to scream as you did earlier, are you?”

She stared awkwardly at the broad chest pressed against her. “And…what would give me cause to scream?”

“You don't trust me, do you?” He smirked. “That is wise. Hold on to me.” His other arm slid down from her waist and looped beneath her upper thighs.

Her eyes widened as he yanked her up high into both of his arms in a single, easy swing. She stiffened as the crook of his muscled arm sank past the missing leg beneath her left knee. His hand jumped farther up toward her thigh, to prevent her from rolling. He paused, his brows coming together as he glanced toward his gloved hand that was buried beneath her palomino skirts.

He was obviously expecting a twisted ankle.

Not a missing leg.

“The third of June will mark six years to the day,” she confided.

His brows softened as he lowered his gaze to her exposed throat. “I am very sorry to hear it.”

She eyed him, hoping to Mother Mary he didn't think she now needed coddling. “There is no need to
be. I am alive and quite happy for it. Very few survive the sort of amputation I did.”

“'Tis an endearing sentiment to hold. One to be proud of.” He turned and carried her through the open doors of the vast, darkened parlor. Heavy curtains covered all the windows, drawn by the servants in an effort to prevent the crowds from peering in.

The heat of his body pressed against hers was overwhelming, causing her breath to quicken. She could feel his large hands digging into her beneath her stays and the soft muslin length of her morning gown.

The continual hum of voices outdoors was the only thing to penetrate the silence. She openly admired the regal side view she had of his chiseled, shaven face. What a marvelous looking man he was.

Despite usually objecting to others carrying her, she felt rather eminent draped in his taut arms. “Would you like to be my own personal sedan? I will pay twenty shillings on the hour if you promise to carry me around for the rest of my life. What do you say?”

He glanced down at her. “Are you always this flippant?”

“Are you always this serious?” she flung back.

“Very little amuses me. Does that answer your question?” Averting his gaze, he effortlessly crossed the expanse of the room, turned and lowered her onto
the long, velvet cushion of the chaise. His gloved hands slipped out from beneath her thighs and waist, his eyes meeting hers. He quickly straightened and stepped back.

She shifted, pushing out the breath she was holding, and rearranged her skirts around her leg, trying desperately to ignore how the lower left side of her gown had flattened against the chaise in a most unbecoming manner.

He lingered before her. “Should you be walking without a prosthetic? Do you have one?”

She glanced up at him, giving in to a rare pang of resentment, knowing she would never again stroll about in an elegant, refined manner meant to bring any man desire. Vain as it was, she missed the way men used to fawn over her. But she was grateful for what she did have. Her life. “I prefer balancing myself with simple devices. The prosthetic I had was like walking around with an axe embedded in my stump. It was very painful and very awkward.”

Lord Moreland eased onto the chaise beside her. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied him perusing her bundled hair, her clothes and the side of her face.

She eyed him, curling her stockinged toes against the inside of her slipper in anticipation. “Are you here to progress the possibility of a courtship, my lord?”
Please say you are. His Majesty's impatience only festers.

He cleared his throat. “I, uh…no. I actually came to ensure your safety. Large crowds usually denote an unpleasant situation.”

Zosia's heart sank. Even after six whole years of being subjected to men awkwardly avoiding her, she kept hoping that perhaps there was one man capable of seeing past her amputation. “I expected as much.” She smiled tightly and set her chin, trying to pretend she didn't care. “You are not the first to be intimidated by my missing limb.”

He hesitated, then reached out and touched her forearm, his gloved fingers pressing into the pearl-buttoned sleeve of her gown. “I am not intimidated, I assure you.”

She lowered her gaze to his large hand, her heart pounding. His hand lingered, resting heavily upon her arm. He gently fingered her sleeve, causing her heart to pound even faster. That soft, meandering touch fell well outside the realm of mere compassion and sympathy. It was very…intimate.

She released a shaky breath, trying not to move, fearing that if she did this moment of unguarded intimacy between them would somehow disappear. Since her amputation, men hadn't even tried to offer her such touches. “I only have until summer's end before I am forced to leave for France,” she confided.
“Though I am dedicated to the belief of God, and endlessly respect those that join nunneries, I am meant for greater things and believe our alliance would ensure it.”

His fingers tightened, causing the buttons on her sleeve to dig into her skin. “And what is it you think our alliance will ensure? Exactly?”

She swallowed, doubting he would take kindly to what she had in mind. Publicly voicing the concerns of her people by calling for a revolution against the Tsar was not something anyone would willingly agree to support. Which was why, before revealing anything else, she needed to appeal to the man's sensibilities and dig into who he was and what he believed in. “Do you have aspirations, Lord Moreland? Aspirations that compel you to be more than what others expect you to be? Aspirations that—” She froze when he leaned in.

His large shoulder grazed hers as his hold on her forearm tightened. “You smell like cinnamon.” He lowered his head toward her cheek, his presence feathering her skin and turning it to fire.

She inwardly melted and refrained from setting her cheek against his lips. She felt dazed by his presence, as if she had drunk too much laudanum and were floating away from her own body. “Yes. I…mix ground cinnamon into all of my cosmetic creams.”

“Ah.” He released her forearm, but his heat and the
pressure of his shoulder against hers remained. His hand floated up, the tip of his gloved finger touching the end of her chin. He traced the side of her cheek and throat, dragging his finger down toward her collarbone, which was hidden beneath her morning gown.

She wanted to faint from overawareness.

His finger grazed the braided chain around her neck, then slid beneath the collar of her gown, tracing the chemise and skin beneath. “Does that mean if I were to touch my tongue to your skin, I would be able to taste cinnamon?”

She choked on an astonished laugh and leaned away to prevent his finger from wandering anymore. “You are being exceedingly bold considering you are not here to offer on me.”

He hesitated and moved his hand, also leaning away. His gaze traveled back toward her face and lingered. “I can only apologize for finding you irresistibly attractive.”

He found her attractive? Despite her amputation? How incredible. How…odd. She bit back a smile. “I confess I am looking to be married, my lord. Not flattered.”

He edged back toward her, his mouth drifting toward her ear. “You would never survive being married to me. Not one hour, not one night and most certainly not for the rest of your life.”

She closed her eyes, vowing to keep her erratic pulse steady. “If I can survive an amputation, I can survive anything. I challenge you to prove me wrong.”

He leaned away again. “Do not encourage me or this.”

She reopened her eyes and shifted toward him. “Are you insinuating you
can
be encouraged?”

“You have no idea what you'd be getting involved with.”

She lifted a brow. “What would I be getting involved with?”

He captured her gaze. “A man incapable of any self-control.”

She let out a most amused laugh. “Does that not describe every man in existence?”

He smiled. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

She smiled, in turn, and set her palm on the cushion of the chaise between them and slid it back and forth against the smooth, upholstered surface. She wondered what else she should say to this man who appeared to be gifted with more than the usual wit. She liked him.

He shifted and set his thigh firmly atop her roaming hand, not only stilling it, but trapping it beneath the smooth wool of his trousers and the warmth of his muscled leg. “Enough.”

Her heart thumped, her gaze darting up to his.

“It was annoying me,” he said matter-of-factly.

She eyed her hand which was still wedged beneath his solid thigh and decided not to move it so as to make a very valid point. “So instead of informing me of your annoyance, you thought it necessary to assault my hand?”

He grinned tauntingly, and without moving his thigh, casually draped a long arm across the back of the chaise, his gloved fingers brushing her outer shoulder. “Are you objecting to my methods, Countess? Or are you objecting to my touch?”

She yanked her hand out from beneath his thigh and shifted away. “Both.”

His extended arm on the chaise skimmed around her shoulder. “So I make you nervous?”

She feigned a laugh, heat creeping into her cheeks. Yes. Yes, he was making her
very
nervous. “No. Not at all.”

“Liar.” His fingers gripped her outer sleeve and her heart popped as he jerked her possessively toward himself, pressing the side of her waist and thigh against the side of his own.

Grabbing her hand from between them, he yanked it up and crushed it in his hand, causing her to gasp against the unexpected pinch and aggression. He pressed her fingers harder against the warmth of his expansive hand, until her nails dug deep into the black leather, indenting it.

He tapped her hand rigidly against his lips, as if resisting the urge to eat it and everything else attached to it. “I should warn you. Lucifer often appears in the guise of a gentleman.”

Despite his merciless hold and the fact that he was locking her body against his, she had no fear of him or the blatant domination he sought to impose. In truth, she had long ceased fearing much of anything.

Having her leg removed with both blade and saw by surgeon Monsieur Lisfranc, who had boasted to her the day before the procedure that he could amputate a foot in less than a minute, had cured her of ever thinking there was anything more to fear in life again. “I have met Lucifer, Lord Moreland, in the form of a French surgeon who removed my leg with great brio, and you and he bear no resemblance at all.”

His savage grip tightened. “What is it that you really want from me? Be honest.”

Her fingers and wrist throbbed from the relentless pressure of his hand, but she refused to give him any satisfaction in knowing she could be intimidated. In some way, she sensed she wasn't really giving this Moreland his due. Maybe he was a revolutionist at heart. He certainly had the grip of one.

“I have plans,” she confessed with staid calmness, still holding his gaze.

“Share them,” he whispered.

She could feel heat radiating not only from his body but her own. She tried to focus on her thoughts and her words, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore how close his face and his lips and body really were. “It is my hope,” she confided softly, “that you would…”

He lowered his gaze to her lips. “That I would… what?”

She swallowed. “That you would allow me to use your seat in the House of Lords, as well as your connections as a Marquis, to rally support for the return of Poland to its rightful state. To a state free of Russia.”

His eyes widened as he sucked in an audible breath. Releasing her shoulder and hand, he stumbled to his feet, moving away from her and the chaise. “That is hardly something I—”

He paused and swung away, trying to button his morning coat in an effort to prevent her from seeing what she already seen: a well-defined bulge pressing against the flap of his trousers.

She bit her lip, pretending not to notice, but was shamelessly flattered all the same. It meant that despite her amputation, he still found her attractive. Imagine that.

He swung back and cleared his throat. “Even if this progressed enough for me to offer matrimony, I could never support such an endeavor.”

“Why ever not?”

“England is on neutral terms with Russia and has been for years.”

“England and France used to be on neutral terms, too.”

“No, no. That is completely different.”

“Oh? And how is it different?”

“Aside from you Poles being Roman Catholics, every last one of you ceased being popular with the Brits when you up and supported Napoleon. And Napoleon, by the by, if you didn't already know this, slaughtered almost every last one of our soldiers. Supporting Poland won't go over well with the masses here in London, I assure you. As a woman and a Pole, you have
no
concept of what you seek to get involved with. None.”

She narrowed her gaze, sensing a battle ahead. “I am not non compos mentis. As a woman
and
a Pole, I know exactly what I am getting involved with.”

“I doubt it.”