The Perfect Scandal

The Perfect Scandal
Delilah Marvelle

THE MARQUIS’S MYSTERY LADY If there is anything Tristan Adam Hargrove, fourth Marquis of Moreland, has learned to avoid, it’s scandal. For the dark and dashing lord is an honourable gentleman who would never seduce a woman for his own gain. When a raven-haired beauty arrives as his new neighbour, he knows better than to succumb to the desire he feels.He knows little about her, only that she is high born, a protégée of the Crown and completely unsuitable for indulging his male instincts. If only he had never glimpsed the vulnerable beauty one fateful night. If only it were not already too late to save her and himself from their untamed passion!

Dear Reader,

Growing up, I led a double life. During the day I was an all-American girl going to an all-American school doing all-American things. But the moment I got home … I spoke fluent Polish, knew the latest Polish movies/songs, all without ever touching Polish soil until I was fourteen. You see, my parents were born and raised in Poland. Unlike me. It was difficult being raised with cultural expectations that differed from the ones surrounding me. I totally related to My Big Fat Greek Wedding.

Back then, I rolled my eyes whenever I had to attend Polish rallies with my father. Hordes of people throughout the Chicago metropolitan area would gather to wave Polish flags before the Polish consulate. At the time, I considered them to be patriotic freaks. Until I studied history. Those Poles had gathered to support the Solidarity movement that was happening in their country on the other side of the world. It was a movement that led to Poland’s historic freedom in 1989 after being oppressed by the Russians for a total of one hundred and seventy-three years. My heritage and Poland’s incredible history inspired me to write The Perfect Scandal. I always wanted to read a historical romance featuring a Polish heroine. It is my hope you will love this story as much as I loved writing it.

Cheers and much love,

Delilah Marvelle

About the Author

DELILAH MARVELLE loves to write historical romance with scandalous twists she unearths from history itself. She spent her youth studying various languages, reading voraciously and playing the pianoforte. She confesses that here ends the extent of her gentle breeding. She was a naughty child who was forever torturing her parents with countless adventures that they did not deem respectable. Confined to her room on many occasions due to these misadventures, she discovered the quill and its amazing power. Soon, to the dismay of her parents, she rather enjoyed being confined to her room. And so her writing continues. She is a two-time Golden Heart Finalist, an RT Book Reviews Reviewer’s Choice Nominee and a double finalist in the Bookseller’s Best Award. You can visit her at her website at www.DelilahMarvelle.com or visit her blog, which explores the naughtier side of history, at www.DelilahMarvelle.blogspot.com.

Don’t miss the Scandal series!

Prelude to a Scandal May 2012

Once Upon a Scandal June 2012

The Perfect Scandal July 2012

The Perfect Scandal

Delilah Marvelle

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

DEDICATION

To my dear Poland and each and every Pole who dedicated their breaths, their lives and their souls to its freedom.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I know I’ll only find myself thanking Harlequin and Mills & Boon and its amazing editors and its entire staff over and over. But I have to say it again. THANK YOU for all those unseen hours each and every one of you at Harlequin and Mills & Boon put in. Thank you for giving me an opportunity to share my stories with the world. In particular, I wanted to thank my new editor, the ever-wondrous Tracy Martin. Thank you, Tracy, for your enthusiasm, your guidance and your wisdom in the process of ensuring that my words, my characters and my stories live up to their full potential. Ours is the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

I want to thank my agent, Donald Maass, who is a freakin’ genius in all matters of writing (and agenting, too!). You’ll never be rid of me, Don. Ever. Bwahahaha.

Thanks to my incredible husband, Marc, who always shoulders everything so that I can make my deadlines. If we weren’t already married, darling, I’d marry you all over again.

A huge thank-you to my two wonderful little inspirations, Clark and Zoe, for cheering me on instead of grumbling about the hours I spend writing. Disneyland or Paris? It’s on Dad. Smirk.

And last but not least, thank you to my chapter of almost fourteen years, Rose City Romance Writers, and all its incredible members. I really don’t know how the hell I would ever have survived the chaos of writing without all of you. Muah!

A PRELUDE TO A SCANDAL

A lady should only ever trust her family. There are simply far too many assholes souls aspiring to take advantage of a woman who trusts too easily.

—How To Avoid A Scandal, Moreland’s Original Manuscript

28th November 1828

To the King’s Most Excellent Majesty,

May it please Your Majesty to know how endlessly grateful we are that the long-standing private agreement between my uncle and the great former Sovereign of England is being considered. As Your Majesty is well aware, the Countess must be cared for in an environment that will oversee her well-being. That environment is no longer here in Warszawa. The upcoming formal coronation of the Emperor as our King is bringing more political unrest than anticipated. The whispers over the lack of civil liberties governing the constitutional monarchy of our Kingdom are likely to result in an uprising. I fear there is too much unrest amongst the people to hope otherwise. As per Your Majesty’s inquiry, my cousin is indeed of notable beauty and is most accomplished, being fluent in English, Italian, German, Latin and French. Whilst I hope for a respectable match, one that will prevent her from becoming a political pawn, her inability to walk may hinder that result. If my thoughts in this prove to be true, arrangements will be made to relocate her to France by summer’s end so as not to impose upon Your Majesty’s generosity for too long. Out of respect for her mother, who has long since passed, I ask that no one from the Russian Court be allowed to call upon her. My family and I are humbled and grateful for your intervention in this delicate matter and hope you will grace her with the opportunity to know peace.

Ever your humble servant,

Karol Józef Maurycy Poniatowski

SHORTLY AFTER it was received, this letter was destroyed for the protection of those involved.

SCANDAL ONE

Be wary of the flirtations you engage in. No matter how respectable a man may appear, he cannot and should not ever be trusted. For even the most honorable of men still only want the same thing from a lady that a seasoned rake wants from a Drury Lane whore. The only difference is that a Drury Lane whore gets paid for her disgrace, whilst a lady only gets paid in ruin. Being ostracized by all of society is not nearly as exciting or as profitable as receiving a guinea for one’s amorous efforts.

—How To Avoid A Scandal, Moreland’s Original Manuscript

Late evening, 11:31 p.m.

16th of April 1829

Grosvenor Square—London, England

AFTER THE CARRIAGE had clattered off into the silence of the night, back toward the coach house, Tristan Adam Hargrove, the fourth Marquis of Moreland, continued to linger on the shadowed doorstep of his townhome. He eyed the entrance door before him, knowing full well that when he opened it and stepped inside, there would be no Quincy scampering over to greet him. There would be nothing but a large, empty foyer and eerie silence he wasn’t in the mood to embrace.

Readjusting his horsehair top hat with the tips of his gloved fingers, Tristan turned and descended the paved stairs he had just climbed. With a few strides, he crossed the cobblestone street and veered beneath the canopy of trees dimly lit by several gas lampposts.

Though the hour suggested he retire, with the recent death of his revered hound Quincy, it had become far too quiet in the house. The silence punctuated the reality of his own life: that he was still a goddamn bachelor, and now he didn’t even have his dog for company. Fortunately, he occupied himself well enough from day to day and did not dwell too much on his lack of prospects or the fact that his dog was dead.

On Mondays, after a long ride through Hyde Park, he met with his secretary for the day. On Tuesdays, he visited his grandmother. On Wednesdays, he tarried at Brooks’s, almost always evading discussions with fellow peers about the debates plaguing Parliament. No one ever pestered him about it because they all knew his political views weren’t held by the majority anyway.

On Thursdays, he spent the entire day at Angelo’s Fencing Academy, relentlessly scheduling match after match against the best opponents in an effort to remain fit. On Fridays, he roamed the British Museum, the National Gallery or the Egyptian Hall, never tiring of the same exhibits, although he did pester the curators more than any decent man should.

On Saturdays, he answered correspondences, including any letters forwarded by his publisher, and though he designated most evenings to balls, soirées and dinners in the hopes of meeting marriageable women, the invitations were usually sent by individuals he either detested or didn’t care to know. He was desperate for a companion, but not that desperate. On Sundays, he became a moral citizen and went to church. There, he prayed for what all men pray for: a better life.

Tristan scanned the grouped homes around him, the endless rows of darkened windows reminding him that he ought to retire himself. Just as he was about to turn and do exactly that, his gaze paused on a brightly lit window high above, belonging to the newly let townhome opposite his own. His brows rose as he came to an abrupt halt, the soles of his boots scuffing the pavement.

There, lounging in a chair at the base of a window whose curtains had been pulled open, was a young woman brushing unbound, ebony hair. She brushed with slow, steady strokes, the oversized sleeve of her white nightdress shifting and rippling against the movement of her slim arm. The elegant curve of her ivory throat appeared and disappeared with each movement, displaying an exceedingly low neckline. All the while, her gaze was dreamily fixed up toward the cloudy night sky above.

In that single breath of a moment, Tristan’s intuition insisted that this stunning vision before him was the divine intervention he’d been waiting for since he was old enough to understand a woman’s worth. Hell, golden light was spilling forth from above with enough glorious intent to make the blind notice. All that was missing were the soft notes of a flute and the yearning strings of a violin. It really couldn’t be any more obvious what God was telling him to consider.

Love thy neighbor.

Though the realist corrupting his soul demanded he retire and ignore his moronic intuition, the romantic that occasionally peered out from time to time whispered for him to stay. Wandering closer, he moved beyond the shadows of the trees and focused on the features of that oval face as it came into better view. The light in her bedchamber illuminated her entirely, tinting one side of her smooth, porcelain face and the edges of her dark hair with a soft, golden hue that was mesmerizing.