The Perfect Scandal

She playfully rocked back and forth against the window sill, swaying her hair along with it. “Must I say it? Our neighbors might be listening.”

This was officially getting out of hand. And he was entirely to blame for it. “No. Do not say it. Do not even think it.”

She shifted her weight against the sill, swaying the locket around her throat, and met his gaze. “You obviously think the worst of me.” She sighed. “Though I cannot blame you. Allow me to confess what it is I hope for us.”

“Please do.”

“I am in need of a husband by summer’s end and you, my lord, fit all of the qualifications I seek.”

“Oh, do I?” He let out an exasperated laugh, released the iron railing and jumped back down onto the pavement with a solid thud. It was time to leave. Or by God, he would end up married to a foreigner and a Catholic by the end of the night. His staunchly Protestant grandmother would have a fit.

Stepping further back, he met her shadowed gaze and confided in a low, raw tone, “Here in London, there are rules as to how things are conducted between men and women, and I confess that as of right now, you and I are breaking every single one of those rules.”

She sighed. “You British have rules for everything. How did this country ever populate itself?” She winced, shifting against the sill, and then set her chin. “Advise me as to how we should go about progressing this and I promise to adhere to whatever rules there may or may not be.”

There had to be something wrong with her. Beautiful, intelligent women didn’t miraculously appear in a gentleman’s neighborhood and enthusiastically offer relationships through a window in the middle of the night. Not respectable relationships, anyway.

He’d best pretend to be indifferent until he knew more about her. “I regret to inform you, madam, that I am not interested in pursuing this.” Not yet.

“I disagree.” She gestured toward him with the tip of her brush. “You appear to be very interested. Otherwise you would have never stayed this long.”

He snorted, realizing she’d called his bluff. “Allow me to take my leave before you drown in all that vanity. Good night.” He gave her a curt nod, turned and strode away, telling himself to keep walking. He needed to go home before he did something ludicrous. Like turning around, striding back and asking her if he could come up for the night.

“I am not vain!” she called out. “I was simply making an observation based on your mannerisms!”

He quickened his pace before she figured out anything else based on his mannerisms.

“Might we at least part amiably?” Her voice echoed across the entire square. “We are neighbors, Lord Moreland. Or might I call you Tristan? Or Adam? Or do you prefer Hargrove?”

He jerked to a halt. How the devil did the woman know his entire list of names? Who had she been talking to?

He turned and stalked back toward her, determined to instill a flick of sense and respectability into that head. “Keep your voice down. And for the sake of whatever reputation you may or may not have, do not ever call me or any other man by their birth name. It insinuates far too much. Now, I suggest you retire and that we avoid each other until I say otherwise.”

She looped a shorter section of her hair behind her ear. “Avoid each other? Why?”

“We don’t want others to think we are involved.”

She lowered her voice. “But I want us to be involved.”

He stared up at her, wishing he could dig into that mind and understand what it was she really wanted. His money? His title? What? Because he wasn’t that attractive. “You, my dear, appear to be on a path of self-destruction.”

She tartly stared him down. “You know nothing about me or the path I am on.”

“Oh, I know more than enough. You are overly determined, a bit too fond of yourself and, sadly, possess far more beauty than you know what to do with.”

She eyed him. “You are very odd.”

He pulled in his chin and pointed to his chest. “You find me odd?”

“Most men usually do not see beauty as a vice.”

“Yes, well, I am not like most men.”

“So I have noticed. Would you care to elaborate as to why that is?”

He pointed at her. “Do not make me climb that wall and nail your window permanently shut. This conversation is over. We avoid each other until I decide otherwise. Good night.” He heaved out a breath and swung away.

She tapped her brush against the sill of her window like a judge demanding order from him with a gavel. “I have one last thought to convey. Might I?”

He swung back, agitated with himself for wanting to stay and hear it. “Of course. What is it?”

She hesitated, lowering her gaze to her slim fingers, which were skimming across the bristles of her brush. “Do you believe in intuition and fate?”

He drew his brows together, surprised to find her taking on a much softer tone and a more serious demeanor. It lulled him into wanting to take on a softer tone himself. “Yes. Very much so. Why?”

Her fingers stilled against the brush. “Intuition tells me, despite your air of indifference, that at heart, you are anything but apathetic. I confess that I used to be very much like you until I learned to embrace what matters most. What you are witnessing is a woman seeking to bring change to the world through a plan that involves marrying into a perfect political platform. You are that perfect political platform. ‘Tis fate that brought me into your neighborhood. ‘Tis also fate that brought you here to my window tonight, as I have been seeking an introduction between us for weeks. Grace me with an opportunity to prove my worth, my lord, by getting to know me and my aspirations, and I vow you will not regret it.”

He rumbled out a laugh. Parliament could make use of her. She was relentless. He pointed up at her. “I want a wife. Not a politician.”

She paused. Glancing over her shoulder, she slid off the sill and leaned back into the room. “Our conversation must end,” she whispered down at him, yanking up her hair and shoving it back over her shoulder. “Call on me tomorrow at four. I insist.”

His chest tightened. “I am afraid my schedule will not allow for it and I would prefer—”

“Shhhh! Tomorrow at four. Be punctual.” Flinging her brush over her shoulder, she yanked the window shut, latched it and leaned over to the side, fumbling with the curtains around her. She yanked at the nearest curtain in an effort to close it, but appeared unable to. A robed elderly woman breezed toward her side to assist.

He cringed and spun away, forging his way back home. Tomorrow at four? Not bloody likely. He hated rearranging his schedule for anyone or anything. It only led to chaos and lack of good judgment. Which is why, tomorrow at four, in his stead, he would have the footman deliver a copy of his etiquette book, How To Avoid A Scandal. Hopefully, it would be a polite enough message to convey that despite their conversation, he was still a very respectable man.

SCANDAL TWO

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.