Kitabı oku: «The Perfect Scandal», sayfa 4

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.”

“You don’t need them whilst in my presence,” he offered quietly, his face leaning down more toward hers, as if trying to better see her face. “Though I would never advise you to trust me, I am asking you to do so. Do you trust me? Do you trust what it is I am about to do?”

Her breath hitched. “It depends. What are you about to do?”

His hold on her body tightened, causing the buttons of his waistcoat to dig into her gown and skin. “You aren’t going to scream as you did earlier, are you?”

She stared awkwardly at the broad chest pressed against her. “And … what would give me cause to scream?”

“You don’t trust me, do you?” He smirked. “That is wise. Hold on to me.” His other arm slid down from her waist and looped beneath her upper thighs.

Her eyes widened as he yanked her up high into both of his arms in a single, easy swing. She stiffened as the crook of his muscled arm sank past the missing leg beneath her left knee. His hand jumped farther up toward her thigh, to prevent her from rolling. He paused, his brows coming together as he glanced toward his gloved hand that was buried beneath her palomino skirts.

He was obviously expecting a twisted ankle.

Not a missing leg.

“The third of June will mark six years to the day,” she confided.

His brows softened as he lowered his gaze to her exposed throat. “I am very sorry to hear it.”

She eyed him, hoping to Mother Mary he didn’t think she now needed coddling. “There is no need to be. I am alive and quite happy for it. Very few survive the sort of amputation I did.”

“‘Tis an endearing sentiment to hold. One to be proud of.” He turned and carried her through the open doors of the vast, darkened parlor. Heavy curtains covered all the windows, drawn by the servants in an effort to prevent the crowds from peering in.

The heat of his body pressed against hers was overwhelming, causing her breath to quicken. She could feel his large hands digging into her beneath her stays and the soft muslin length of her morning gown.

The continual hum of voices outdoors was the only thing to penetrate the silence. She openly admired the regal side view she had of his chiseled, shaven face. What a marvelous looking man he was.

Despite usually objecting to others carrying her, she felt rather eminent draped in his taut arms. “Would you like to be my own personal sedan? I will pay twenty shillings on the hour if you promise to carry me around for the rest of my life. What do you say?”

He glanced down at her. “Are you always this flippant?”

“Are you always this serious?” she flung back.

“Very little amuses me. Does that answer your question?” Averting his gaze, he effortlessly crossed the expanse of the room, turned and lowered her onto the long, velvet cushion of the chaise. His gloved hands slipped out from beneath her thighs and waist, his eyes meeting hers. He quickly straightened and stepped back.

She shifted, pushing out the breath she was holding, and rearranged her skirts around her leg, trying desperately to ignore how the lower left side of her gown had flattened against the chaise in a most unbecoming manner.

He lingered before her. “Should you be walking without a prosthetic? Do you have one?”

She glanced up at him, giving in to a rare pang of resentment, knowing she would never again stroll about in an elegant, refined manner meant to bring any man desire. Vain as it was, she missed the way men used to fawn over her. But she was grateful for what she did have. Her life. “I prefer balancing myself with simple devices. The prosthetic I had was like walking around with an axe embedded in my stump. It was very painful and very awkward.”

Lord Moreland eased onto the chaise beside her. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied him perusing her bundled hair, her clothes and the side of her face.

She eyed him, curling her stockinged toes against the inside of her slipper in anticipation. “Are you here to progress the possibility of a courtship, my lord?”

Please say you are. His Majesty’s impatience only festers.

He cleared his throat. “I, uh … no. I actually came to ensure your safety. Large crowds usually denote an unpleasant situation.”

Zosia’s heart sank. Even after six whole years of being subjected to men awkwardly avoiding her, she kept hoping that perhaps there was one man capable of seeing past her amputation. “I expected as much.” She smiled tightly and set her chin, trying to pretend she didn’t care. “You are not the first to be intimidated by my missing limb.”

He hesitated, then reached out and touched her forearm, his gloved fingers pressing into the pearl-buttoned sleeve of her gown. “I am not intimidated, I assure you.”

She lowered her gaze to his large hand, her heart pounding. His hand lingered, resting heavily upon her arm. He gently fingered her sleeve, causing her heart to pound even faster. That soft, meandering touch fell well outside the realm of mere compassion and sympathy. It was very … intimate.

She released a shaky breath, trying not to move, fearing that if she did this moment of unguarded intimacy between them would somehow disappear. Since her amputation, men hadn’t even tried to offer her such touches. “I only have until summer’s end before I am forced to leave for France,” she confided. “Though I am dedicated to the belief of God, and endlessly respect those that join nunneries, I am meant for greater things and believe our alliance would ensure it.”