The Perfect Scandal

A brittle laugh escaped her lips. “Show your support to the Catholics, indeed. Low-hanging fruit is all they are. No good will ever come from giving such men seats.”

“You sound like a damn bigot. Reducing religious discrimination reflects the moral progress of a nation.”

“Ah, yes. You always were an idealist, Moreland. Much like your father.” She set her chin and continued to gaze out the window. “So, why are you late? You never are.”

He cleared his throat, not wanting to think about why he had overslept. “Forgive me. I was behind schedule.”

She glanced at him from over her shoulder, her arched silver brows rising. “You never stray from your schedule. It would be like a bird displacing its wings.” Her voice was patient, warm and steady, as it always was when addressing him. “Who is she?”

He dragged in a breath, knowing if he admitted having any interest in a woman, it would only rile his grandmother into investigating his neighbor’s entire life, right down to the cosmetic creams she wore. “You are assuming far too much. I was merely slow to rise.”

“You haven’t been slow to rise in thirteen years, Moreland.” She snickered suggestively. “I only hope whatever is responsible for your … unease will cease vexing you.”

He would either have to move or marry his neighbor for her to stop vexing him.

His grandmother turned toward him, the long lace sleeves of her muslin gown shifting against her wrists. Dark, playful eyes met his. Raking the length of his body, she sighed. “Why do you never put any effort into your appearance, Moreland? You always wear far too much gray. And if it is not gray, it is black. Can you not invest in some … color?”

He set his gloved hands behind his back and strategically set his booted feet wide apart to better display all his gray. “I dress for comfort. Not entertainment purposes. If the good Lord had wanted me to be a peacock, he would have made me a peacock, don’t you think?”

“Let us move on to a more notable matter of importance, shall we?”

He smirked. “By all means.”

She folded her hands before her as if trying to settle on how she ought to begin lecturing him. “During my usual weekly inquiries into society, I was astounded to hear that my dear, respectable grandson had been secretly vying for a certain woman in a most unconventional manner. A woman who, by the by, has undergone several Seasons untouched for reasons relating to some ruined fop in Venice. Why did you not inform me of your interest in Lady Victoria? Is it because you knew I would disapprove?”

He tightened his jaw and tried to remind himself that she was the only relative he had left, and that she loved him. Or at least she tried to love him. “I will admit that Lady Victoria has always fascinated me, and when the opportunity to vie for her was presented, I was intrigued enough to pursue it. I was never meant to live alone. You know that. Unlike you, I prefer sharing conversations and meals with someone other than myself.”

“Do not chastise me. This has nothing to do with my objecting to you taking a wife. I am objecting to your choices.”

“Same thing.”

“I don’t want you associating with that family. You need a good, stable alliance.”

He glared at her. “Lord Linford was my father’s closest friend. He also offered support when everyone else chose to toss gossip. Be mindful of that. From what I understand, the poor man’s life is at an end and he doesn’t have much longer to live.”

She lowered her chin but didn’t break her unwavering gaze. “Are you privy as to why?”

He glanced away, sensing she already knew what he did. Lord Linford was dying of syphilis. “I have heard rumors.”

“They are not rumors. He is wasting away. Do you truly mean to inform me, Moreland, that watching your own father-in-law die of the pox appeals to your sensible tastes?”

It really was astounding how much gossip the woman always managed to unearth about him and everyone else, considering she never left the house. Of course, thanks to the death of his grandfather, her wealth now well exceeded his own. And with her also being cousin to the King—and a favorite cousin, at that—her hold on London society was as firm as ever. With the toss of a word and a few banknotes to the right person, she was able to play God with everyone’s life. Including his own. “I am endlessly astonished to hear that all of your inquiries failed to inform you that Lady Victoria was already wed by special license to that ‘ruined fop’ from Venice you were just yerking about. So you needn’t worry about her and me.”

Her stern features softened and a smile feathered her thin lips. “You are better off. The Linfords, though pleasant enough, would have only offered you hardship.”

He dreaded knowing what his future wife would have to contend with. Between himself and his grandmother, she’d have to be indestructible. “I am beginning to think you are terrified that once I am married my priorities will no longer rest with you. But I can assure you, Grandmother dearest, that my priorities haven’t rested with you since I was twenty.”

Her smile faded. “You are being rather unpleasant today. Why? What is agitating you?”

He huffed out a breath. His new neighbor. These past twelve days and eleven nights, the woman had made him realize that despite all the barriers he kept putting up to maintain a sense of command over his life, all he really wanted was a meaningful relationship with a respectable but passionate woman who wasn’t going to make him feel like the walking freak that he was.

He stared his grandmother down. “Perhaps I’m not in the least bit pleased with the way you continue to pry into my life. Your inquiries into the Linfords is but another pathetic example of what I have to contend with. I have enough difficulties relating to women without you digging into their affairs. I prefer learning about a woman through conventional means and allowing her the privilege of doing the same. Civil society refers to it as courtship. You may have heard of it?”

She shook her head from side to side, not in the least bit amused. “Courtship only ever offers a stage strewn with actors. I courted your grandfather for seven whole months and it was the only time in our association that brute never raised a fist to me. You may not appreciate my efforts, Moreland, but after your disastrous involvement with Stockton’s widow last year that resulted in you slicing your arm yet again, when you swore to me you were well done with it, ‘tis my responsibility to ensure these women offer you the sort of stability you require. The sort of stability you obviously cannot offer yourself.”

He seethed out an exhausted breath. Despite what his grandmother thought, Lady Elizabeth Stockton had been a beautiful blessing in helping him understand that even the most eccentric women of his class held no respect for him or his needs. His penchant for the whip and blade had amused her into thinking that was all he was and all he really wanted. “You needlessly worry.”

“You needlessly make me worry.”

He glared at her. “Do you realize that the number of invitations I receive each year is beginning to progressively dwindle?”

“And you blame me?” she echoed.

“‘Tis obvious people are terrified of having their daughters associate with a queer whose deranged grandmother aspires to maliciously expose every detail of their lives. Hell, at this rate, I’ll never be married. And I have an income of almost nine thousand a year!”

“You are far too agitated for my liking. Off with you. I will see you next Tuesday.” She swept up her pale hand and held it out toward him. “Rest assured, I will unearth everything and set it right for you. I always do.”

The older he got, the more he realized he was not strong enough to shoulder her relentless need to protect him. He didn’t want or need protection. All he wanted was to be an ordinary man with an ordinary life that included a beautiful wife, a houseful of children, a hunting dog and maybe even a cat. But how could he even try to strive for the ordinary when she kept on bloody reminding him he was anything but?

Tristan made his way toward her, keeping each and every step controlled and steady. He paused directly before her, but refused to take her outstretched hand. “My life became my own when I walked out that door. Remember that. It has taken me years to crawl toward a civil understanding of myself. I don’t need you breathing on every decision I make. I am in complete command of everything I do.” Except for when it comes to my neighbor’s breasts.

“I worry about your definition of command.” She lowered her hand to her side and observed him tartly. “Someone was kind enough to inform me of an evening rendezvous you had with a young woman in your square. She must have been quite the flavor if you were willing to entertain her in public for almost an hour whilst she was in a state of undress. What do you know about her? Aside from whatever attraction you may feel? Are you pursuing her? Or wanting to?”

Christ, she already knew about her. “Have you nothing else to obsess about?” he growled, trying and failing to retain a respectable tone. “I find it disturbing. You need something other than me to occupy your life. I suggest you remarry, or step outside of this house from time to time.”

She stared at him. “I only ever do what I believe is best for you, Moreland. Despite your claim that you are well and done with the blade—”

“I am well and done with it.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. I am.”

She observed him for a long moment, her dark eyes flitting toward his coat pocket. “Are you still carrying your razor case? Be honest.”

He glanced away and shifted his jaw, knowing his razor case was in fact in his coat pocket. Not because he used it—hell, he hadn’t used it in almost a year—but because it gave him a sense of … comfort. It also challenged him to try to rise above his baser needs. “I don’t use it.”

She sighed. “You will always mar yourself. That is a sad fact I have had to accept. Who is to say it will not lead to more should you end up involving yourself with the wrong woman? I suggest you avoid this neighbor of yours until I find out more about her. Give me a week. My footman will deliver you a detailed letter pertaining to all of my inquiries. You can make a decision then.”

The trouble with her meddling was that she had a tendency to not only expose all of the grisly details to him, but to all of London. Then neither him or London would want anything more to do with the poor woman.

He leaned in and pointed at her, barely missing her nose. “The devil you will. Leave it be. Leave her be. Your meddling will only expose her to gossip. I will call on her when I am ready.”

She narrowed her gaze. “Remove your finger from my face, Moreland, and then remove yourself from my presence. I have had more than enough intimidation in my lifetime and I most certainly don’t need it from you.”

Dropping his hand to his side, Tristan swung away and stalked toward the open door, agitated with her for always choking him like this. “I’m leaving. Before I realize I don’t like you.”

He grabbed at the brass handle and slammed the door hard behind himself, the tension in his body progressively rising. Pushing himself down the length of the corridor, the sudden need to escape not only that corridor, but his entire life, swelled.

No matter how much distance he tried to set between himself and the past, no matter how quietly he went about leading a good, respectable life he could be proud of, his grandmother always managed to burrow herself in and point out how much further he had to go. He was well aware more needed to be done. For one, he needed to stop carrying his razor case.

He glanced toward the long row of paintings and jerked to a halt, noting a new painting was hanging on the corridor wall. He turned and stared at a green field set against a low, setting sun. He swallowed, unable to push away the unsettling clench of his stomach.

He hadn’t seen that painting in almost thirteen years. Mahogany-paneled walls flashed within his thoughts, and despite not wanting to see it, he did. He always did. His father’s lifeless body forever remained slumped over his writing desk, dark blood smearing the polished wood, tendrils of it spreading over estate ledgers. A bloodied shaving razor lay angled upon the floor beside his father’s booted feet, having fallen from his large hand, whispering of the tragedy that had occurred. Tristan had never thought his own father capable of destroying himself. Especially after they had spent months battling to keep his mother from doing the very same thing.

Noting the painting was crooked, he edged toward it and nudged each end of the carved frame until it was even. He stepped back and pushed out a breath, wishing he had it in him to rip that painting off the wall and smash it through a window. Of course, it wouldn’t change anything and would only make him feel like a petulant child.

“I found it in the attic,” his grandmother offered cheerfully from down the corridor. “Rather lovely, isn’t it? It was your father’s.”

Tristan turned toward the direction of her voice. “Yes. I know. It was also hanging four feet from the desk where he slit his throat. Might I request you remove it from the wall before my next visit? I don’t care to see it.”

She hesitated. “Forgive me, I didn’t realize—”

“Don’t apologize. Just do it.”

“Yes, of course.”

He pointed at her. “And no inquiries. Do you understand? None.”

“I beg your forgiveness, but no amount of intimidation will keep me from ensuring you don’t end up like your father. Whilst I cannot protect you from yourself, I can protect you from the vile nature of others. And protect you I will. I intend to fully investigate this woman and set not only your mind at ease, but my own.”

He lowered his hand and stared her down, ensuring she felt the pulsing intensity of his displeasure. “If you expose her to any gossip—any—I will marry her without even bothering to know her name, merely to demonstrate who is really holding the reins here.”

She set her chin, her taut, pale features now marked with cold dignity. “I dare you to defy me and what I deem best for you.”

He stepped toward her and tapped on his chest. “I dare you to defy me. I define what is best for me. Not you. Whether I choose to get involved with her isn’t for you to control or decide. I may be a queer in your eyes, and in the eyes of every goddamn woman I stupidly allow myself to get involved with, but lest you and those women forget, I am first and foremost a gentleman. A gentleman! And I will not be treated otherwise.”

“Moreland.” She hurried toward him, her features twisting in anguish. “You are no queer. I have never looked upon you as such. But you cannot expect me to—”

“Good day to you, Grandmother. I take my leave.”

Before I start ripping paintings off the walls and swearing at you for always treating me like a child.

Without deigning to give her another glance, he turned and stalked off down the corridor, down the stairs and to the entrance door, wishing she would spare him from enduring any more of her stupid manipulation at the cost of his own sanity. It was as if she truly believed he was on the brink of suicide. If she of all people didn’t believe in him, who the hell ever would?

Settling into the upholstered confines of the carriage, Tristan impatiently waited until the door was secured by the footman. The need to rip out almost a year’s worth of pent-up frustration from his mind, body and soul rose with each uneven breath he took. He couldn’t tolerate it anymore. He simply couldn’t tolerate forever trying to avoid what he was and what he knew he would always be.

When the carriage clattered forward and away from his grandmother’s house, he yanked the curtains shut over each window. What did it matter anymore? He was a queer and would always be a queer.

Shifting against the seat, he stripped his gloves from his shaky hands and dug into his coat pocket, sliding out his razor case. He set it on the seat beside him and rolled up the sleeve of his gray morning coat, as well as the linen shirt beneath, exposing a section of his forearm.

With a flick of his thumb, he unlatched the hinged brass lid of the slim casing, revealing a folded white handkerchief, an ivory-handled razor and that damned faded piece of parchment he could never bring himself to burn despite trying to do so many times.

Setting his exposed arm on his upper thigh, he plucked up the razor and unfolded the straight blade, strategically positioning its edge on a clear patch of skin between the raised scars marring his entire forearm. He paused, his jaw tightening.

He had promised himself he wouldn’t do it anymore. He had promised. How was he to become a good husband to any respectable woman when he couldn’t even control his demented need to—

He swallowed against the tightness of his throat and hastily refolded the blade. He was going to be making an appearance at the House of Lords, for God’s sake. He couldn’t show up bandaged and bleeding.

Reorganizing everything back into his razor case, he secured the hinged lid and shoved it back into his coat pocket. Covering his arm, he swiped a trembling hand over his face and prayed he made it to Parliament without giving in to his need for release.

SCANDAL THREE

Devious behavior never benefits anyone. Although sometimes …

—How To Avoid A Scandal, Moreland’s Original Manuscript

The 12th of May Evening

DARK, DARK TIMES had descended upon the Kingdom of Poland. Yet again. For upon this day, the Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias had officially crowned himself the Tsar of Poland and all of its people. And here she was, countries away, banished to fester in some town house in London, unable to so much as spit upon the man’s boot or leave the house.

But that would soon change.

Although Countess Zosia Urszula Kwiatkowska was being bullied into marrying an Englishman by the end of what the British called the Season, she wasn’t about to marry just any Englishman, despite what His Majesty thought. It was all about playing the right pawn on the board at the right time, when one’s opponents weren’t looking. If there was anyone who could single-handedly win at any game, be it chess, piquet, loo, whist, pope or charades, it most certainly was her.

Despite His Majesty’s growing agitation, she refused to marry any of the strange men he kept sending to her door. Aside from none of them having a personality or any real influence on London society, they all treated her like she was some feral animal in need of restraint.

There were only so many things she was willing to sacrifice in the name of avoiding the monastery, and dignity most certainly was not one of them. She needed to marry an intelligent, progressive and influential man willing to accept her for what she was. Not whatever he expected her to be.

Of course, finding such a man was an involved process that was making His Majesty think she was overly ambitious and completely daft. Though she wasn’t really too worried what His Majesty thought. After all, she could always blame any lapse of judgment on her laudanum.

Locking her bedchamber door with a quick turn of the key so her nurse wouldn’t interrupt, Zosia wheeled herself around the bed toward the window on the other side of the room. Maneuvering her wicker chair before the drawn curtains, she gathered them up and buried herself and the chair within the vast material, allowing them to fall down around her and onto the wooden floor.

She edged the large wheels closer to the window, until the tip of her slippered foot, which was set upon the padded footrest, was propped against the wall below the sill. Readjusting the embroidered curtains around her, she secured them more firmly together to ensure no candlelight filtered out into the night beyond, to better keep her hidden from the outside world.

Well satisfied, she snatched up her spyglass from the sill of the window and extended its brass length, determined to stay privy to all the goings-on with her oh-so-dashing British neighbor, the Marquis of Moreland. The one with the mysterious dark eyes and brooding features.

Although she’d planned to coordinate an introduction between them with the assistance of His Majesty, she was astounded to find him standing beneath her window late one night, observing her in the manner she’d been observing him through her spyglass all along. Lunging at the opportunity to meet him, she discovered he was far more impressive in full size than he was palm size.

Everything about him, from his appearance, to his prospects, to his respectability, to his political seat, to his wit, intellect, demeanor and even his dialect was perfect. Too perfect. It made him untouchable to a one-legged Polish Catholic such as herself. But no man could be that perfect. He had to be hiding something beneath that cultivated, regal facade. But what?

Annoyingly, instead of calling on her, as she had invited him to do, his footman had merely delivered a red leather-bound book about British etiquette. It made her wonder if the man was onto her ostentatious scheme. Though it was unlikely. A man only considered a woman to be a threat to his money or his heart. Neither of which she wanted or needed. Wealth she had, and her heart … her heart was already spoken for by something far more important than a man.

With the delivery of that etiquette book—which she’d tossed after briefly skimming—she was beginning to think he was simply too respectable to crack. Until he’d rounded his coach past her home one afternoon, peering in through all of her windows. That was when she knew he wasn’t as civil minded as he was leading her and the rest of the world to believe.

A movement on the cobblestone street below made her pause and glance down toward it. Her fingers tightened on the spyglass, the cool brass pressing against her moistened palm, upon seeing a broad-shouldered figure saddled upon a snowy stallion, dressed from head to boot in dark military attire. Lingering beside the lamppost, he was strategically aligned beneath her window.

Her heart skipped, realizing he’d actually been watching her all along while she had been situating herself. A large military hat shaded his nose and eyes, only revealing the shadowed outline of a strong, shaven jaw. He hesitated, as if wanting to dismount.

Instead, he swept off his military hat, revealing dark, shoulder-length hair, and inclined his head, gallantly acknowledging her as he pressed his feathered hat to his chest with a large gloved hand.

She blinked, trying to make out that shadowed face against the dim light of the lamppost, but he had already reaffixed his hat and veered his horse away from her window. Glancing back up at her one last time, he nudged his riding boots into his stallion’s sides and galloped down the cobblestone street, his black riding cloak flapping behind him in the wind. He galloped out of the square, down one of the streets and disappeared from sight.

Wide-eyed, she leaned forward, pressing the tips of her fingers against the cool pane. Who was he? And why did he acknowledge her with such reverence? It was very odd.

Instead of being concerned that she and the house were now under military surveillance ordered by the crown, she sensed there was something far more to him. It was as if he’d been lingering in the hopes of glimpsing her. Similar to what Lord Moreland had done.

She hesitated, then sat back against her wicker chair and rolled her eyes. Glimpse her, indeed. She’d be nothing short of vain to think every man in London ardently longed to linger beneath the window of a one-legged Catholic for a glimpse. Unless it was for amusement purposes.

She paused. Speaking of amusement purposes—