The Perfect Scandal (2 page)

This was officially getting out of hand. And he was entirely to blame for it. “No. Do not say it. Do not even think it.”

She shifted her weight against the sill, swaying the locket around her throat, and met his gaze. “You obviously think the worst of me.” She sighed. “Though I cannot blame you. Allow me to confess what it is I hope for us.”

“Please do.”

“I am in need of a husband by summer's end and you, my lord, fit all of the qualifications I seek.”

“Oh, do I?” He let out an exasperated laugh,
released the iron railing and jumped back down onto the pavement with a solid thud. It was time to leave. Or by God, he would end up married to a foreigner and a Catholic by the end of the night. His staunchly Protestant grandmother would have a fit.

Stepping further back, he met her shadowed gaze and confided in a low, raw tone, “Here in London, there are rules as to how things are conducted between men and women, and I confess that as of right now, you and I are breaking every single one of those rules.”

She sighed. “You British have rules for everything. How did this country ever populate itself?” She winced, shifting against the sill, and then set her chin. “Advise me as to how we should go about progressing this and I promise to adhere to whatever rules there may or may not be.”

There had to be something wrong with her. Beautiful, intelligent women didn't miraculously appear in a gentleman's neighborhood and enthusiastically offer relationships through a window in the middle of the night. Not respectable relationships, anyway.

He'd best pretend to be indifferent until he knew more about her. “I regret to inform you, madam, that I am not interested in pursuing this.”
Not yet
.

“I disagree.” She gestured toward him with the tip of her brush. “You appear to be very interested. Otherwise you would have never stayed this long.”

He snorted, realizing she'd called his bluff. “Allow me to take my leave before you drown in all that vanity. Good night.” He gave her a curt nod, turned and strode away, telling himself to keep walking. He needed to go home before he did something ludicrous. Like turning around, striding back and asking her if he could come up for the night.

“I am
not
vain!” she called out. “I was simply making an observation based on your mannerisms!”

He quickened his pace before she figured out anything else based on his mannerisms.

“Might we at least part amiably?”
Her voice echoed across the entire square. “We
are
neighbors, Lord Moreland. Or might I call you Tristan? Or Adam? Or do you prefer Hargrove?”

He jerked to a halt. How the devil did the woman know his entire list of names? Who had she been talking to?

He turned and stalked back toward her, determined to instill a flick of sense and respectability into that head. “Keep your voice down. And for the sake of whatever reputation you may or may not have, do not
ever
call me or any other man by their birth name. It insinuates far too much. Now, I suggest you retire and that we avoid each other until I say otherwise.”

She looped a shorter section of her hair behind her ear. “Avoid each other? Why?”

“We don't want others to think we are involved.”

She lowered her voice. “But I want us to be involved.”

He stared up at her, wishing he could dig into that mind and understand what it was she really wanted. His money? His title? What? Because he wasn't
that
attractive. “You, my dear, appear to be on a path of self-destruction.”

She tartly stared him down. “You know nothing about me or the path I am on.”

“Oh, I know more than enough. You are overly determined, a bit too fond of yourself and, sadly, possess far more beauty than you know what to do with.”

She eyed him. “You are very odd.”

He pulled in his chin and pointed to his chest. “You find
me
odd?”

“Most men usually do not see beauty as a vice.”

“Yes, well, I am not like most men.”

“So I have noticed. Would you care to elaborate as to why that is?”

He pointed at her. “Do not make me climb that wall and nail your window permanently shut. This conversation is over. We avoid each other until I decide otherwise. Good night.” He heaved out a breath and swung away.

She tapped her brush against the sill of her window
like a judge demanding order from him with a gavel. “I have one last thought to convey. Might I?”

He swung back, agitated with himself for wanting to stay and hear it. “Of course. What is it?”

She hesitated, lowering her gaze to her slim fingers, which were skimming across the bristles of her brush. “Do you believe in intuition and fate?”

He drew his brows together, surprised to find her taking on a much softer tone and a more serious demeanor. It lulled him into wanting to take on a softer tone himself. “Yes. Very much so. Why?”

Her fingers stilled against the brush. “Intuition tells me, despite your air of indifference, that at heart, you are anything but apathetic. I confess that I used to be very much like you until I learned to embrace what matters most. What you are witnessing is a woman seeking to bring change to the world through a plan that involves marrying into a perfect political platform.
You
are that perfect political platform. 'Tis fate that brought me into your neighborhood. 'Tis also fate that brought you here to my window tonight, as I have been seeking an introduction between us for weeks. Grace me with an opportunity to prove my worth, my lord, by getting to know me and my aspirations, and I vow you will not regret it.”

He rumbled out a laugh. Parliament could make use of her. She was relentless. He pointed up at her. “I want a wife. Not a politician.”

She paused. Glancing over her shoulder, she slid off the sill and leaned back into the room. “Our conversation must end,” she whispered down at him, yanking up her hair and shoving it back over her shoulder. “Call on me tomorrow at four. I insist.”

His chest tightened. “I am afraid my schedule will not allow for it and I would prefer—”

“
Shhhh!
Tomorrow at four. Be punctual.” Flinging her brush over her shoulder, she yanked the window shut, latched it and leaned over to the side, fumbling with the curtains around her. She yanked at the nearest curtain in an effort to close it, but appeared unable to. A robed elderly woman breezed toward her side to assist.

He cringed and spun away, forging his way back home. Tomorrow at four? Not bloody likely. He hated rearranging his schedule for anyone or anything. It only led to chaos and lack of good judgment. Which is why, tomorrow at four, in his stead, he would have the footman deliver a copy of his etiquette book,
How To Avoid A Scandal
. Hopefully, it would be a polite enough message to convey that despite their conversation, he was still a very respectable man.

28th of April, Late morning

F
OR SOME REASON
,
the
London Gazette,
which Tristan always enjoyed reading every morning with
his coffee, seemed to blur into a pyramid of letters he could not decipher. After vacantly staring at it for a prolonged period of time, he refolded the newspaper and slapped it onto the lacquered walnut table before him.

It appeared he was now illiterate, and he damn well knew his neighbor had everything to do with it. Though it had been twelve days since his footman had delivered his book, and though he'd heard nothing since, he still could not remove her from his head. Huffing out an exhausted breath, he tightened the belt of his embroidered oriental robe, leaned forward in his chair and grasped his ever-reliable cup of coffee.

Coffee always set him right each and every morning. Which he needed this late morning more than any other, because he most certainly hadn't been sleeping very well. If at all. Not since he'd realized
his
bedchamber window was aligned directly with
her
bedchamber window, just on the other side of the square.

Determined not to stray, for the past ten nights, the moment he retired into his room he had yanked those bedchamber curtains shut and had refused to look in that direction. Yet his thoughts lingered on that lush, accented voice, that alluring, pale face, the shifting of her nightdress against those soft, full breasts and
that delectable mouth he wanted to get to know on a very, very personal level.

And then…last night…on the eleventh night before the eleventh hour, his well-molded, gentlemanly resolve finally fissured. He dug out his best riding crop, along with a spyglass, and toted them both into his bedchamber.

After extinguishing every candle in the room with the tips of his fingers, he leaned his shoulder against the frame of the window and extended the brass eyepiece, pointing it in her direction. Fortunately for her—though not so fortunate for him—she had learned to keep her curtains drawn. He'd only been able to make out a few passing shadows, even after diligently watching her window for over twenty minutes.

Unable to rest or think or sleep, he'd stripped, snatched up the riding crop from the windowsill and set his back against the nearest wall. After thwacking his thigh just enough to heighten his awareness of his body, he tossed the crop and pleasured himself into oblivion.

All the while, he had envisioned himself wearing only trousers, kneeling before her. She worshipped him, told him that he was everything she would ever want and need, while she seductively rounded him on bare feet, draped in that flowing nightdress that slid off her right shoulder. Her eyes would never leave
his as her hand gripped the thick handle of a whip he'd given her to play with. She would then smile ever so softly, ever so charmingly, while delicately smacking the braided leather end against his thigh or back, causing him to suck in breaths of anticipation. She would further tease him by placing sections of the leather whip in her mouth and biting it between her teeth to show him how much she really enjoyed playing with him.

When every last inch of his body and mind pulsed in awareness and desperation, he'd envisioned rising, yanking up her nightdress above her waist and quietly instructing her to release the whip and set both hands against the pane of the window. He'd envisioned ramming into her, her pale hands sliding down the glass, unable to find stability, as he kept ramming into her from behind, again and again and again.

It was the best orgasm he'd had in a very, very long time. Which, yes, was pathetic. But then again, that was his life: pathetic. Hell, here he was, at the age of eight and twenty, and aside from several dozen tolerable nights throughout the years with women he shouldn't have even bothered with, he'd never experienced true passion or a meaningful relationship. He wanted that. He'd always wanted that. Sex for sex's sake made him feel so…vulgar. Especially the sort of sex he enjoyed.

Bringing the porcelain cup up to his lips, Tristan
swallowed a mouthful of hot, gritty coffee and paused, drawing his brows together. Smacking his lips against the acrid bitterness and granules coating his tongue, he refrained from spitting out his own saliva into the cup. Why was his coffee so mucky?

He set the cup on the porcelain saucer with a solid
chink
and sighed in exasperation. Instead of complaining to the servants, he rose and trudged back upstairs, toward his dressing chamber. He was already an hour late anyway.

After the valet assisted him in dressing, he surveyed his appearance in the full-length mirror one last time, only to pause, noting something wasn't quite right.

His boots.

Glancing down, he drew up his right foot, to better inspect the black leather, before setting it back down. For some reason, his boots were scuffed.

He blinked, realizing they were the same boots he'd worn the night he had met…
her.
He must have scuffed them against the railing he'd climbed. He hated scuffed boots. He hated it about as much as he hated being late. It was obvious his focus was waning.

Before leaving the house, Tristan rang for his valet one last time and had the man repolish his boots. Slamming the front door behind him, he stalked out toward his waiting carriage, annoyed with his
inability to focus. Settling into the upholstered seat, he rapped on the ceiling to signal his driver onward and yanked out his pocket watch.

It was almost noon. Blast it. His entire schedule would have to be rearranged. Tristan glanced toward the house across the square and shifted his jaw. He was already an hour behind. He supposed it wouldn't matter if he casually drove by her house on the way out. Perhaps if he could glimpse her in passing, and in full daylight, he could convince himself that she wasn't as attractive or as interesting as he had allowed himself to believe. He could then move on with his life and not worry about it again. And though, yes, it was a very stupid approach toward rationalizing his own preoccupation with a woman whose name he didn't even know, he was well used to stupid approaches when it came to women.

Shoving his watch back into his vest pocket, he unlatched the window of the carriage, pushed it open and called out to the driver, “Round the entire square once before our departure.” He hesitated. “Slowly.” He hesitated again. “Though not too slow.” He didn't want to be
too
obvious.

“Yes, my lord!” the driver called back.

Tristan slid closer to the window and waited as the neighboring townhomes alongside the stretch of the street dragged past. And dragged and dragged and dragged past.

He rolled his eyes and refrained from cursing. Though the carriage was going
far
too slow, so slow he could actually see into every single window that passed and see all of the furniture and servants belonging to every family in the neighborhood, he didn't bother to yell out to the driver again lest he bring even more attention to himself.

Eventually, the carriage rounded the end of the square. The sun, which had been partly hidden behind a large cloud, poured a bright patch of light across the vast whitewashed Georgian home.

Tristan leaned forward and casually glanced over to the long row of glinting windows, pretending he was merely admiring the architecture.

To his disappointment, each window that edged past held no movement or the face he was hoping to see. As the carriage clattered past the last four rows of windows, he froze, noticing a dark-haired woman tucked in a chair, sitting beside one of the windows. Her eyes were downcast as her bare hands appeared and disappeared above the sill, fastidiously occupied with intricate needlework.

It was her.

And unlike the last time he'd seen her, her thick, black hair was prettily swept up into a simple chignon. An alabaster cashmere shawl covered her slim shoulders, obscuring the curve of her breasts and sections of her azure morning gown.

She glanced up from her needlework and momentarily met his gaze through all the glass separating them. Her hands stilled at the exact moment his heart did.

Haunting gray-blue eyes, highlighted by the bright sun streaking her face, intently held his as the carriage edged on. He'd never realized a woman's eyes could force a man to reconsider his entire life.

She shifted against her wicker chair, her bold gaze following him as he rolled past. He leaned far forward in an effort to hold her gaze and offered a curt nod in her direction, wishing to inform her that despite the fact that he hadn't called, it did not mean he wasn't smitten.

Her full lips spread into a stunning smile that rounded her elegant cheeks. She waved him over, silently inviting him to call.

God save him, she needed to learn that respectable women did
not
wave men over. He shook his head, signaling that he wasn't quite ready to entertain the idea of calling on her. He needed more time.

Her smile faded. She shrugged, cast her eyes downward and occupied herself once again with her needlework.

As his carriage rounded the corner and headed out of the square, Tristan edged back against the seat and sighed. Sometimes he really wished he was capable of being more spontaneous. Sometimes.

On the outskirts of London

 

T
RISTAN JOGGED UP
the set of stairs leading to his grandmother's vast terrace home, reached out and twisted the iron bell on the side of the entrance. Moments passed, and with them the occasional clattering of coach wheels and clumping of horses' hooves from the cobblestone street behind. He waited and waited, yet for some reason, no one answered.

Leaning back, he eyed the vast windows, noting all of the curtains were open. His gut tightened as he twisted the iron bell again, praying that nothing was amiss. Eventually, eight solid clicks vibrated the large door and at long last, it swung open.

“Oh, thank the heavens!” Miss Henderson bustled out, grabbed him by the crook of his arm and yanked him inside.

Tristan stumbled to a halt, his top hat tipping forward as the chambermaid released him. Stunned, he blinked past the lowered brim of his hat at the hall decorated with potted ferns. “Miss Henderson.” He pushed his top hat back into place. “Was that necessary? I could have easily walked in.”

“Beggin' your pardon, milord.” She scurried around him to shut the door. “Seein' how you always insist on knowin' the particulars, here it be plain— Lady Moreland's been in a foul mood all week. More foul than I've ever been privy to, to be sure. And with
you bein' late, it appears to have agitated her into a state of panic.”

“I see.” Tristan eyed the silver tray laden with food that sat unattended on the bottom landing of the sweeping staircase. He pivoted toward Miss Henderson. “Is there a reason you've been tasked to answer doors? Assure me Lady Moreland hasn't dismissed yet another butler.”

She sighed. “That she did. Turned the poor man out not even two days ago when he complimented her on her appearance. She doesn't give a rottin' fig for men, does she?”

That was an understatement. “No. I am afraid she has endured far too much hardship to warrant that.”

In her debutante years, his grandmother had been hailed as an extraordinary beauty by all, including her own esteemed cousin, His Royal Majesty. Her beauty had seen her married to an extremely wealthy Marquis, which had pleased her father far more than herself. Sadly for her, the match had resulted in many years of vicious beatings at the hands of a libertine husband who flew into irrational, jealous rages brought on by cruel whispers that she and her cousin, His Majesty, whom she had always intimately associated with, were lovers. Which they were not. As a result, now it was Tristan's poor grandmother who was irrational.

Miss Henderson finished bolting each of the eight locks on the main entrance door. “The butler wasn't the only one to receive the shoe. Up and dismissed four others, she did.” She clasped her hands together and grinned, her round cheeks dimpling. “Always lovely havin' you call, milord. Makes all the difference. Softens her quite a bit, I think.”

“Does it?” He never knew his grandmother to be remotely soft. Or pliable, for that matter.

He blinked, noting Miss Henderson's white serving cap was tipped atop her blond, pinned hair, and that her embroidered white apron was propped almost entirely on the left side of her hip. It was obvious she was overworked.

He dug into his pocket and withdrew a ten-pound banknote from a small roll he always carried with him. He held it out for her. “Here. This will assist in keeping that lovely spirit of yours afloat. I appreciate everything you do for her.”

Her eyes widened as she eyed the banknote. “Truly?”

He leaned toward her and waved it. “I never offer something I don't intend to part with, Miss Henderson. 'Tis a rule of mine.”

She hesitated, then slipped the banknote from his gloved fingers and bobbed an awkward curtsy, stuffing the bill into her apron pocket. “You are too kind, milord.”

He gave her a curt nod. “At least someone thinks so. Inform Lady Moreland of my arrival.”

“That I will.” Miss Henderson adjusted her apron into place. Smoothing it against her gray serving attire, she bobbed another curtsy. “Pardon my frayed appearance, but with the butler and the housekeeper and two others gone, I am well without a wit. Surely you understand.”

“More than you realize,” he drawled. There was a reason he'd moved into separate quarters at twenty, after only five years under his grandmother's care. The woman meant well, but she had been territorial, obsessive and overly demanding. Still was.

Miss Henderson gestured toward the grand parlor off to the side, patted her cap back into place and hurried past. She heaved up the large silver tray from the bottom step, then clumped up the staircase. At the top, she glanced down at him, smiled and disappeared around the corner.