The Perfect Scandal (10 page)

Tristan strode toward her window, determined to know why there appeared to be a territorial Polish military fop on the loose laying claim to her. Noticing that her thoughts were still with the man, he cleared his throat obnoxiously. “I haven't quite left, dearest.”

She drew in a notable breath and glanced down at him, as if suddenly remembering he did in fact exist. “Hmm?”

He knew that lost look in a woman's eye. It was a look he had yet to earn. “Do you know him?” he prodded, unable to hide his agitation.

She hesitated. “I was unable to make out his features well enough to say. The brim of his hat shadowed his face far too much.”

“Allow me to rephrase the question. Is it
possible
you may know him?”

She shook her head, sending her long braid swaying. “No. I suppose not.”

“So why is it he knows you?”

She shrugged. “Many know of me. I am, after all, the granddaughter of a disgraced king.”

He shifted his jaw, unable to push away this fierce, gnawing jealousy overtaking him. “Are you already spoken for, Zosia? As he said?”

She rolled her eyes. “I would know if I were spoken for. I assure you, I am not.”

“Then why did he say you were?”

“I have no idea.”

“He called you Grand Duchess.”

Her brows rose. “He did?”

“Yes. Were you not privy to the entire conversation?”

“Some of it.”

“Are you in fact a duchess?”

“No. He is clearly delusional.”

“He didn't appear delusional to me. He also said something to you. What did he say?”

She lowered her chin. “Why, Lord Moreland. Are you jealous?”

“What if I am?” He tossed his words up at her. “Have you not been wooing me all this time? What is this? Some sort of sport? Leading me to believe one thing when in fact it appears to be quite another.”

She leaned further out the window, her golden locket falling out of her nightdress and swaying. “I have been forthright with you, my lord, from the moment we met. It is up to you to decide whether you wish to submit to a childish form of jealousy that has clearly overtaken the last of your senses. You have not even offered on me, therefore what right do you have to make demands? None.”

It would indeed be his luck that some damn gallant
would appear in the dark of night on a white steed just as he was about to get on his knee. He seethed out a breath. It was inevitable. There was no sense fighting it anymore. She wanted it and he wanted it. And he'd best do something before someone else wanted it.

He glanced down at the pistol he still held and inwardly winced. This was not how he envisioned proposing to any woman. He cleared his throat. “I wish to ask a few questions I expect answered in earnest before I will even allow myself to submit to this.”

She rocked against the sill. “You may ask however many questions you want. When do you intend to call with these questions?”

“Now.”

“Now?”
She scanned the square around them and lowered her voice by a whole octave. “What if the neighbors should hear?”

Oh, now she cared. “I doubt our neighbors will mind being privy to the latest in gossip.” He dragged in a breath and let it out, knowing he was officially stepping on the path toward matrimony. “First question.”

Doubts slowly edged into his thoughts bit by bit, keeping him from focusing on the question he wanted to ask. Hell, he knew he
wanted
and
needed
a woman like her in his life. An incredible, beautiful
and intelligent woman who sought to understand him and make him feel as if he deserved far more out of life than he'd been able to give himself. But he also knew that she herself deserved far more than him. She deserved a self-assured, reliable and dashing gallant on a steed with a saber at his side. Not a queer with a razor in his pocket and a leather whip at his bedside.

She blinked. “Did I miss the question, Lord Moreland?”

He sighed. “No.”

“Oh, good. I was worried I had somehow missed it.”

Ever cheeky and ever brilliant. Damn her. Damn her for making him want her!

She rolled her hand. “What is the first question?”

He huffed out a breath. “Will you be marrying me solely to support a political agenda?”

She quirked a brow and primly lowered her hand. “Of course not. I do, in fact, like you. Very much.”

A sense of pride drummed through him, knowing he had somehow gotten this stunning woman to like him. “Next question.” He met her gaze. “Would you ever place your country before the needs of your own husband?”

She scrunched her nose. “I should hope that the
needs of my husband do not exceed that of millions of people.”

He rolled his eyes. “I am being quite serious.”

“So am I.”

“Perhaps I should rephrase the question.”

“Perhaps you should.”

“What is more important to you? Your country? Or your husband?”

She played for a moment with the tips of her fingers. “In truth, I would seek to make them of equal importance.”

Good answer. “Next question. Do you find me attractive enough to bed?”

Her eyes widened. She blinked down at him several times. “Why…yes. Of course.”

He squinted up at her. “Why did you hesitate?”

“Because I thought it was obvious, given my letter. Did I lead you to believe otherwise?”

He shrugged. She had yet to see the full extent of his scars. They covered more than just his forearms. They also covered parts of his chest. Something he'd stupidly done in his younger years, when he had first started cutting. Something he regretted, for it wasn't in the least bit attractive, even to him, and he doubted she would find it so.

He fingered the pistol, wishing it weren't in his hand and in her presence. “Can you see yourself submitting to me?”

Their gazes locked.

“As in loving me,” he added.

The edge of her mouth quirked upward. “If I find you worthy of it.”

Was he worthy of having a woman love him? Sometimes he thought he was. Sometimes he hoped he was. And sometimes, damn it, he didn't think he was worthy of love at all.

The mounting weight of new expectations awaiting him as a husband made him glance away. “My final question.” He awkwardly scanned their surroundings and dropped his voice to ensure it didn't travel too far. “Are you willing to entertain my penchant for whips?”

She snorted. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Neither of us are horses.”

He glanced up at her, his throat tightening. Horses. The devil take him. He supposed she thought him deranged. “I assure you, it isn't that sort of whipping. It is more a form of play.”

She lowered her voice to a mere whisper. “If I allow whips, my lord, heaven only knows what you will insist on next. Will it be paddles and ropes?”

His breath hitched as he gave her a raking gaze. “Paddles and—”

“
Shhhh!
There is no need to repeat it!” She
glanced about the square in exasperation. “Do you have any more questions for me?”

He cleared his throat, still flustered at the thought of her and paddles and ropes. “No. Not at the moment.”

“Are we formally engaged now that I have answered your questions?”

He cleared his throat again. Though he wasn't the greatest of romantics, he was not about to reduce his proposal to this. He was going to do this civilly. The way she deserved. “I would like another week before anything more is said or done.”

She huffed out a breath. “A week. Of course. Good night, my lord.” She leaned back inside.

“Wait, wait.” He held up a quick hand, ensuring it was not the hand that wielded his pistol. “Let there be no misunderstanding between us. I merely wish to go about this respectably.”

Her features softened. “If that is indeed your intent, I wholeheartedly submit to it.”

“It is indeed my intent.”

“I appreciate that intent. Good night.”

“Good night? Oh, no, no. We are not quite done.”

She paused but did not lean back out. “What more do you want, Lord Moreland?”

“Don't you have any questions for me?”

“No.”

“No?”
he echoed in disbelief, stepping closer toward the railing lining her home. “Do you not want
to know me more? Before we proceed to a—a…life-long commitment?”

“We have the rest of our lives to better understand each other, my lord. If I ask all of my questions now, there will be nothing left for us to discuss and we will only bore each other.”

He bit back an exasperated laugh. “Yes, but—”

“Good night,” she added.

“Wait. So be it. Might I at least ask another question?”

“Does it involve more whips?”

“No, my dear. That it does not.”

“Then you may.”

He eyed her. “Were you at all aware of the advertisement that was placed in
The Times
today?”

She angled back out, her arched brows coming together. “Advertisement? What advertisement?”

It appeared he had yet another matter to resolve before he could offer on her. “Good night.”

“Good night?” She gestured toward him. “But what of this advertisement you were referring to?”

“It is of no consequence as of this moment. I intend to look into the matter myself.”

“Oh.”

“One last question. Who am I to call upon for your hand when it is time?”

She smiled, tilting her head. “His Majesty.”

His brows rose. “As in England's Majesty?”

“Yes. As in England's Majesty.”

He let out a low whistle. “I only hope the man still likes me.” Stepping off the pavement and onto the cobblestone street behind him, he set the pistol against his side and offered a sweeping, gallant bow. “Give me a week, Countess, before we proceed to a formal courtship.”

She grinned, her face brightening. “I will breathlessly await you.” Still grinning, she pulled the window shut and latched it.

They were getting married. And the worst of it? He was going to have to announce it to his grandmother, whilst praying that His Majesty liked him well enough to approve.

W
ITH
T
HE
T
IMES
STRATEGICALLY
folded and tucked into his outer coat pocket, Tristan strode into his grandmother's ornate dining hall. He rounded the oversized walnut table lavishly decorated with fresh linen, gardenias and the best silver and crystal, despite there being no one at the table other than his grandmother.

She glanced up from her unfinished supper and paused. Astonishment momentarily flickered across her pale features. She elegantly set her fork and knife aside and smiled. Gathering up the linen-and-lace napkin laid across her lap, she dabbed the corners of her mouth with it and regally set it alongside her plate.

He paused beside her chair. “Forgive the intrusion.”

She peered up. “Moreland.” Her voice held a wry tone of amusement. “Have you taken leave of your senses? It isn't Tuesday.”

“I know.” He cleared his throat, well aware that he would never hear the end of this. “Might we speak without an audience?”

“Of course.” She glanced toward the footman and waved toward her gold-rimmed plate. The footman approached and removed it dutifully from the table. She then waved toward the rest of the servants around the dining hall. “Leave. All of you.”

The footmen gave curt bows and one by one
breezed out of the dining hall, their boots clicking in unison.

Tristan grabbed hold of the closest chair and yanked it up and out, setting it with a clatter beside his grandmother's. He angled it toward her just a bit more and then settled himself into it. Tugging at the tips of his black leather gloves, he stripped each one from his hands and tossed them both onto the table.

He leaned all the way back against the chair, the newspaper sticking out of his coat pocket and rustling its little reminder. “I would like to begin by apologizing for my behavior when last we spoke. I was overly agitated and had no right to be. I also wish to apologize for not calling on you these past two weeks. I have been rather preoccupied with…matters.”

“Apology accepted. Let us move on.”

“Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “So. How have you been since I last saw you?”

She shifted toward him, her silk orchid skirts bundling around her corseted waist. “I doubt if you came all this way to inquire about my health, Moreland. Get to the point. What do you want?”

He rested his elbows on the curved arms of the chair. “I am in dire need of assistance.”

She chuckled. “You?” She chuckled again. “In dire need? Assure me you have not squandered your entire estate in some ghastly card game.”

He rolled his eyes. “No. It concerns my neigh bor.”

“Your neighbor?”

“Yes. Countess Kwiatkowska.” He drew in a breath and let it out. “Things between her and I have progressed rather rapidly. So rapidly, that in fact, if I do not go about this civilly, it may result in whispers I prefer to avoid. I understand that her ruling guardian is in fact my ruling King, who also happens to be your cousin. So I was hoping you could assist me in acquiring a private audience with His Majesty as soon as possible.”

Her eyes widened as she edged away.

He lifted a brow. “Is that a no?”

She blinked several times and glanced away.

He shifted in his chair, sensing her unease. After his grandfather had vilely and repeatedly accused her of being her cousin's whore, she was rather sensitive about anything relating to her relationship with the King. “I am not seeking to meddle in your affairs. Understand that it would simply take me twice as long to acquire an audience with His Majesty on my own, and given the urgency and the nature of—”

“Moreland. Please. I don't think it wise.”

“Fair enough. I understand and do not wish to impose on your association. I will arrange it all myself. But I will insist on one thing. 'Tis a question I need you to pose to His Majesty. One of importance.” He yanked out the newspaper from his
pocket, snapped it open and set it onto the table directly before her. He tapped at the advertisement he'd earlier circled with his quill. “I want to know who placed this advertisement in
The Times
and why.”

His grandmother stared down at what he'd been pointing to, her bosom rising and falling more heavily, as if she were now having difficulty breathing.

He leaned toward her, his stomach squeezing, and touched her elbow. “Are you unwell? What is it?”

“Moreland, I…” She closed her eyes and sighed heavily. “I placed the advertisement.”

He choked, his hand jumping away from her.
“What?”

She reopened her eyes but said nothing.

Oh-ho. Now he knew why she'd been so quiet these past two weeks. It wasn't because she was sore about their argument or his storming out. It was because she'd been orchestrating a bloody siege!

Grabbing the armrest of her chair, he leaned toward her and demanded, “What the blazes have you been doing since I last saw you? Do you have any idea the amount of chaos this advertisement created? Hundreds of desperate men flocked into my own goddamn square, milling around for hours. I've never seen anything like it. Hell, over a dozen royal guards had to be brought in! What—”

He paused, his mind suddenly connecting the royal guards to His Majesty and His Majesty straight to…
his grandmother. He stared at her. “Last we spoke you knew nothing about my neighbor and sought to fully investigate her. And now you are well involved in her affairs, taking out advertisements in her name? What the devil is going on?”

She set her chin and eyed the newspaper before her. Reaching out a trembling hand, she pushed it away. “I was tasked to assist His Majesty, that is all. He rarely makes demands, so when he does, it is my duty as his cousin and his loyal subject to submit. Hence the ad.”

Tristan snorted and pushed away from her chair, settling back into his own with a solid thud. “You expect me to believe that?”

She heaved out a sigh. “'Tis true, Moreland.”

He snorted again. “You expect me to believe that the King himself casually asked you to place an advertisement in
The Times
to give away a woman's hand—
a woman descendant of royalty, mind you
—to any random dangler off the street for an astounding fifteen thousand pounds? What sort of
fruit
do you take me for?”

“Do not raise your voice to me.”

“What choice have I?”
he boomed, gesturing in exasperation toward her.
“You aren't making any goddamn sense!”

She winced, leaning away.

Blowing out a ragged breath, he eyed her, knowing
he shouldn't have raised his voice. Not given her years with his grandfather. “Forgive me,” he whispered, swallowing hard. He reached out and rubbed her shoulder affectionately. “I will refrain from raising my voice again, but I do expect you to explain. Understand that this involves the well-being of a respectable woman who deserves far better than this. What have you gotten yourself involved in and why? I want to know.”

She lowered her gaze to the folded napkin set beside the newspaper and vacantly stared at it. “Much has taken place since we last spoke.”

He grunted, pulling back his hand. “Obviously.”

“You will be pleased to know that I was at long last hanged by my own folly.”

“Oh? And how did that happen?”

“I commenced a series of inquiries pertaining to your neighbor the day you left.”

He lowered his chin. “After I asked you to refrain.”

“I can only apologize, Moreland. I was only—”

“Yes, yes. Nothing to be done about it now. Set it aside. So what happened?”

She glanced away. “Barely three days after I commenced those inquiries, I received a scathing letter from my cousin demanding I desist. Apparently, royal spies assigned to the girl had informed him of my interest. As punishment for meddling into
her personal affairs, I was therein charged to find a generous selection of marriageable men outside of the aristocracy. Since I never leave the house, nor do I know of any gentry, I had a servant place an advertisement, along with an incentive. His Majesty was well pleased with the idea, as it created a wider selection of men for him to present to her. She is apparently very selective and has refused every man His Majesty has set before her.”

Yet she hadn't refused him and, in fact, insisted on him. Oddly, it made him feel…of worth. “Might I ask how she came under the protection of the crown to begin with?”

His grandmother turned toward him in her seat and sighed. “She was offered assistance in honor of an old private agreement her grandfather made with Britain during times when revolts threatened the Polish crown. My cousin would have never deigned to honor it, as it held no worth, except he has always had an annoying fondness for assisting foreign women in need. And you and I both know the sort of fondness I am referring to.”

Tristan tapped a rigid fist against his thigh in growing agitation, suddenly feeling the need to protect Zosia from his own damn crown. “Is there anything else I ought to be aware of regarding her situation? Anything of importance at all? Because now would be the time to disclose it.”

She lowered her chin, her dark eyes never once leaving his gaze. “And why is that?”

“Because I intend to make her my wife. Does that oversized pompous ass, who dares calls himself King, think he has any right or claim to toss the well-being and happiness of a good woman in so vile a manner?”

Her eyes widened. “Moreland. I can understand your concerns, but for heaven's sake. You cannot offer on her.”

“Whatever do you mean I
cannot?
I most certainly
can
. And I will.”

She shook her head, her gathered white curls swaying against the movement. “Moreland. You cannot marry her. Dearest God, you cannot. You have no idea what you'd be getting involved with.”

He sighed. “I understand that a foreigner and a Catholic is going to raise over a dozen brows, including your own, but the woman is very respectable. She is also descendant of royalty. It will all wash itself clean. You will see.”

She gasped. “Wash itself clean, indeed! That is hardly amusing.” She leaned toward him, her chest rising and falling in a panicked state. “I forbid this match. Do you understand?
I forbid it!
I will
not
have you getting involved in this—this…debacle! Forget you ever met her, Moreland. Forget you even care!
She does not exist. Do you hear me?
She does not even exist!
”

Abashed, he fell back against the chair. His grandmother rarely gave in to an irrational panic unless it was related to men or leaving the house. He lowered his voice, hoping to calm her. “Why are you panicking? What are you not telling me?”

She leaned back into her own chair and released a shaky breath. She eventually set her chin, resuming a calm, regal facade. “There are far too many burdens attached to her name, Moreland. Far too many. Even my poor cousin was under the delusion she was but a pretty face of no consequence. That is, until a high-ranking officer from the Ministry of the Tsar's Imperial Court arrived in London with a group of soldiers and announced that by decree she was his.”

Tristan froze. An officer? No. It couldn't possibly be the same man who— “A Russian military officer, you say?”

“Yes. His Majesty was in quite a flurry about it, for he knew nothing of the matter, and immediately consulted not only with her guardian but also England's Russian ambassador, demanding answers from both sides. It was then her
real
identity was revealed.” She
tsk
ed. “The ways of this world are indeed wicked. Her guardian pleaded to my cousin she be kept from Russian hands. His Majesty agreed and decided a husband of no consequence would best
settle the matter and bury her identity. Hence the advertisement. His Majesty intends to remove her from Europe, so as to silence this matter. Which means that whoever he awards her to will be expected to take the girl to New York and marry her under the laws governing that state. Which is only one of many countless reasons as to why you cannot get involved. 'Tis a snake pit, Moreland. A snake pit that will only result in all sides fighting over who bears claim to her.”

Tristan swiped a hand over his face, a headache now pinching his skull. Had Zosia lied to him? About everything? About who she was? About this officer?

He shifted in his chair and refrained from altogether sweeping everything off the dining table. “The Russians don't seek to harm her, do they?”

His grandmother glanced away. “You already appear to be very attached to this girl. Are you?”

He swallowed hard and fisted his hands, digging them into his thighs. Yes. Yes, he was already madly attached to Zosia. How could he not be? Everything about her was so damn—

“I am indifferent at this point.” Lie, lie, lie, but better that than to openly admit that he had been duped.

“Good. 'Tis best you remain indifferent. You don't want to marry into a mess like this one.” She reached
out and plucked up the glass of wine set before her. Bringing it to her lips, she tilted it back and swallowed until every last drop of red wine was gone.

He blinked in astonishment. The woman was never one to swallow
that
much wine in a single sitting. He leaned toward her and rasped, “Who the hell is she? Does she even know?”

His grandmother set the empty glass on the table and said in a distant, troubled voice, “No. Her mother saw to that. Both women were erased from all public records, though each for very different reasons.”

“Christ.” Tristan momentarily closed his eyes, dreading what Zosia didn't even know about herself or her mother. People weren't erased from public records unless they were a serious liability to those in power.