The Perfect Scandal (8 page)

“Six years ago, Lord Moreland, I watched a group of Russian soldiers burn my neighbors' home to the ground. 'Twas a beautiful and grand home bearing three generations of possessions. All of it gone in a few short hours, merely because Count Bilowski was involved in a patriotic organization the Emperor did not approve of. I lost my leg whilst trying to assist
his family, and that is all too symbolic of what is happening to my country.”

She slapped her left thigh just above her amputation. “We are all being amputated one by one, by pompous noblemen who are more dedicated to pleasing the Tsar than to the basic rights of their own people. Even our own council, our
sejm,
has been holding sessions in secret out of fear of being dismantled by the Emperor. Although, yes, you British were all in an uproar when we supported Napoleon, he was the only one lending us support against the Russians. What did you British ever support us in? You all clapped your vile little hands as Austria, Prussia and Russia pranced in and partitioned every last piece of what was rightfully ours. My mother's last breath was dedicated to seeing a Poland free of Russia, and I intend to make her proud by doing my part and becoming a voice for that cause.”

He stared at her for a long moment, and then slowly shook his head. “You are a child if you think a marriage between us would return Poland to its rightful state.”

She glared at him. “Is comparing me to a child supposed to be an insult? Children believe in the very things we as adults lose sight of, like hope against all odds. I may not be able to do much more than be a voice, but even
that
is far more than what is being offered to my people, who have lost everything,
including their basic rights to speech and press. None of the resolutions that have been set by the Congress of Vienna are being respected by the Tsar, and I intend to inform the world about it by rallying support.”

He swiped a hand over his face and huffed out a breath. “You are going to get yourself killed.”

She shrugged. “If my death brings attention to the cause of my people, I will gladly embrace it. The real question is, are you valiant enough to support me in such a cause?”

The lines in his brow deepened as he dropped his hand back to his side. “And what reason would I have to support such a cause? I am an Englishman. Not a Pole.”

“And what does an Englishman believe in?” she prodded. “God. Liberty. Parliament. Justice. It is the same thing we Poles believe in. Only we do it in a different language and under a different church.”

He snorted. “I am looking for a wife.
Not
a cause.”

She rolled her eyes. “A wife
is
a cause. And if you believe otherwise, you know nothing of a woman's worth. Admit it, Lord Moreland, you are no different from the rest of your pompous British peers. You seek an ornament, not a wife of any worth, and are only dedicated to yourself.”

He shrugged his broad shoulders in mock resig
nation. “I cannot even claim that much. I am dedicated to no one. Not even myself.”

“You expect me to believe that?
You?
A man of great wealth and privilege upheld by a freedom you cannot even begin to appreciate? A man who knows nothing of true strife?”

He angled toward her and growled, “Is that what you believe? That because I am born of wealth and privilege, I know nothing of strife? I suggest you cease choking on your own assumptions.”

Sensing she had finally vexed him, Zosia met his piercing gaze, challenging him to be the sort of man she desperately needed. “If you are more than you appear, my lord, I challenge you to prove me wrong. I have no need for self-loving cowards and pretty words. I seek a valiant man capable of being honorable toward me and my cause whilst making the world tremble in his effort to support me and that cause. You obviously are not that man.”

His nostrils flared. “You know nothing about me or what defines me as a man.”

“I know what has been conveyed to me by a most reliable source.”

“Which means you know absolutely nothing.” His cold tone was laced with impatience and disapproval. “Gossip is the root of misconception, Countess.”

She
tsk
ed. “Gossip can also be the root of tainted truths one must merely wade through. From what I
was told, you lead a very private, regimented life and despite your amiable disposition and being respected and admired by many, you have no friends outside of superficial associations that are tied to Parliament and your fencing club. According to His Majesty—who I dare say is a very reliable source, for is he not your grandmother's cousin?—you strive to be the perfect gentleman by leading a perfect life. Which means, you, my lord, are a perfect farce.”

His eyes darkened. He edged toward her. “And how am I a farce?”

“You told me in your own words the night we formally met that you play the role of a gentleman for a reason, and that it has
nothing
to do with respectability. Which leads me to conclude that you are hiding behind the illusion of perfection you create for the sole purpose of misleading others. Because there is no perfect life, my lord. Just as there is no perfect gentleman. Lie to yourself and to those who feast on your illusion, but do not lie to me.”

A muscle quivered in his jaw. “You think yourself clever.”

“At times.”

They held each other's gazes in fierce silence.

Zosia could practically feel the air between them pulsing. “Am I wrong in my assessment?”

“No.” His voice was fading. “In that, you are not.”

She softened her tone, sensing his vulnerability. “You need not play a role for me, Lord Moreland.”

He set his hands behind his back and offered coolly, “There are times one must play a role to avoid complications. That is the only role I play. I care nothing for what others may or may not think of me. I am what I am.”

“I think you care a lot more than you let on or you would have already disclosed what role you play and why.”

He lowered his chin. “I suppose there is only one way to go about this, Countess.” Removing his morning coat, he tossed it onto the chaise beside her and stepped toward her. “'Tis obvious you will not desist unless I make you desist.”

She stared up at him, her palms moist, and shrank back against the chaise. Why was he undressing? Why was he—

Z
OSIA FROZE.

Lord Moreland yanked up the sleeve of his white linen shirt, leaned in and leveled the bare length of his outer forearm just below her chin. “Go on. Look at it.”

She blinked and stared at his solid forearm covered
with endless white, raised scars. Some were thick and jagged. Others were thin and angled, set almost side by side. It was apparent by the patterns, and the number of scars covering the length of his forearm, that they were not accidental.

Her eyes widened as she glanced up at him. His face hovered close above hers, causing her to drag in a breath and lean back.
Boz?e.
“Who did this to you?” she whispered, almost unable to say the words.

He straightened and yanked the sleeve down, covering his arm. “It is my doing. It is my vice. It is the strife you claim I do not have due to my privileged upbringing. I am indeed a farce, Countess. Bravo.”

She blinked up at him, her chest tightening. “You…did this to yourself?”

He stared at her. “With a razor.”

She gasped. “With a razor? But why? Why would you carve yourself like that?”

“As if you care.” He sidestepped back toward the side of the chaise and snatched up his morning coat. Pulling it back on, he adjusted it around his frame and waistcoat. Not meeting her gaze, he veered away. “Now that you have had your share of entertainment, I take my leave.”

Zosia leaned forward on the chaise, his dismissive tone luring her to try to understand him. Something very sad tortured this man for him to have done that to himself. It was something she wanted to touch and
lull to peace. “Please stay, Lord Moreland. I ask you cease assuming that I taunt you. For I do not.”

He paused but did not turn.

“Stay,” she insisted. “I do not want you to leave.”

He turned, his brown eyes darkening with a visible raw emotion that silently conveyed that he wanted that and more. “You want me to stay?”

“Yes.”

“Even after what I just showed you?”

“Yes.”

He drew closer. “Why?”

Because I see a part of my own wounded soul in you,
she wanted to say. Instead she offered softly, “You fascinate me.”

“I fascinate you,” he repeated tonelessly.

“Yes.”

“The way an insect fascinates a child before it crushes it, out of curiosity and disgust?”

Sensing his mounting vulnerability and the edge in his voice, she responded, “No. Not at all like that. You fascinate me in the way a woman is beguiled by a man she yearns to kiss.”

He lifted a dark brow. “You yearn to kiss me?”

Her cheeks grew hot, realizing she had blurted out a bit too much. “I apologize.”

“For wanting to kiss me?”

She let out an awkward laugh. “No. I simply have an annoying tendency to not censor myself. 'Tis
something, I fear, intimidates most. Both men and women alike.”

He said nothing.

She might as well get to the point. “Given these scars, are you at all capable of offering a woman a relationship?”

He snorted. “What a question. Of course I am capable. But I highly doubt you'd want to associate with a man who…” He hesitated.

She waited for him to define himself. When he didn't, she offered, “It appears you have already decided what I am or am not capable of accepting in a man. We cannot pursue anything of worth, Lord Moreland, if you assume I am incapable of offering you my understanding.”

He eyed her. “A most valid point.”

She drew in a breath. “Might I inquire more about…”

“My scars?” he casually provided.

She lifted her gaze to his. “Yes.”

After a long moment of awkward silence, he slid his gloved hand into his coat pocket and retrieved a slim brass case. He fingered it and then held it up, rattling its contents. “Most of them were made with this.”

She drew her brows together. “What is it?”

He plastered it against his palms, as if trying to
keep her from looking at it anymore. “My razor case.”

Her throat tightened. “You carry a razor?”

“At all times.”

“You slice yourself that often?”

“I haven't done so in almost a year.”

“But why would you even…?”

He shrugged. “'Tis a form of comfort I discovered in my youth. One that I confess will always be a part of me, regardless of whether I do it or not.” He shoved the case back into his pocket, a lethal calmness settling over his features. “Do you still yearn to kiss me, Countess? Or should I leave?”

She stared at him. “I apologize if I am digging into your personal thoughts too much, but how is it you find comfort in carving yourself? There is no comfort in pain.”

He sighed and slowly crossed his arms over his chest, causing his well-fitted morning coat to strain against his arms and shoulders. “Let me ask you this—do you find comfort in the support your crutches offer you?”

Her eyes widened. “That is hardly an acceptable comparison. My crutches enable me to walk.”

“Exactly. And morbid though it may be for you or anyone else to understand, my blade enables me to walk.” He dropped his arms to his sides and eyed
her. “I also have a penchant for whips. Though it is more of a soft fancy than a necessity.”

She inwardly cringed. “Neither sound pleasant.”

He shrugged. “Champagne cannot please everyone.”

“Champagne? Whatever does champagne have to do with pain?” She blinked. “Aside from rhyming, that is?”

The edge of his mouth lifted. “'Tis a metaphor I use in understanding myself. You see, champagne has this flavorful, stinging zest that is similar to what a blade does for me. That initial burn is crisp and sharp and almost unbearable to swallow, but it is soon followed by a soothing, sweet euphoria that makes one swallow more. I have always found it bizarre how champagne tastes the same no matter who you are in this vast world, and yet there are those who do not hold any value in its taste at all. Similar to how no one holds any value in what my blade does for me. Why do you suppose that is? Why is
my
tongue so different from
yours?
Or anyone else's, for that matter?”

Utterly fascinated, Zosia stared up at him. “There is an astounding intelligence rooted in your sentiment. One I cannot help but genuinely admire.”

His lips parted as he dropped his arms to his sides and stepped back. “Are you…complimenting me?”

She shrugged. “Would you rather I condemn you
for something you are clearly ashamed of and struggle to accept in yourself? That would not be very sporting of me, would it?”

He swiped a hand across his face and shifted from boot to boot. “Christ, you are not of this earth. Everything about you is so—” He winced and after a moment blurted, “I think it best we not associate.”

She drew her brows together, trying to better understand him. He seemed to swing from one way of thinking to the next far too quickly for her to decipher his meaning. “Why ever not? Do you not like me?”

He feigned a laugh. “Oh, I like you. I like you a bit too much. And therein is the problem.”

She refrained from tossing up her arms in exasperation. And here she had thought her missing leg would be a deterrent. “And what is so very wrong with liking a woman?”

He raked a hand through his hair and blew out a pained breath. “I am…how shall I word this? Overly passionate.”

“Overly passionate?”

“Yes.”

“And that is…?”

“Bad.”

“Bad?”

“Yes. Bad.”

“How so?”

He cleared his throat. “I have a tendency to rile
myself into becoming the sort of man I try to avoid. The sort of man you do not want to ever meet or know. And this…you…between your hardship and mine, what could we ever truly offer each other? Aside from this attraction. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Given your condition, you need a reliable man. And I am not reliable. I am but a queer, who if provoked, can take a blade to himself at any given moment.
That
is a fact.”

The conviction in that husky voice overwhelmed her. She understood this man better than he realized. And in acknowledging that, an agonizing weight settled upon her soul. It was a weight she hadn't felt since that morning she had first discovered a bandaged bloody stump where her knee used to be. That shapely, nice little leg with its ankle, foot and toes she'd taken for granted had ceased to exist and no amount of sobbing would ever bring it back. Sometimes at night, even after six years, she still thought it was there. Only to fall straight to the floor, realizing she had only one leg, not two.

With the guidance of her mother, whom she missed dearly, she had learned that she didn't need a leg to survive. What she needed was to have her mind in the right place. It was obvious this Moreland had yet to embrace that way of thinking himself. “Do not mislead yourself into thinking we could never offer each other anything. A one-legged woman will probably
be able to understand a man who mars himself in a way a two-legged woman never could. It would seem you and I are queers in our own right. And we queers, Lord Moreland, should stay together. We will judge each other less.”

He turned toward her, his dark eyes capturing hers. “You are making it very difficult for me to walk away.”

A smile curved her lips. “Good. Because I need you for a noble cause I could never accomplish on my own. I am not intimidated by you, your scars or what you have disclosed. Despite that razor case, I find you to be surprisingly rational. Why is that?”

“I have no idea. I ceased trying to understand myself years ago.”

“You should never abandon understanding yourself, Lord Moreland. One is only ever worth as much as his own opinion of himself.”

“You are a woman of astonishing depth. Do you realize that?”

She bit back a smile. “You appear to be a man of astonishing depth yourself.”

He shrugged, but said nothing.

She drew in a soft breath. “Might I offer you a bit of advice?”

“Advice? About what?”

“About yourself.”

“I am well aware of my flaws, Countess.”

“I mean well.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. I suggest you cease carrying that razor case and replace it with something more meaningful. Something that will empower you, as opposed to tempting you into doing the very thing you clearly abhor.”

“I see.” He tugged at the snug leather of his gloves, stripping them from his hands, and tucked them into his coat pocket. He closed the space between them and lingered before her, his long legs brushing the fullness of her gown, which draped the chaise. “Are you suggesting I replace my inherent need for the blade with an inherent need for you?” he asked in a low, taunting tone.

She lifted her gaze to his and released a shaky breath. “I would never be so bold as to presume I could meet all of your needs. But I can try.”

His dark eyes dominated hers. “I can easily control a blade and how deep I want it to cut, where I want it to cut and when I want it to cut. But I cannot readily control you should you decide to gouge out the last of my heart. Can I?”

A knot rose in her throat. “I would never hurt you. That is not who I am or what I seek to do.”

He leaned toward her, his ungloved right hand unexpectedly drifting to her face. “And what is it that you seek to do?” he whispered.

She swallowed. “I…”

Warm, calloused fingers touched her skin and gently traced the entire curve of her chin, causing her breath to hitch. With a firm, guiding nudge, he tilted her chin upward, forcing her face up to his.

He edged closer, the smoldering invitation in those unwavering dark eyes making her entire body feel heavy and warm. He paused, his lips hovering above hers. “Close your eyes.”

Without question, she closed them, anticipating the feel of his mouth against hers and praying it would erase everything that had ever come before him.

“Am I to be the first to ever kiss you?” he asked softly, his fingers delicately tracing and retracing the sides of her face.

She swallowed, knowing he wasn't the first. Her Russian was. But perhaps one day, she would be able to forget who had been the first and why. Perhaps
he
would make her forget.

With eyes still closed, she leaned forward, trying to connect her own mouth to his in a desperate effort to erase a past she childishly clung to.

She connected with…cool air. Her eyes fluttered open, realizing Lord Moreland had already stepped back and away. She heaved out a disappointed breath.

He yanked on his gloves, molding them against his large hands and fingers, but didn't meet her gaze.
“You didn't answer my question pertaining to your level of experience. Why?”

Heat crept into her cheeks. “Admitting to having kissed a man while attempting to kiss another is rather awkward. Would you not say?”

He glanced up. There was a distinct hardening in those eyes. “Who was he? And what was the extent of your involvement?”

Seemingly simple questions, yet his tone was laced with raw accusation. He wanted more than just a name. He wanted details. “I know nothing about him except that he was Russian.”

He stepped toward her, his stance rigid. “Were you assaulted?”

She sighed, shaking her head. “No. It was nothing of that nature. Do you wish to know more?”

He shook his head and glanced away. “No. I have imposed long enough.”

“You graciously bestowed your confidence unto me, Lord Moreland. Allow me to return the sentiment. My association with this man goes back to when I lost my leg.”

His gaze snapped to hers with a pulsing intensity. “Go on.”

Awkwardly, she cleared her throat. “I was…assisting the Bilowski family to scavenge for any remaining valuables left from their burnt home. It was a sad, arduous task, sifting through debris with thick
leather gloves. I remember the sky above me was a brilliant blood-pink with hues of blue and black as the sun descended from the sky. I often wonder if it was a warning from God that I did not heed. My mother appeared, after one of our servants had informed her I had snuck out of the house to assist in scavenging. She demanded I retire, insisting I was too respectable to be rummaging through debris like a peasant. I thought her reasoning to be shallow and unfounded so I ignored her by moving into a section of the house I had yet to explore. I spotted a silver jewelry box hidden beneath a beam, reached down to dig it out, when a crack resounded and I was instantly buried beneath a wall.”