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The Perfect Scandal
Delilah Marvelle
THE MARQUIS’S MYSTERY LADY If there is anything Tristan Adam Hargrove, fourth Marquis of Moreland, has learned to avoid, it’s scandal. For the dark and dashing lord is an honourable gentleman who would never seduce a woman for his own gain. When a raven-haired beauty arrives as his new neighbour, he knows better than to succumb to the desire he feels.He knows little about her, only that she is high born, a protégée of the Crown and completely unsuitable for indulging his male instincts. If only he had never glimpsed the vulnerable beauty one fateful night. If only it were not already too late to save her and himself from their untamed passion!



Dear Reader,
Growing up, I led a double life. During the day I was an all-American girl going to an all-American school doing all-American things. But the moment I got home … I spoke fluent Polish, knew the latest Polish movies/songs, all without ever touching Polish soil until I was fourteen. You see, my parents were born and raised in Poland. Unlike me. It was difficult being raised with cultural expectations that differed from the ones surrounding me. I totally related to My Big Fat Greek Wedding.
Back then, I rolled my eyes whenever I had to attend Polish rallies with my father. Hordes of people throughout the Chicago metropolitan area would gather to wave Polish flags before the Polish consulate. At the time, I considered them to be patriotic freaks. Until I studied history. Those Poles had gathered to support the Solidarity movement that was happening in their country on the other side of the world. It was a movement that led to Poland’s historic freedom in 1989 after being oppressed by the Russians for a total of one hundred and seventy-three years. My heritage and Poland’s incredible history inspired me to write The Perfect Scandal. I always wanted to read a historical romance featuring a Polish heroine. It is my hope you will love this story as much as I loved writing it.
Cheers and much love,
Delilah Marvelle

About the Author
DELILAH MARVELLE loves to write historical romance with scandalous twists she unearths from history itself. She spent her youth studying various languages, reading voraciously and playing the pianoforte. She confesses that here ends the extent of her gentle breeding. She was a naughty child who was forever torturing her parents with countless adventures that they did not deem respectable. Confined to her room on many occasions due to these misadventures, she discovered the quill and its amazing power. Soon, to the dismay of her parents, she rather enjoyed being confined to her room. And so her writing continues. She is a two-time Golden Heart Finalist, an RT Book Reviews Reviewer’s Choice Nominee and a double finalist in the Bookseller’s Best Award. You can visit her at her website at www.DelilahMarvelle.com or visit her blog, which explores the naughtier side of history, at www.DelilahMarvelle.blogspot.com.
Don’t miss the Scandal series!
Prelude to a Scandal May 2012
Once Upon a Scandal June 2012
The Perfect Scandal July 2012

The Perfect Scandal
Delilah Marvelle








www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
DEDICATION
To my dear Poland and each and every Pole who dedicated their breaths, their lives and their souls to its freedom.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I know I’ll only find myself thanking Harlequin and Mills & Boon and its amazing editors and its entire staff over and over. But I have to say it again. THANK YOU for all those unseen hours each and every one of you at Harlequin and Mills & Boon put in. Thank you for giving me an opportunity to share my stories with the world. In particular, I wanted to thank my new editor, the ever-wondrous Tracy Martin. Thank you, Tracy, for your enthusiasm, your guidance and your wisdom in the process of ensuring that my words, my characters and my stories live up to their full potential. Ours is the beginning of a beautiful relationship.
I want to thank my agent, Donald Maass, who is a freakin’ genius in all matters of writing (and agenting, too!). You’ll never be rid of me, Don. Ever. Bwahahaha.
Thanks to my incredible husband, Marc, who always shoulders everything so that I can make my deadlines. If we weren’t already married, darling, I’d marry you all over again.
A huge thank-you to my two wonderful little inspirations, Clark and Zoe, for cheering me on instead of grumbling about the hours I spend writing. Disneyland or Paris? It’s on Dad. Smirk.
And last but not least, thank you to my chapter of almost fourteen years, Rose City Romance Writers, and all its incredible members. I really don’t know how the hell I would ever have survived the chaos of writing without all of you. Muah!

A PRELUDE TO A SCANDAL
A lady should only ever trust her family. There are simply far too many assholes souls aspiring to take advantage of a woman who trusts too easily.
—How To Avoid A Scandal, Moreland’s Original Manuscript
28th November 1828
To the King’s Most Excellent Majesty,
May it please Your Majesty to know how endlessly grateful we are that the long-standing private agreement between my uncle and the great former Sovereign of England is being considered. As Your Majesty is well aware, the Countess must be cared for in an environment that will oversee her well-being. That environment is no longer here in Warszawa. The upcoming formal coronation of the Emperor as our King is bringing more political unrest than anticipated. The whispers over the lack of civil liberties governing the constitutional monarchy of our Kingdom are likely to result in an uprising. I fear there is too much unrest amongst the people to hope otherwise. As per Your Majesty’s inquiry, my cousin is indeed of notable beauty and is most accomplished, being fluent in English, Italian, German, Latin and French. Whilst I hope for a respectable match, one that will prevent her from becoming a political pawn, her inability to walk may hinder that result. If my thoughts in this prove to be true, arrangements will be made to relocate her to France by summer’s end so as not to impose upon Your Majesty’s generosity for too long. Out of respect for her mother, who has long since passed, I ask that no one from the Russian Court be allowed to call upon her. My family and I are humbled and grateful for your intervention in this delicate matter and hope you will grace her with the opportunity to know peace.
Ever your humble servant,
Karol Józef Maurycy Poniatowski
SHORTLY AFTER it was received, this letter was destroyed for the protection of those involved.

SCANDAL ONE
Be wary of the flirtations you engage in. No matter how respectable a man may appear, he cannot and should not ever be trusted. For even the most honorable of men still only want the same thing from a lady that a seasoned rake wants from a Drury Lane whore. The only difference is that a Drury Lane whore gets paid for her disgrace, whilst a lady only gets paid in ruin. Being ostracized by all of society is not nearly as exciting or as profitable as receiving a guinea for one’s amorous efforts.
—How To Avoid A Scandal, Moreland’s Original Manuscript
Late evening, 11:31 p.m.
16th of April 1829
Grosvenor Square—London, England
AFTER THE CARRIAGE had clattered off into the silence of the night, back toward the coach house, Tristan Adam Hargrove, the fourth Marquis of Moreland, continued to linger on the shadowed doorstep of his townhome. He eyed the entrance door before him, knowing full well that when he opened it and stepped inside, there would be no Quincy scampering over to greet him. There would be nothing but a large, empty foyer and eerie silence he wasn’t in the mood to embrace.
Readjusting his horsehair top hat with the tips of his gloved fingers, Tristan turned and descended the paved stairs he had just climbed. With a few strides, he crossed the cobblestone street and veered beneath the canopy of trees dimly lit by several gas lampposts.
Though the hour suggested he retire, with the recent death of his revered hound Quincy, it had become far too quiet in the house. The silence punctuated the reality of his own life: that he was still a goddamn bachelor, and now he didn’t even have his dog for company. Fortunately, he occupied himself well enough from day to day and did not dwell too much on his lack of prospects or the fact that his dog was dead.
On Mondays, after a long ride through Hyde Park, he met with his secretary for the day. On Tuesdays, he visited his grandmother. On Wednesdays, he tarried at Brooks’s, almost always evading discussions with fellow peers about the debates plaguing Parliament. No one ever pestered him about it because they all knew his political views weren’t held by the majority anyway.
On Thursdays, he spent the entire day at Angelo’s Fencing Academy, relentlessly scheduling match after match against the best opponents in an effort to remain fit. On Fridays, he roamed the British Museum, the National Gallery or the Egyptian Hall, never tiring of the same exhibits, although he did pester the curators more than any decent man should.
On Saturdays, he answered correspondences, including any letters forwarded by his publisher, and though he designated most evenings to balls, soirées and dinners in the hopes of meeting marriageable women, the invitations were usually sent by individuals he either detested or didn’t care to know. He was desperate for a companion, but not that desperate. On Sundays, he became a moral citizen and went to church. There, he prayed for what all men pray for: a better life.
Tristan scanned the grouped homes around him, the endless rows of darkened windows reminding him that he ought to retire himself. Just as he was about to turn and do exactly that, his gaze paused on a brightly lit window high above, belonging to the newly let townhome opposite his own. His brows rose as he came to an abrupt halt, the soles of his boots scuffing the pavement.
There, lounging in a chair at the base of a window whose curtains had been pulled open, was a young woman brushing unbound, ebony hair. She brushed with slow, steady strokes, the oversized sleeve of her white nightdress shifting and rippling against the movement of her slim arm. The elegant curve of her ivory throat appeared and disappeared with each movement, displaying an exceedingly low neckline. All the while, her gaze was dreamily fixed up toward the cloudy night sky above.
In that single breath of a moment, Tristan’s intuition insisted that this stunning vision before him was the divine intervention he’d been waiting for since he was old enough to understand a woman’s worth. Hell, golden light was spilling forth from above with enough glorious intent to make the blind notice. All that was missing were the soft notes of a flute and the yearning strings of a violin. It really couldn’t be any more obvious what God was telling him to consider.
Love thy neighbor.
Though the realist corrupting his soul demanded he retire and ignore his moronic intuition, the romantic that occasionally peered out from time to time whispered for him to stay. Wandering closer, he moved beyond the shadows of the trees and focused on the features of that oval face as it came into better view. The light in her bedchamber illuminated her entirely, tinting one side of her smooth, porcelain face and the edges of her dark hair with a soft, golden hue that was mesmerizing.
Who was she? And what sort of woman left her curtains open at night for the world to see her in a state of undress?
Weeks earlier, he’d noted that the house, which had been standing empty for months, had finally been let. Various footmen, attired in royal livery, had been carrying in furniture and trunks for days. Prior to tonight, however, he’d never once seen this woman.
Reaching the pavement leading to the entrance of her home, he lingered, sensing he would remember this night for years to come.
The woman paused. She lowered her hairbrush, shifting toward the window. Sections of her face faded into the soft shadows cast by the streetlamps, making him keenly aware that she was now privy to his presence.
He didn’t know why he continued to stand there like some perverted dolt, but he did. He supposed limiting his association with women throughout the years had led him to do very strange things even he did not understand.
She hesitated, only to then wave, as if there was nothing wrong with waving to an unknown man lurking outside her bedchamber window at this time of night.
His pulse thundered as he stared up at her. Was she mistaking him for someone else? She had to be. Did he care that she was mistaking him for someone else? Hell, no.
Unable to resist, he touched his gloved hand to the curved rim of his hat in a gentlemanly salute, and hoped there wasn’t a husband there in the room with her. A husband who could already be loading lead balls into a pistol whilst enlisting his wife’s assistance in setting up the target.
The woman snapped up a forefinger, wordlessly requesting his patience, then unlatched the window and, to his astonishment, pushed it wide open. She leaned out, her wavy black hair cascading past the window in a single sweep, and casually propped herself against the sill as if she were Rapunzel in the flesh. The ruffled décolletage of her billowy, white nightdress shifted and spilled forward, exposing the golden glint of a locket swaying on a chain as well as the most stunning pair of breasts he’d ever had the pleasure of encountering.
Tristan fisted his gloved hands, forcing his mind and his body to remain calm.
She smiled flirtatiously down at him and spoke in a sensuous, foreign accent he couldn’t quite place. “‘Tis a pleasure to finally meet you, my lord. You live in the house directly across from mine, do you not?”
He couldn’t help but be flattered, knowing she had been waving to him, after all. Trying not to stare up at those lovely breasts that taunted him beneath the low hanging scoop of her nightdress, he offered, “Yes. I do.”
Awkward silence hung between them.
Should he ask for her name? No. That would be crass and overly familiar. So what should he say? Stupid though it was, he couldn’t think of anything.
She half nodded and glanced up toward the cloudy night sky above, tapping the brush against the bare palm of her other hand. “A rather pleasant evening despite all the clouds. Is it not?”
Weather as a topic was death to any conversation. Why couldn’t he be more dashing? Why couldn’t he be more … debonair? Why couldn’t he—”Yes. Yes, it is.”
“And is it always this cloudy in London?”
“Unfortunately.” Christ, he was pathetic.
Awkward silence hung between them again.
A playful, melodious laugh rippled through the night air. “Is that all I am worth? Two or three words at a time and nothing more?” She wagged her silver hairbrush down at him. “You British are so annoyingly coy. Why is that?”
He cleared his throat and glanced about the quiet darkness of the square, hoping that no one was watching him make an oaf of himself. “Coy? No. Not coy. Curt. Curt best defines us.”
She laughed again. “Yes. Curt. That certainly explains everyone’s apparent lack of conversational skills. Might I venture to ask how a woman, such as myself, is ever to befriend a man, such as yourself, when all forms of conversation here in London appear to be so … stilted?”
Though the last thing he wanted was to expose this sultry foreigner to any gossip by continuing their conversation, ass that he was he couldn’t resist. There was a playful intelligence in her demeanor that was as bold as it was fortifying. Even more intriguing was that delectable, soft twang of an accent. Unlike most foreigners whose English was irregular, coarse and difficult to understand whilst they struggled to find words, hers was clipped, perfect and beyond well versed.
Moving closer, Tristan grabbed hold of the iron railing lining her home. Propping his leather boot on the ledge between the railings, he hoisted himself up, wishing there weren’t three whole floors separating them.
He observed her heatedly, admiring the way her long, dark hair framed her pale face and how it swayed past the window against the soft breeze. A sharp nose and wide, full lips, made her exotic-looking in a subtle way, though he couldn’t quite make out the color of her eyes against the shadows and the light filtering out from behind her.
Damn, but she was alluring. A bit too alluring. “I am afraid, madam, that even if my conversational skills were to exceed all of your expectations, we still couldn’t be friends.”
Her lips parted. “Why ever not?”
Because friendship is not what I have in mind for us, he wanted to say. Instead, he smiled tauntingly and tilted his head, the weight of his top hat shifting. He wished he could reach up and glide his fingertips across her exposed throat. “I think it best I not comment on any of my thoughts.”
She arched a brow. “Are you flirting with me?”
“Attempting to.” And failing miserably….
“Shall I assist you in your attempt?”
“No. Please don’t.” Unlike most men, who eagerly chased after beautiful women, he avoided such stupidity at every turn because he knew what it would lead to: disaster. He had to be sensible when it came to women and do things properly to ensure nothing fell outside of his control. And this was not proper. Nor did he feel as if he were in control. He needed to retire and consider how to go about pursuing this in a civil manner.
He leaned against the railing he was balancing himself on. “Before I say good-night, madam—which I am afraid I must—being the gentleman that I am, I feel compelled to say something that I hope will not offend.”
She smiled. “I rarely find myself offended.”
“Good.” He lowered his voice. “Despite my pathetic attempt to capitalize on your naiveté, for which I can only apologize, you really shouldn’t be flaunting yourself like this. ‘Tis indecent. Come morning, regardless of whatever did or did not happen between us, everyone in this square will assume we are lovers and you will be ruined. Is that what you want for yourself?”
She shrugged. “What others have to say about my character does not concern me. After all, I am a foreigner and a Roman Catholic, and as such, everyone will seek to condemn me in whatever it is I do. Though I suppose if a man of your size quakes at the thought of what others will think, perhaps we should end this conversation. I most certainly do not wish to place your reputation at risk.”
He tightened his hold on the railing, squelching his urge to scale the wall, grab her and drag her over to his house for the night. “I suggest you cease being so flippant. London is extremely vicious when it comes to the reputation of a woman.”
She rolled her eyes. “If you are so worried about my reputation, why ever did you initiate this conversation?”
“Me?” He laughed. “I beg your pardon, but I didn’t initiate this conversation. You did.”
“In theory, yes, I did. But in fact, no, I did not. You did.”
“What?” he echoed, his brows coming together.
“You wandered over to my window, not I to yours. Whether my curtains were open or not, ultimately it was your decision to stay and watch me in a state of undress. Upon discovering you had no intention of departing, even after you had noticed that I had noticed you, I was therein compelled to open my window and offer you conversation, because I did not want any of our neighbors to think the worst of you. Regrettably, that makes you accountable for tarnishing both of our reputations. Would you not say?”
Damn. That actually made sense.
He dug the palm of his hand harder against the rail, the sting relieving his tension. “I assure you, I don’t usually wander the streets at night seeking to—”
“There is no need to apologize.” She grinned, her cheeks rounding. “I am well aware of your respectability, my lord. Do you think I would have opened my window if I had any doubts as to who you are or did not know of your sterling reputation? Although this may be our very first formal meeting, I know everything about you and your renowned gentlemanly ways.”
He smirked at her adorable naiveté and leaned back, allowing a gloved hand to fall away from the iron railing he remained perched on. “I recommend you not place too much faith in the rumors you hear. I play the role of a gentleman for a reason, and I assure you, it has nothing to do with respectability.”
She tilted her head to one side, observing him intently. “You are utterly fascinating.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. I ardently hope that you and I will be able to pursue this to its fullest extent.”
Tristan’s grip almost slipped. He grabbed hold of the railing with his other hand to quickly balance himself and glanced up at her. Was she …? “The fullest extent? The fullest extent of what?”
She playfully rocked back and forth against the window sill, swaying her hair along with it. “Must I say it? Our neighbors might be listening.”
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.

SCANDAL TWO
A lady may find herself tempted to become involved with less than savory individuals. Not because she is naive or unintelligent, but because the lives of these individuals appear to be far more fascinating than her own. She must resist this urge at every turn. Their glittery ways are but an invisible web meant to entangle prey. In truth, predators have no choice but to appeal to their prey by being dashing, witty and amiable. Otherwise, they would never be able to trap what it is they seek to cradle and devour. I confess I often find myself fascinated by predators. Though certainly not enough to warrant my becoming one.
—How To Avoid A Scandal, Moreland’s Original Manuscript
28th of April, Late morning
FOR 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
TRISTAN 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.
The ticking of the French hall clock pierced the deafening silence. He turned and eyed the bolted door behind him, which consisted of more iron latches than the Bank of England would ever require.
God help him, why did he always put himself through this? Guilt, he supposed, and a deep affection he was forever cursed to feel. For despite all of his grandmother’s faults and the fact that she was a recluse of the worst sort, she and she alone had compassionately seen him through the darkest hours of his youth.
Knowing no designated servant was going to fetch his hat, he stripped it from his head and tossed it toward the entrance door before heading into the parlor. He paused upon reaching the middle of the room and eyed the empty expanse of the gilded cream-and-yellow drawing room. His brows came together as he slowly turned left, then right. Where the devil had all the portraits and furniture gone to?
He turned, rounding the room. Except for a side table that had been set on the edge of a Persian rug, the rest of the furniture he’d only seen last week had been stripped and removed. The lone lacquered table that remained was stacked high with untouched correspondences. A quill and an ornate silver-and-onyx inkwell sat upon the marble mantel of the vast hearth just across from the table.
He shook his head. He never knew what to expect when he visited.
A loud crash from upstairs sent a tremor through the corridors and the walls. He jerked toward the doorway.
After a prolonged moment of silence, there was a rustling of skirts and the rushing of booted feet down the main stairs. Miss Henderson jerked to a halt in the entry way of the parlor and curtsied, tears streaking her flushed cheeks. “Her Ladyship insists you visit her private chamber, milord.”
Tristan eyed her. “Are you unwell, Miss Henderson?”
She pressed her thin lips together but said nothing.
Poor thing. At least she was getting paid to deal with his grandmother. He most certainly wasn’t. “I will do my best to rein her in.”
She nodded and hurried out of sight.
Tristan strode out of the parlor, tackled the sweeping length of stairs, taking two steps at a time, and upon reaching the landing, veered right. He passed door after closed door, until he paused at the second to the last, leading into her bedchamber.
Drawing in a deep, calming breath, he knocked. “‘Tis me,” he called out. “Moreland.”
Only silence pulsed. Grabbing the round brass handle, he turned it and edged the door open. The heavy scent of rose water clung to the stagnant air. His boots echoed as he made his way into the large bedchamber. He stepped over the upset silver tray, mashed food and shattered porcelain, his eyes drifting past the blue-gold pinstriped silk wallpaper and the oversized four-poster bed.
He paused, noting the curvaceous, tall figure, dressed in an embroidered cobalt gown, lingering before the lattice window. His grandmother stared out, angling herself just enough for him to glimpse the regal profile of her powdered face and her mass of snowy-white pin curls.
She didn’t turn or acknowledge him. No doubt because she was displeased with him for being late.
He sighed and closed the remaining distance between them. “Is there a need to be so harsh with Miss Henderson? The poor woman was in tears.”
“I was not harsh with her at all,” she quibbled in an overly dry tone. “I was merely pointing out that I do not appreciate my heirloom china being smashed into countless shards I cannot use.”
He rolled his eyes. “If that is the worst she will ever do as a servant, be grateful. I once had all of my silver swiped.”
“Oh, that will come next, I am sure. I may have to dismiss her. She is far too emotional for my liking. I cannot even rationally point anything out to the woman without her blubbering at every turn.”
“If you dismiss Miss Henderson, there will be no one left to serve you, let alone answer the door. I suggest you offer her a bit more compassion. She is being sorely overworked and, knowing you, probably underpaid.”
“I advise you not to be foolish enough to actually defend one of my own servants to me. I pay her very well. In fact, I pay her more than I should.”
He sighed. “I suggest we make better use of our time. I have to leave earlier than usual today.”
She hesitated but still didn’t turn. “Why? You always dedicate Tuesdays to me.”
Yes, and even that was sometimes a bit too much dedication on his part. “The House of Lords will be swearing in the Duke of Norfolk, Lord Clifford and Lord Dormer today. I intend to show my support by making an appearance.”
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—
Zosia leaned back toward the window and propped up the spyglass to her right eye. She squinted, edging it toward the direction of Lord Moreland’s window, until she could see straight into his candlelit bedchamber. Fortunately, the curtains draping his window were not entirely drawn, allowing her to peer past into a small section of his room. A section displaying a four-poster bed.
It was a very nice bed, actually. Certainly much nicer than her own. It had a silvery, plush coverlet with an assortment of burgundy and dove-gray pillows piled high against the carved headboard. It made her want to marry the man merely for an opportunity to roll around in it.
She smirked at the thought. Her cousin Basia, who’d been married for almost a good dozen years, had enthusiastically informed her all about what really went on between a man and a woman. And if she was going to do that with a man, he had better well look as good as Lord Moreland.
A shadow passed across the lens, and though she tried to follow the movement, it was too quick. The side of the curtain obstructed the rest of the view. She pulled the spyglass away and eyed his window to decipher where she was supposed to point the lens.
Realigning it, she tried again. A bare, sculpted chest came into view. She fumbled, momentarily losing sight of said broad chest. Her heart thumped as she scrambled to set the telescope back against her eye. She leveled it again, trying to keep it steady.
Having glimpsed many bare-chested men working in the fields during harvest whilst she and her cousin rode out of Warszawa and into the country, she had learned to appreciate a good chest. And this man had a good chest.
He turned away, tossing a robe onto the bed, his broad, muscled shoulders shifting. With a few swift movements, he dropped his trousers and undergarments around muscled legs, leaving him gloriously naked.
Zosia gasped. Only the support of her own chair kept her from toppling over. Whilst she considered giving him his due privacy, ultimately, she decided against it. After all, if she planned on marrying him, she had every right to know what his body looked like.
The muscles in those long, lean legs and firm backside flexed and rippled like satin as he leaned over and grabbed up his nightshirt. To her disappointment, he never once turned around to present what she was most curious to see.
The length of his body disappeared in a single sweep beneath a long, white linen nightshirt. He grabbed up a robe that was also on the bed, slid it on and adjusted it into place around his solid frame.
She’d never thought British men could be as attractive as Polish men. Her cousins were always telling her how stoic and uninteresting the British were. Of course, none of her cousins had ever been to Britain.
Lowering the spyglass, Zosia slid the brass extension back into its casing and set it on the sill of the window, letting out a breathy sigh. She tugged out the braided chain buried beneath her nightdress and fingered her ruby-studded locket, wondering how she could get him to call on her. Without annoying him.
A movement made her release her locket as the partially closed curtains she’d been keenly watching were swept wide open. The bright glow of countless candles filtered out, fully displaying Lord Moreland as he casually braced the frame of the window and stared out toward … her.
Mother in heaven. He was going to think she was obsessed. Her heart pounded as she grabbed hold of the spoked wheels and pushed back. For some reason, her chair resisted movement. Her chest tightened as she glanced down toward each large wooden wheel and realized it wasn’t the two side wheels that were caught, but the small wheel behind her chair. The rotating wheel had embedded itself atop the long ends of the curtains behind her, locking her in place against the window.
Jezus i Maria. Of all times.
She violently jerked forward and back, forward and back, trying to move the chair. The curtain rod above rattled. She gritted her teeth and jerked back again. This time the curtain rod jumped off the hooks in the wall and crashed with a huge clang and a thud behind her. Her hands jumped up to cover her head as the last of the curtains whooshed past, barely missing her and the chair.
She groaned, realizing she had not only completely destroyed the curtains, but was now on full, candlelit display for Lord Moreland. Her cheeks burned as she lowered her hands primly back onto her lap. Knowing there was no point in wheeling away from the situation, she eyed him across the distance of the square.
His hands slid down the length of the window frame he’d been bracing. Though she couldn’t make out the expression on his shadowed face, it was obvious he was intrigued as to why she had ripped off the curtains and was flaunting herself before him.
She lifted an awkward hand and waved, hoping that by being friendly she would appear a little less devious.
He hesitated, then lifted his own hand and offered a single, curt wave with the flick of his wrist.
She drew in a shaky breath and let it out. Maybe this was the opportunity she’d been waiting for. Words were not always needed to spark interest. Zosia waved again, ensuring this time it was far more enthusiastic and visible.
He casually set his hands on his hips and shook his dark head from side to side, attempting to convey his complete disappointment in her lack of maturity.
But he stayed.
She giggled. Pushing her dark braid over her shoulder, she shifted forward in her chair, closer toward the sill. It was obvious by his stance and the way he lingered that he wanted to play.
Zosia leaned far forward and balanced herself on the ledge of the sill. Setting her lips against the pane, which sent her swinging locket to chink against the window, she playfully smothered kiss after kiss across the entire window, before leaning back and admiring the moist, smeared marks she’d left all over the glass.
He readjusted the belt of his robe, his broad shoulders shifting, and braced the frame of the window again. Only this time, he stared her down as if restraining himself from leaping across the square and collecting those kisses himself.
“So you do like me,” she announced softly. How very curious. Why would a bachelor who was supposedly in the market for a wife avoid a woman he appeared to like? Did he already know about her amputation?
The door rattled, startling her into veering her whole chair toward the direction of the door.
“Countess?” There was a tapping and the rattling of the knob. “You should not be latching your door.”
Zosia rolled her eyes and dropped her hand into her lap. Mrs. Wade. Forever tending to her needs as if she were two. “I am quite well, Mrs. Wade,” she called over her shoulder. “There is no need for you to come in.”
“I heard a terrible noise from within your room. Please assure me all is well.”
“Yes, yes.” She waved her hand about. “The curtains and the rod fell off the wall. As old as this house is, I dare say everything will fall off the wall in time. But there is no need for concern, I assure you. All is well. You may retire.”
“You cannot possibly expect me to retire without even knowing what—”
“Mrs. Wade,” Zosia snapped, turning her chair and glaring at the door. She wished the woman would cease treating her like an invalid. A missing leg did not denote a missing brain. “I have a right to privacy. Do I not?”
“Yes, Countess, of course, but—”
“Good night. Or as we Poles say, dobra noc.”
“And what of your laudanum?”
Zosia smoothed the lace and linen nightdress against the length of her sore thighs and winced. She needed to use her crutches more, lest she become too sore. She hated being dependent on a rancid liquid that made her feel like she was drowning in a hazy fog. She considered pain a much better option than missing out on reality. “I feel content to sleep as I am, thank you. Tomorrow, I intend to make use of my crutches and take a few turns about the square. That should relieve whatever discomfort I am in.”
“You know full well you aren’t permitted to leave the house without His Majesty’s approval. If you seek a turn about the square, Countess, you must send him a missive.”
She was surrounded by wardens, not servants. She’d already sent His Majesty countless missives asking for permission to leave the house, only to be told it wasn’t advisable. “His Majesty seems to be under the delusion that I have no rights left to my name. I am tired of his games and refuse to be confined to both a chair and a house and will find my way to the door whether it pleases His Majesty or not. I suggest you send him a missive telling him that. Now I bid you a very good night, Mrs. Wade.”
The door rattled again. “Please. Unlatch the door. What if you should require assistance during the night?”
Zosia sighed. “I do not mean to be ungrateful, Mrs. Wade, but I am increasingly agitated by everyone’s misguided devotion to my well-being. Now, I demand you retire and will not ask again.”
Mrs. Wade hesitated. “As you wish, Countess.” Steps clicked down the corridor and faded.
Zosia veered her chair back toward the window, ready to resume her play, only to discover Moreland’s curtains had already been drawn shut.
She huffed out a disappointed breath.
She could easily blame Mrs. Wade for interrupting her strategic flirtation, but she sensed she’d intimidated the poor man into retiring. Karol had warned her that the British, especially the aristocracy, were as reserved as nuns during prayer, and that she needed to be mindful of that. She supposed it was time to play God, whilst all of the nuns prayed.
TRISTAN PACED before the curtains he had dragged shut, wishing he had it in him to dash across the square and be a rake. When he’d earlier wandered over to the window in hopes of glimpsing her, he was astounded to find her enthusiastically waving and smearing kisses all over the glass of her window. Kisses he desperately wanted to feel against every inch of his skin. Kisses he had no doubt every neighbor in the square had seen, including whatever neighbor was spying for his grandmother.
For all he knew, his grandmother already had a very long list bearing each and every one of his neighbor’s faults. Aside from being overly protective, his grandmother had always foolishly believed that those who broke the rules of genteel society were of no worth and deserved to be humiliated. Little did his grandmother realize that genteel society and its vicious hold on everyday life had ultimately created the terrible situation that she had been forced to accept as a woman.
Her struggle to retain her dignity despite having been completely stripped of her own mind by society, her parents and a man who was supposed to be her protector, had prompted him, at the age of three and twenty, to unleash his quill and write How To Avoid a Scandal.
He had wanted to offer women a weapon. The sort of weapon both his mother and his grandmother never had. One that would give women a true glimpse into the reality of society’s ruthless expectations and its governing men. Due to a very sheltered upbringing and no life experience outside of dancing, singing and pianoforte lessons, his poor grandmother had never been mentally prepared to become the wife of one of the most powerful men in London.
Of course, it had been quite a nuisance trying to write anything of value or merit considering he had to censor most of his commentaries, lest the book be considered a scandal itself. Given its unprecedented popularity with the ton, he supposed he had created the balance of respectability and reality he had been looking for.
Tristan turned toward the window again. He hesitated, feeling like a youth of fifteen, and separated the curtains with his hand by an inch. He peered out to see if she was still there watching and waiting for him. To his disappointment, only a darkened window greeted him.
Would she have entertained him longer if he had allowed her to? He released the curtain, letting it fall back into place. Setting his hands behind his robed back, he slowly rounded the room and his bed.
He’d never been pursued by a woman before. Most women gave up on him very quickly, thinking him cool, arrogant and unapproachable. It was a superficial role he played into quite easily, for it provided a form of protection from those he knew would never accept him for what he truly was.
But this … this was different. He could sense she was different, though he had yet to understand how and why. He supposed it was time to cease procrastinating and see if it were at all possible for this fascinating little flirtation between them to lead to something more.

SCANDAL FOUR
Gossip is but a weapon that enables many in society to sustain power over those that threaten their way of thinking and their way of life. Retain your power by not giving them anything to gossip about. Life will be boring, yes, but it is far better than dealing with a fucking mess.
—How To Avoid A Scandal, Moreland’s Original Manuscript
The following day
11:45 a.m.
SO MUCH FOR TAKING A TURN about the square.
Or ever leaving the house again.
For some reason, an endless parade of calling cards had been delivered to Zosia’s door over the span of one short hour. Even more astounding than that was the incredibly long line of gentlemen, as well as servants and footmen in livery sent by their masters, all patiently waiting to deliver more cards to her door. The never-ending line of gentlemen actually rounded about the entire square!
Even long after the butler had politely stepped outside and announced to the crowd that no more cards were being accepted for the day, they all continued to incessantly linger as if expecting the butler to change his mind. Surely, such outrageous behavior, and on such a vast scale, wasn’t normal. Not even for the Brits.
Seeing as none of the footmen were able to answer any of her questions pertaining to this most bizarre situation, she knew it was time to step outside and ask some of these men a few questions of her own.
Zosia swung a slippered foot forward, propelling herself and her crutches across the foyer in the direction of the stout butler and the lanky footman. Both men strategically set themselves between her and the door like the annoying wardens they had all been tasked to be.
She sighed, pausing in the middle of the foyer. “I have a right to know why half of London is standing outside my doorstep. Do I not?”
The butler, Mr. Lawrence, offered an apologetic nod, his tonic-slathered gray hair glinting. “That you do, Countess, but there is no need for concern. We were expecting them.”
She blinked. “We were? All of them?”
“Yes. They came to deliver their cards.” He gestured toward the velvet-lined silver box filled with stacks and stacks of cards, set on the French side table beside the door. “I was instructed to cease accepting any more once the box was full. And as you can see, Countess, the box is quite full.”
Zosia eyed the box and then squinted at the man. “And why are we acquiring such a disturbing number of calling cards?”
“His Majesty intends to personally wade through them.”
“Ah. And I imagine there is a reason for it?”
“Yes, Countess. There is.”
She hesitated, waiting expectantly for said reason. When he did not provide it, despite an insinuated prompt of silence, she sighed. “And what is the reasoning, Mr. Lawrence?”
“His Majesty will decide which of these men are to be granted interviews.”
“Interviews?” she prodded.
“Yes.”
Why did the British never fully convey their thoughts? It was so annoying. She sighed again. “Interviews for what, Mr. Lawrence?”
He cleared his throat. “For your matrimonial consideration. I was notified of it last night by royal courier and thought it best not to alarm you.”
She didn’t know whether to be flattered or upset. Shifting against her crutches, she eyed her servants, trying to understand why they seemed to know far more about her own life than she did. After all, she was the one expected to take a husband. Not them. “Why would His Majesty call for my matters to be conducted so publicly? It is neither respectable or acceptable to have this many men loitering outside my home.”
Bringing his white-gloved hands together, Mr. Lawrence respectfully replied, “We are all but loyal subjects. We never question His Majesty’s intent.”
“Someone ought to.” The naughty old sovereign, though kind, was proving to be more of a nuisance than a salvation. Not even a week after her arrival in England from Warszawa, the man had demanded she grace him with an appearance in his private apartment. At night. Alone.
When he wouldn’t desist, and had even tried to pussyfoot his way into her private chamber, she’d politely informed His Majesty that she was going to require quarters outside the palace lest she set fire to the throne room. Arrangements for separate quarters were granted without resistance or delay. Only now she had this to contend with.
The bell rang yet again, annoyingly echoing throughout the vast corridor, reminding them of the crowd impatiently loitering outside. Only this time, the large knocker was being pounded against the door, causing them all to pause and glance toward the bolted entrance.
The butler turned and motioned to the footman. “‘Tis best we take precautions. Watkins? Escort the Countess to her room and ensure she remains there until royal guards arrive and disperse the remaining crowd.”
“Yes, Mr. Lawrence.” Watkins advanced, politely gesturing toward the direction she was supposed to go.
Zosia shifted against the padded crutches digging into the pits of her arms. She was not about to hide in her room merely because one of the men had decided to use the knocker. “Forgive me, gentlemen, but I have no desire for this to give way to a riot. ‘Tis obvious you are in need of intelligent leadership and I intend to offer it. Mr. Lawrence, open the door and keep taking their cards until the guards arrive. Mr. Watkins, you will coordinate the line to ensure order. That should provide enough structure to keep the masses from panicking.”
The butler sniffed. “Remove her from the foyer, Watkins.”
The footman leaned toward her, gently touching her arm in an awkward form of compliance. “Countess. If you would please—”
“No. I will not please.” She shifted away and glared at them. “Need I remind you both, gentlemen, that I am not the one getting paid to serve you. You are the ones getting paid to serve me. Now, for the better good of our safety, as well as the safety of those unfortunate souls being forced to wait in that crowd outside, open the door and do as you are told. ‘Tis a simple matter of courtesy that will ensure order until the guards arrive.”
The butler set his jaw and hastened toward them. “I think it best we take away her crutches, Watkins.”
She gasped and clutched at the oak posts holding her up. “You will do no such thing!”
Watkins jerked toward the old man. “Mr. Lawrence. You don’t expect me to actually—”
“Do as you are told, boy,” the butler commanded in a harsh tone. “Or you will find yourself without a position or a reference. You know our orders. To oppose them is to oppose your own King.”
Zosia lowered her chin in disbelief as Watkins sighed, leaned toward her and tried grabbing hold of her right crutch. She jerked away, stumbling against her crutches and tightening her hold, hopped back on her one foot. “This is outrageous! How dare you—I demand to know what orders His Majesty has given and why!”
Watkins grabbed hold of her crutch again and yanked at it, each pull growing all the more firm and insistent. “I will carry you upstairs, Countess.”
Her eyes narrowed. “No one ever carries me. I carry myself. Now I am demanding you disclose your orders.”
“Those orders are confidential,” the butler supplied in a flat tone. “Now, please—”
“No! I—” She gritted her teeth and savagely held onto her crutches, despite swaying against Watkins’s each yank and tug. Since when was it acceptable for servants to assault their mistress in the name of the King, who was supposed to be her protector?
Her bare fingers slid against the smooth oak, her grip loosening bit by bit. Though she didn’t need her crutches to balance herself on one foot, her very dignity was being pried away. And while she couldn’t physically take them on, unless she planned on beating them with the crutches they were so intent on having, she supposed there was only one way to go about this. She would unleash a weapon no man expected a genteel lady to use. A weapon she hadn’t used since she was ten, and one she hoped would also draw the attention of every single man outside.
Sucking in a huge breath, Zosia released a long, piercing scream that pulsed against the respectable silence surrounding them.
Watkins jumped away, releasing his hold on both crutches. His eyes bulged as he snapped up both gloved hands. “Countess! Please. Stop! Mr. Lawrence, what—”
A rapid pounding against the door rattled the crystal chandelier above as a male voice boomed from the other side, “Open this door! Open the goddamn door! Now!”
Zosia paused, bringing an abrupt end to her charade, and regally eyed the butler, well satisfied with the result it had produced. “It appears we have our very first concerned citizen. I suggest you open the door, Mr. Lawrence, or I will continue screaming and make every man outside think I am in desperate need of assistance. Then it will be your safety at stake. Not mine.”
Mr. Lawrence’s eyes widened. He edged back, then heaved out a sigh and muttered something, his thin lips curling. Swinging his stout frame toward the door, he unbolted the latch and fanned it open just wide enough for her to peer past the opening beyond his shoulder.
Shouts echoed from the street as men frantically pushed and shoved their way up the stairs, holding out and waving their cards. Zosia sucked in an astonished breath, not only in response to the chaos, but in recognizing the man looming in the doorway just beyond the butler.
Lord Moreland.

SCANDAL FIVE
If a lady is descendant from an illustrious family, she should never parade her lineage. Should she be of humbler means, she should never create an air of pretense to elevate her status. A true lady will be able to impress others by what she is, and not the name she holds. I myself value compassion, intelligence and integrity above all else, but sadly, a name, money and a pretty face that is only capable of commenting on music and needlework is all the ton ever clamors over.
—How To Avoid A Scandal, Moreland’s Original Manuscript
UPON GLIMPSING A NOTABLE sliver of her dashing neighbor, Zosia gripped her crutches so tightly she could actually feel her pulse throbbing against the smooth wood.
Lord Moreland leaned toward the narrow opening the butler had made, his top hat momentarily shadowing his features. “I am requesting an audience with your mistress. ‘Tis obvious she is in dire need of assistance and I am here to offer it.”
The butler stiffened. “I am afraid she is unavailable. But if you would like to leave a card, sir, I assure you—”
“I don’t have a card. But I do have this.” Lord Moreland rammed his broad shoulder against the door, causing the butler to stumble off to the side as the door freely swung open. Several men waving their calling cards in gloved hands tried pushing their way past Lord Moreland.
“My card!” one of the men shouted, reaching past Lord Moreland’s arm and waving his card.
“Ey, now, I was here first!” another shouted, shoving that man, causing Lord Moreland to stumble forward.
Zosia stiffened, expecting a rush through the door, but Lord Moreland whipped around toward them, scooping the clamoring men back and away from the entrance with an impressive sweep of his long arms. “Step off!” he boomed, using his entire body to push them back. “Cease this behavior for one breathing moment, gentlemen, and step off.”
“I suggest you step off,” a stockier, round-faced man boomed back, stepping toward Lord Moreland. With riled aggression, he hit Lord Moreland in the shoulder with a solid thud. “We were here first, fancy boy, and if you think—”
Lord Moreland snatched hold of the man by the lapels of his coat and with a violent thrust sent both the man and his hat flopping in full reverse toward the group of men pushing up the stairs. The clamoring crowd fell back with a slur of curses and shouts, buckling beneath the weight of the large man.
Zosia cringed, thankful she hadn’t been at the receiving end of that.
Lord Moreland stalked inside and slammed the door with a thunderous bang, bolting the latch. “Fancy boy,” he muttered aloud as if it had been the greatest insult he’d ever heard. He turned, sweeping into the foyer and demanded, “What the devil is going on?”
Mr. Lawrence and the footman scrambled toward the door to ensure the entrance had in fact been bolted.
Lord Moreland paused, apparently only now noticing her standing in the vast foyer. Dark, arched brows rose beneath the curved rim of his hat as enigmatic brown eyes swept over her. He captured her gaze and offered a cool, gentlemanly nod.
Her heart ricocheted toward her head and down to her one foot, his presence prickling awareness across every last inch of her heated skin.
He removed his top hat, scattering silky, straight auburn hair across his forehead, and intently scanned the foyer around them. “I heard screaming. Between the crowd gathered outside and no one opening the door … is all as it should be?”
His genuine concern and his earlier display of valiant brawn made her inwardly beam. More impressively, he wasn’t staring at her crutches. “Yes. Thank you. I was informed guards will be arriving shortly.” She eyed him. “Might I inquire as to why you are here, my lord? Did you come to deliver your card for matrimonial consideration, as well? If so, I may force you to go back outside, fancy boy, and stand in line with the rest of my admirers as punishment for avoiding me these past two weeks.”
He snapped a gloved finger back toward the entrance. “All of those men are seeking your acquaintance?” he demanded in an exasperated tone. “With a view toward matrimony?”
She grinned and leaned forward on her crutches, wondering if he was jealous. “Yes. And though I have no idea as to how they all came to be here at once, I find it rather endearing to know there are so many fine gentlemen in London capable of recognizing a woman of quality.” She stared him down tauntingly. “Unlike yourself.”
He lowered his shaven chin against his knotted silk cravat. “Who are you?”
She tsked. “That is rather rude. I suggest we retire into the drawing room if you seek an introduction.”
He hesitated and gestured toward her crutches with his top hat. “Are you unwell? Did you twist an ankle?”
The butler cleared his throat and turned away.
Zosia glared at Mr. Lawrence, wishing she had the ability to smack him and dismiss him. The impudence of the man to openly mock what couldn’t be detected beneath the fullness of her gown.
She scanned Lord Moreland’s lean but impressive physique, knowing she might not have the ability to dismiss the servants His Majesty had hired, but she could certainly intimidate them. “Lord Moreland?”
He eyed her. “Yes?”
“If I were to ask you to toss my butler out into that crowd, would you? Not only did the man refuse to execute my orders, he also had the audacity to encourage the footman to assault me. That scream you earlier heard was me politely fending him off.”
Lord Moreland’s husky features tightened. He swung his large frame toward the butler, who shrank back. “How about I give you a reason to tote your own set of crutches, sir?”
She bit back a grin. “There is no need for that, my lord. If he and the footman don’t retire within the next few minutes, then you may proceed to break however many legs you want.”
Watkins cleared his throat and stepped back. “Please ring if I may be of any further assistance.” He offered a curt bow and scurried down the corridor.
Mr. Lawrence lingered before stoically providing, in an amiable tone, “As it appears you are already well acquainted with the gentleman, Countess, I will permit an hour, despite his visit being unapproved. I hope you will consider my offer generous, as I am going against orders.”
She set her chin. “That is very generous of you, Mr. Lawrence. Now, see to Lord Moreland’s hat.”
“Of course.” The butler turned and extended his gloved hand toward him.
Lord Moreland shifted away. “I will not be staying long, thank you.”
The butler hesitated, then awkwardly rounded them, veering out of sight.
Hopefully, His Majesty would hear all about her blatant defiance in accepting an unapproved gentleman caller. Maybe it would enrage the fat fellow enough to make him ride out from Windsor. She had a few Polish words for the man regarding the manner in which he was going about finding her a husband. She only needed one husband. Not four hundred.
Lord Moreland turned fully toward her and assessed her with the wry coolness she’d encountered the first night they had met.
Her heart raced, knowing he now stood only a few crutch lengths away. No more silly overtures from the window or a passing carriage. The next hour would define whether or not an alliance between them was even plausible. Attraction and banter was one thing. Getting him to understand her cause and genuinely support it, was quite another.
She drew in a shaky breath and let it out, trying to appear regal and confident. “Did you come to talk? Or did you come to stare?”
“Both, actually.” His smooth jaw tightened as he closed the respectable distance a man usually offered a woman. He paused and towered directly before her, the tantalizing scent of cardamom faintly drifting toward her from the heat of his body.
She flicked her gaze past the buttons on his gunmetal waistcoat, up toward his face. Tilting her chin upward, she boldly met his gaze. “I do hope you are not overly disappointed to find me supported by a pair of crutches.”
“Only all the more intrigued, I assure you.” He shifted closer, his leather boots almost touching the hem of her gown. “Who are you? And how is it you know my name, considering we were never formally introduced? Who have you been talking to?”
The man was standing much too close, causing the weight of her amputated limb to weaken the one leg and ankle she did have for support. She actually fought to remain indifferent. “A lady ought never to disclose her sources. That is gossip. All you need know is that I pride myself on knowing everything about anyone I choose to get involved with.”
He leaned toward her. “I already have a woman like that in my life. I don’t need another one.”
“Oh, is that so?” she tossed up at him, cheering herself on to be bold, bold, bold. “Are you referring to your mistress?”
The edges of his masculine mouth crinkled. It wasn’t a smile, but it wasn’t an uncivil snarl, either. “I was referring to my grandmother, who, much like you, revels in violating other people’s right to privacy.”
She winced. So much for being bold, bold, bold. “I meant no disrespect to you or your privacy, Lord Moreland. I merely sought to know more about you.”
“Did you?” He hesitated and lowered his gaze to her mouth without bothering to conceal his apparent interest in it. “What is your name?”
She wet her lips, conscious of the attention her mouth was receiving, and set her shoulders more firmly against her crutches, trying to give herself a more regal stance. “I am Countess Kwiatkowska. But you may call me Zosia.”
“Zosia.” His brows came together, his attention shifting away from her lips. “Are you Russian?”
She snorted and rolled her eyes. “I would sooner hang myself. No. I am Polish. And as for who I am, I am the granddaughter of King Stanislaw August Poniatowski. Sadly, my poor grandfather was forced to abdicate his throne after Russia partitioned the last of our land.”
His dark eyes brightened with keen interest as he searched her face. “Might I inquire as to why a royal descendant from another country would journey all the way to London in search of a husband? Are there no men where you come from?”
Her throat tightened, knowing she had yet to understand why she’d been banished, although she sensed it trailed back four years earlier to the death of her mother. After all, that was when everything had changed. Her cousin, who had become her guardian, had grown cryptic, constantly checking her correspondences both coming in and going out, while forever warning her not to associate with men she didn’t know. Which was laughable, since after her amputation even the men she did know didn’t want to associate with her. She always had to force men to associate with her.
After four annoying years of that, Karol had suddenly insisted that an impending uprising was going to endanger her life, since she was a descendant of the former crown, and it was best she relocate. Considering Karol and the rest of her cousins were all royal descendants themselves, yet had all remained in Warszawa without any concern for their own safety, she knew there was far more to the story than was being told. For if her safety was of any concern, guards would have been assigned. And yet … not even His Majesty had favored her with a single one.
She sighed. “In truth, I have yet to understand why I am really here and what is expected of me.”
He shifted toward her. “I find that very odd and unconvincing. What little I do know about your grandfather is that he wasn’t very popular with anyone, let alone his own people. I imagine someone connected to a man responsible for the demise of an entire country is likely to have a few enemies.”
She lifted a brow. “I am impressed you know anything about my grandfather. I always thought you British kept your noses too close to your own coats to ever notice the struggle of others in the world.”
“I happen to specialize in history and world politics.” He lowered his voice to a lethal tone of seriousness. “Why are you here? Are you in some sort of peril? Answer me. I want to know.”
He really was rather serious and imposing in nature, wasn’t he? She couldn’t decide if he tried to be or simply was. “Peril? No. Not likely. Otherwise I would have been assigned guards, as opposed to annoying servants. As for why I am here …?”
She shrugged against her crutches. “The saints above are only privy to that. Since the passing of my mother four years ago, I have been the victim of broken half truths spooned to me by my overly patriotic cousin. At first, I was told I needed to escape an impending uprising, only to arrive in London and discover I am being forced to wed instead. Though I sought to oppose it, my cousin threatened by courier that I would be escorted to France by summer’s end if I did not cooperate. And so here I am, cooperating.”
He hesitated. “And what in France are you so opposed to?”
She sighed, dreading the thought of it. “There is a convent in Amiens. Karol wishes to place a habit upon me.”
“A habit?” He eyed her. “That is preposterous. A beautiful woman such as yourself deserves to be admired by far more than God.”
Zosia let out an astonished laugh, amused by the dry deliverance of his flattery. Usually men offered a cocky stance, a smile or a twinkle of the eye to go along with flattery, but he tossed it at her as if he had just read it in the newspaper. “That sounded rather blasphemous. Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
He held her gaze and purposefully lowered his voice. “Take it to mean whatever you wish.”
Her stomach flipped at the simmering heat lacing those words. Why was it that whenever he was around, she wanted to crawl inside his head and understand him in a way she didn’t usually care to know a man?
He tossed his top hat off to the side, causing it to roll toward one of the walls. “I cannot have you standing about like this. Come.” He slipped his arm around her corseted waist, yanking her toward himself, and then pried her crutches from her fingers, sending each clattering to the marble floor at their feet.
She grabbed hold of the lapels on his morning coat, balancing herself on her one leg and froze, realizing her breasts and her body were pressing against his hard, broad frame in a very provocative manner.
His other hand slid around her waist, holding her more firmly against him as strands of his auburn hair fell into his eyes. “There. Better?”
She dared not move or look up into his eyes, lest she forget the words she needed to speak. She hated how vulnerable he was making her feel. “Better for you, I suppose. I am the one at a disadvantage. I am asking you to return my crutches to me at once, if you please.”

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