The Perfect Scandal (3 page)

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 entryway 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.”