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.
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