Читать книгу The Perfect Scandal - Delilah Marvelle - Страница 10

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.