Читать книгу The Perfect Scandal - Delilah Marvelle - Страница 9

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.