Читать книгу The Perfect Scandal - Delilah Marvelle - Страница 12

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.”