The Perfect Scandal (9 page)

She closed her eyes, giving in to the twisting memory of pulsing sounds, acrid smells and torturous agony that would forever haunt her. “I could hear my mother screaming for assistance over my own panicked breaths and sobs. That was when
he
appeared.”

A faint smile touched her lips as she reopened her eyes and reveled in the adoration she knew she was cursed to feel until her very last breath. “His carriage had been riding past when the wall collapsed. He dashed out to give aid without hesitation, and climbed through mounds of charred rubble, pulling everything out of his way to get to me. After several attempts, he lifted the beam that had splintered every
bone in my left leg. Though he was Russian, he lovingly spoke to me in Polish, insisting I only look at his face. He wouldn't let anyone, not even my mother, touch me as he unraveled his cravat and secured a tourniquet on my leg. He then carried me into his carriage, shouting for directions to the nearest doctor.”

She swallowed at the memory of seeing her own blood smeared all over his masculine hands and face. A face with sharp features and striking green eyes. His evening attire had been ruined from his efforts and his wavy black hair had been dusted with soot and ash.

“Both he and my mother,” she went on softly, “held me through each agonized scream until we arrived at the home of a doctor known for treating severe wounds. Everyone was instantly commanded to leave the room, as all of my clothing had to be removed. That is when this Russian seized me, cradled me against him and kissed me. It was not a chaste, sympathetic kiss, either, but one delivered with a breathless passion meant to excite the soul. He kept kissing and kissing me until the doctor was forced to remove me from his hands. My mother was livid, claiming he was some vile Russian libertine who obviously did not care if I lived or died, but I felt as if…as if he had been willing me to live.”

She drew in a shaky breath and let it out. “Though I will never know. He disappeared and it was as if he
had never been there. I became obsessed and could think of nothing but him, even as the best surgeon in Europe was rushed to Warszawa from France to amputate my leg, which had yielded to gangrene. My mother eventually submitted to my demands of posting monetary rewards for anyone who might have known him, but nothing ever came of it. Who he was, I know not, and despite him being Russian, much to my mother's own horror, I fell in love with him and everything he represented.”

She shrugged, sensing perhaps she was revealing too much. “I live because of him.” She pinched her lips, forcing herself not to yield to emotion, knowing she had never been given the chance to even thank him.

Lord Moreland's tight features had long been softened as he continued to stare at her. He searched her face. “That was not what I expected. At all.” He hesitated. “Was he the only one to ever touch you?”

“I am still a maid, if that is what ails you.”

He lowered his chin. “You had better be. Because that is a requirement for whatever wife I take.”

She rolled her eyes. “You men place so much value on being first in everything. What if women were to place that same value upon men? I dare say, society would be at a loss and God would have to send forth another Adam and Eve. Do tell. How many women
have
you
kissed in your lifetime? And how many more have you bedded?”

He glanced away and shrugged.

She leaned forward, waiting for his response, yet he still said nothing. “Are you still counting?” she prodded. “Is that it?”

“Of course not,” he drawled. “I happen to think this conversation crass.”

“Crass? We are merely being honest with each other. Since when is honesty considered crass?”

He stared at her. “You want to know?”

“Yes. I want to know. How many women have you bedded and kissed?”

He cleared his throat and smoothed his waistcoat against his chest. “A few. All of which I regret. I have had the misfortune of attracting eccentric, older women in my circle who never held an understanding of what it is I truly want.”

She hesitated. “And what is it that you want?”

“A relationship.”

Zosia blinked in astonishment and scooted toward the edge of the chaise, shifting her leg. “I dare say, you truly are respectable.”

He looked away, the muscles in his jaw flicking. “There is no need to mock me.”

“I was not mocking you. In my opinion, there are far too many seasoned rakes debauching poor, unsuspecting virgins for their own sport. 'Tis rather
endearing to actually meet a gentleman chasing after…a relationship.”

He smirked. “I wouldn't have minded chasing a virgin, but I knew the sort of seasoning I would have required from a virgin would have probably led to my arrest.”

Zosia burst into laughter, then smacked a hand over her mouth, squelching her reaction. “Forgive me. That was exceedingly rude.”

“I am not without humor.” A smile softened his lips. “I meant to make you laugh. And you laugh beautifully, by the by.”

She bit her lower lip and nodded, fidgeting her fingers against the fabric of her gown. She really liked this Moreland. Despite his bizarre leanings toward pain, he was incredibly witty, intelligent, rational, handsome, not in the least bit annoying and, above all else, he was a Marquis who held a seat in the House of Lords.

She could only demand so much from the reality of her situation. It was him or the men His Majesty kept insisting on. “I like you, Lord Moreland.”

He grinned, the edges of his eyes crinkling. “Do you?”

“Yes. I like you well enough to pursue this. That is…if you are interested in pursuing this.”

His grin faded. He shifted toward her, his brows rising a fraction. “You wish to pursue this?”

“Yes.”

“As in a relationship?”

“Yes. With a view toward matrimony.”

“Even after everything I told you?”

Yes, she'd lost the last of her mind, but it wasn't as if her nameless rescuer would ever sweep her off her one foot. With every noble cause came noble sacrifices, and compared to all the other strange, British men she'd met thus far, this one who sliced himself was without any doubt the most appealing. Which she supposed didn't say much for British men.

She shrugged. “I sense there is far more good in you than bad, and that is all I could ever hope for in a husband. If you vow to assist me in publicly voicing the rights of my people, I will accept an offer of matrimony.”

He let out a low whistle. “Are you being serious?”

“I am.”

Amusement flickered in his dark eyes as he scanned her entire body with renewed, raw interest. He set his hands behind his back, widening his stance. “So my scars and my penchant for whips and blades do not intimidate you?”

“Not even the Russians intimidate me, Lord Moreland.”

“Ah, but you won't be bedding the Russians, will you?”

She let out a laugh. “Heaven forbid.”

He hesitated. “I have yet to convey a commentary on your cause. If I may say, I admire what it is you seek to do for your country. More than you realize.”

She was almost too startled to say anything.

He gestured toward her. “When one thinks of a patriot, a woman never comes to mind. And that may, in fact, grant you favor. There are ways to illuminate your plight without causing riots, and I would be willing to offer you the support you require if you would be willing to offer yourself to me.”

Her pulse skipped. “Are you offering marriage?”

He cleared his throat. “No. Not quite yet. I would require more substantial proof of your character first. Stunning though you appear to be, you cannot expect me to commit to spend the rest of my life with a woman I just met. And through a window, no less.”

She laughed. “No. Of course not.”

“I am so pleased you agree.”

“So what sort of proof would you require?”

“Something a bit more…intimate in nature.”

Her eyes widened. “Are you insinuating that we—”

He
tsk
ed. “Let us keep this respectable, shall we? For your sake. Not mine.”

She blinked, her cheeks heating. “Forgive me.”

“I was more flattered than offended, I assure you.”
He smiled. Stepping toward her, he swept up her bare hand, pressing it into the heat of his own hand and bent toward it, kissing it. He glanced up, rubbing her fingers against his own. “I am requesting you send me a missive before you retire tonight.”

She tried not to linger on the way his large fingers continued to rub her hand, which seemed so small compared to his. “A missive?”

“Yes.”

“And what exactly am I to include in that missive?”

His fingers tightened. “It is to be a very
intimate
missive describing what it is you think of me.”

She swallowed. “How intimate?”

He leaned in closer, his eyes drifting down to her lips before drifting up and meeting her gaze again. “So intimate, it would be considered indecent if society were to ever glimpse it. I am also asking that you leave your bedchamber curtains open tonight so that I may look upon you as I read it.”

She gasped and yanked her hand out of his and leaned back. “I suppose you will expect me to watch you whip yourself through the window next?”

He rumbled out a laugh and straightened. “Don't give me any ideas.”

“I suggest you leave, Lord Moreland. Before I grow another leg and kick you into Russia where you belong.”

“So you are passing on the opportunity I am offering?”

“I happen to think it vile and pointless. For all I know, you will use my own words against me.”

He smirked. “I am not playing the role of a lecher. Such a missive would simply allow me to determine the sort of woman you truly are. What do you define as being indecent? Hmm? That is all I want to know.”

Her lips puckered in annoyance. She supposed a man who had a penchant for whips and blades would require more than the usual set of passions and was about to test her own. Heaven forbid. “And what if I decide not to write the missive?”

He held up both hands as if admitting defeat and slowly stepped back. “Then we are both at a loss. For if you cannot entertain one indelicate missive, I doubt you will ever be able to entertain me.”

He offered a respectable bow of his head. “I have imposed long enough.” He turned and strode out of the parlor.

An exasperated breath escaped her lips. It would be far easier to bed the man and prove herself that way, than to write about it in a language that wasn't even her own.

He paused in the corridor.

She glanced toward him, expecting him to say something more on the matter, when to her
astonishment, he gathered her crutches, which still lay strewn across the foyer floor.

Turning, he strode back in, toting a crutch in each gloved hand. “I still hear the crowd outside. I'll depart through the servants' quarters. If there are no guards tending to the crowd, I will have my footmen fetch the authorities and will remain outside until they arrive. Until then, promise me you will stay inside.”

Zosia could hardly find the words to disclose how incredibly touched and astonished she was, given the conversation they had just finished.
“Obiecam.”
She winced and amended, “I promise.”

She had actually slipped into Polish. Whatever happened there? She
never
slipped when speaking any of the five languages she knew and applied herself to. “I will remain inside. Thank you.”

He nodded. Without meeting her gaze, he set the crutches together against the chaise within her reach. “If I don't receive your missive before I retire—which is always a quarter to midnight—I will assume we are no more. Whatever you decide, I'll not harbor any ill feelings. It was a pleasure, Countess. And I do mean that.”

He turned and strode back out. Retrieving the top hat he'd earlier tossed, he disappeared, his firm steps echoing down the corridor of the house.

Zosia eyed the crutches he had so gallantly
remembered and brought the hand he had kissed up to her own lips. She had always believed there was a reason why she had survived an amputation that should have killed her. She was meant for greater things. Things meant to change the world. And to change the world, she was going to need a powerful alliance. An alliance such as this one.

Any other rational woman would have recognized that a man who sought to revel in pain was not a man who would make for a good husband
or
a good lover
or
a reliable associate to assist her in leading a cause against the Russians. Despite that, there was still something breathtakingly endearing about a man who remembered to tend to a woman's crutches as he marched out the door.

A
LMOST A DOZEN ROYAL GUARDS
on horses wove their way through the crowded square, their fixed bayonets and commanding shouts slowly dispersing the men around them.

Tristan rounded back toward the scattering crowd, determined to figure out what the hell had brought all of these men to Zosia's door in the first place. The urge to physically protect the most incredible woman he had ever had the pleasure of meeting pounded
through his veins with every breath and every step he took.

He stalked toward a well-dressed gent pushing his way in the opposite direction of everyone else. Tristan jerked to a halt and held out a gloved hand, blocking the man from proceeding. “Sir. Might I pose a question?”

The man swung toward him, shoving a newspaper beneath his arm, and met his gaze from beneath the rim of his top hat. “If you must,” he replied in a bored, flat tone.

Tristan shifted toward him, trying not to acknowledge that this young man of about twenty was good-looking, with sharp, noble features and prominent brown eyes. He couldn't help but be agitated knowing that this man was only one of hundreds seeking matrimony from Zosia. “Is there a reason why you and so many other men are gathered outside this young woman's door? 'Tis very offensive to her good name.”

The man slipped out the newspaper from beneath his arm and pointed it tauntingly toward Tristan's head. “A righteous one in the crowd, I see.”

Tristan shoved the newspaper away from his face, refraining from shoving the man along with it. “I don't appreciate having anything waved in my face when I have given you no cause. Now, please. Answer the question.”

The man rolled his eyes and sauntered around him. “Go flog the bishop. I have an appointment and have already wasted half my day.”

Oh, flog the bishop, was it?

Tristan jumped toward him and grabbed hold of the man's morning coat, knocking the man's hat from his dark head with a solid shake. Jerking him closer, Tristan seethed down at him through his teeth, “Why is a self-righteous bastard such as yourself seeking matrimony from a respectable woman you don't even know? You have six seconds to answer before the razor in my pocket ensures you cease to breathe.”

The man froze, his eyes widening. He snapped up the folded newspaper. “I was merely…responding to an advertisement.”

Tristan released him. Snatching the newspaper from the man's hand, he unfolded it and scanned the rows of ads. But there were far too many for him to decipher which one he needed to look at. “Where is it? Show me. Which one?”

The man hesitated, leaned in and pointed a gloved finger toward the bottom of the page. Edging away, the dandy turned and sprinted in the opposite direction, without bothering to pick up his own hat, which had rolled out into the street. His boots thudded against the pavement, his wool morning coat flapping around him as he rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.

Tristan smirked, rather amused that the man found him
that
imposing, snapped the newspaper straight and read.

 

Wanted, a gentleman of good income and respectable breeding with a view to matrimony. The lady is 23 and presumes her manners and appearance will recommend her to all. £5,000 will be awarded upon engagement and £10,000 upon matrimony. No interviews will be considered or granted without the deliverance of a calling card. All cards will be accepted for one day and one day only, at 28 Grosvenor Square on the 13th of May.

 

Tristan sucked in a breath and glanced up, jerking toward the crowd of men still struggling to push out of the square. With the promise of fifteen thousand pounds, every criminal, bogtrotter and Captain Queernab in London was going to apply. Was Zosia even aware of what was going on?

He paused, squinting at the royal guards milling through the dwindling crowd of men. Why the devil had the royal guards come out? Royal guards never dealt with public crowds. Not unless…

Tristan refolded the newspaper and slapped it against the palm of his hand. How utterly fascinating. His Majesty did indeed appear to be involved in
her personal affairs. Well, well, well. For once, luck appeared to be on his side after all.

 

A
FTER MUCH THOUGHT
and internal grumbling and procrastination, Zosia set aside her misgivings and dipped the tip of her quill into the inkwell before her, ready to yield the most provocative set of words known to humanity.

 

Dear Lord Moreland,

 

She paused, edging her quill away from the words. That was not a very provocative opening, was it? She huffed out a breath and pushed the parchment off the desk, letting it flutter to the floor. Angling a new piece of parchment before herself, she hesitated and commenced again.

 

To the man I hope to make my lover (once he is my husband, that is, and most certainly not sooner),

 

Feeling more confident, she dipped her quill again.

 

I have already had the privilege of seeing you fully undress, so I will agree that there is no need for me to be coy. I am most impressed. I will
say no more. I certainly hope you have proven to be more of a gentleman than I have proven to be a lady and that you have not been using your spyglass in the same manner I have been using mine. I will graciously leave my curtains open for you tonight, in honor of your request, and will sit before the window for your viewing pleasure. Should you require my words to be more amorous in nature, I fear not only are we both at a loss, but so is my dear Poland.

Ever hoping,

Zosia

 

She set her quill aside. There. Let him do with it what he will. That was about as indecent as she was capable of being.

 

T
RISTAN FELT LIKE A DAMN CHAP
about to embark upon his very first tryst. Only, without any doubt, this was far more soul-consuming. Setting his robed shoulder against the frame of the window, he held up the sealed letter, silently informing Zosia that he had indeed received her missive.

She leaned toward the window, propping her elbows upon the sill, and stared out at him across the expanse of the square.

Tilting his head, he slid a bare finger along the smooth surface of the folded parchment, wishing it
was the curve of her throat, the curve of her breasts and the planes of her stomach his finger was tracing and touching.

Was it possible he had finally found a woman capable of accepting him for what he was? He gently broke the wax seal and unfolded the letter. His brows rose as he scanned her words. “You devil.”

The written word, he knew, conveyed as much about a person as any form of conversation. If not more. He methodically scanned the letter. Given her very pretty penmanship, perfect alignment and lack of smearing, she demonstrated a sound, focused mind. Her words and their tone conveyed what he had already assessed throughout their conversations. She was witty, intelligent, respectable, agreeable without being submissive and, above all, held an unrelenting self-respect, despite her dire impediment.

By God, he couldn't help but be smitten.

He refolded the letter and drew in a fortifying breath before letting it back out. Inclining his head toward her, he held up a forefinger, requesting she wait, and veered out of sight toward the writing desk in the corner of his bedchamber.

Tucking her letter into one of his favorite books on Roman history, he leaned over the desk. He took up his quill and slid a piece of parchment toward himself.

He hesitated, then wrote.

Fear not for your dear Poland, my beautiful Countess, for she has found a friend in me. Allow me to call on you tomorrow so we might further discuss matters.

Yours,

Moreland

 

He smiled. Folding the parchment, he melted the end of the wax and dripped it onto the overlapping flap. Grabbing up his seal, he pressed it into the wax. He tossed the seal with a clatter back onto his desk and snatched up the parchment.

Ringing the service bell, he wandered back over to the window and held up the sealed letter, informing her she was about to receive a missive.

Passing off the letter to his footman with instructions that it be delivered with discretion, he returned to the window and waited.

Minutes later, she was opening his letter. He could see her dark head bowing over his words. She paused and glanced up.

He inclined his head one last time to gallantly bid her a good night when a movement on the other side of the square gave him pause.

A broad-shouldered figure, saddled upon a horse, dressed in full military attire, suggestively lingered beneath Zosia's window. Tristan could make out little of the attire, which was dimly illuminated by the
surrounding gas lamps, but could see it was not of British rank.

The man circled his horse beneath Zosia's candlelit window as if settling into a position to watch her.

Why the blazes would a foreign military officer be—

Tristan's pulse thundered. Christ. Zosia wasn't safe. Jogging over to his dressing chamber, he grabbed up his riding boots and shoved his feet into them. Not giving a spit that he was still wearing his robe, he flung open his bedchamber door and quickly made his way along the corridor, down the stairs and into his study.

Yanking out one of the rosewood boxes he kept on the bookshelf in the study, he retrieved his best pistol. Though there was little candlelight to guide him, he managed to methodically prime the pistol. Grabbing the ramrod, he loaded the lead ball and shoved the rammer back into place.

“Remain by the entrance and await further instruction,” he yelled out to one of the footmen, who was extinguishing candles.

“Yes, my lord.” The footman hurried out into the corridor and disappeared.

Cocking the pistol, Tristan stalked to the entrance door and opened it, signaling to the footman to remain where he was. Crossing the square, Tristan
focused on the horseman, who quietly continued to linger beneath Zosia's window. The occasional soft snort from a restless horse rustled the night air.

Keeping his stride quiet but steady, Tristan drew closer until he was able to make out a broad back and dark hair tied with a red ribbon that peered out beneath a large, feathered military hat.

Tristan paused, remaining within the shadows, and pointed his pistol. “Dismount!” he called out, his voice echoing around them. “Dismount or, by God, you will swallow lead.”

The man's gloved hand jumped to the sword at his side, but otherwise he did not attempt to turn himself or his horse.

“Toss your saber!” Tristan moved closer, keeping his pistol steadily pointed at the center of that back. “Toss it! Do it.
Now!
”

The man held up both hands in the air, as if demonstrating his ability to fully cooperate with the request, then carefully unsheathed his sword and tossed it toward the cobbled street. The sword clanged with a resounding echo in the silence of the square.

“Now dismount!” Tristan commanded.

The man swung a booted leg from over his horse and in a single thud dismounted, the feathers on his hat swaying. He turned and fully faced Tristan, the rim of his hat shading most of his face.

Ensuring that the man had no other weapon on his
person or attached to the saddle of the horse, Tristan drew closer, never once lowering his pistol.

“Lord Moreland?” Zosia's voice echoed around them from above, through the open window where she was now leaning out. “Whatever are you—”

“You will retire until this matter is resolved!”
Tristan yelled up at her, never once averting his gaze from the target standing before him.

The man boldly stepped forward and said in a very low, heavily accented tone, “Do not speak to her in so vile a manner.”

Tristan squinted, tightening his hold on the pistol. Was he Polish? “Who are you?”

“A friend.”

Tristan moved closer until he was an arm's length away. The blurring shadows slowly revealed a young, shaven face and striking green eyes. “Whose friend?” Tristan demanded. “
Hers?
Because you most certainly are not mine.”

“I am not
your
friend.” The man intently stared at him. “I have been watching you, Lord Moreland. I have been watching you very closely.”

Tristan refrained from snorting. “Oh, have you, now? So you take great pleasure in lingering beneath my window, too? Shall we let the authorities settle this matter? Before I do?”

The man narrowed his gaze. “From this night forth, you will cease any and all association you share
with the Grand Duchess. You are overstepping your bounds as a gentleman and I will not tolerate it. I suggest you offer the very last words you wish to share and retire.”

With that, the man strode past Tristan, toward the sword he had earlier discarded. Tossing it up, he angled it and casually sheathed it in a single sweep. He then strode back to his horse and mounted it with pompous bravado.

The gentleman glanced up at Zosia, who still leaned out the open window, garbed only in her nightdress. A grin overtook the man's lips as he offered her a bow of his head.
“Dobra noc.”
There was an adoring reverence in that low tone that made Tristan want to pull the trigger on the pistol he still held.

Zosia hesitated, as if astonished by his words, but softly offered,
“Dobra noc.”

Steering the horse away, the man trotted past, fiercely holding Tristan's gaze. “The Duchess is already spoken for. Heed that. If we meet again, I assure you, it is
you
who will be at the end of
my
pistol.” Kicking his booted heels into the sides of his horse, the man pushed his white stallion into a clattering gallop and disappeared out of the square into the night.

Tristan lowered his pistol and heaved out an exasperated breath. What the hell was that about? How
had
he
become the villain in this? He glanced up at Zosia, who still gazed in the direction the man had gone.