The Perfect Scandal. Delilah Marvelle

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      Jezus i Maria. Of all times.

      She violently jerked forward and back, forward and back, trying to move the chair. The curtain rod above rattled. She gritted her teeth and jerked back again. This time the curtain rod jumped off the hooks in the wall and crashed with a huge clang and a thud behind her. Her hands jumped up to cover her head as the last of the curtains whooshed past, barely missing her and the chair.

      She groaned, realizing she had not only completely destroyed the curtains, but was now on full, candlelit display for Lord Moreland. Her cheeks burned as she lowered her hands primly back onto her lap. Knowing there was no point in wheeling away from the situation, she eyed him across the distance of the square.

      His hands slid down the length of the window frame he’d been bracing. Though she couldn’t make out the expression on his shadowed face, it was obvious he was intrigued as to why she had ripped off the curtains and was flaunting herself before him.

      She lifted an awkward hand and waved, hoping that by being friendly she would appear a little less devious.

      He hesitated, then lifted his own hand and offered a single, curt wave with the flick of his wrist.

      She drew in a shaky breath and let it out. Maybe this was the opportunity she’d been waiting for. Words were not always needed to spark interest. Zosia waved again, ensuring this time it was far more enthusiastic and visible.

      He casually set his hands on his hips and shook his dark head from side to side, attempting to convey his complete disappointment in her lack of maturity.

      But he stayed.

      She giggled. Pushing her dark braid over her shoulder, she shifted forward in her chair, closer toward the sill. It was obvious by his stance and the way he lingered that he wanted to play.

      Zosia leaned far forward and balanced herself on the ledge of the sill. Setting her lips against the pane, which sent her swinging locket to chink against the window, she playfully smothered kiss after kiss across the entire window, before leaning back and admiring the moist, smeared marks she’d left all over the glass.

      He readjusted the belt of his robe, his broad shoulders shifting, and braced the frame of the window again. Only this time, he stared her down as if restraining himself from leaping across the square and collecting those kisses himself.

      “So you do like me,” she announced softly. How very curious. Why would a bachelor who was supposedly in the market for a wife avoid a woman he appeared to like? Did he already know about her amputation?

      The door rattled, startling her into veering her whole chair toward the direction of the door.

      “Countess?” There was a tapping and the rattling of the knob. “You should not be latching your door.”

      Zosia rolled her eyes and dropped her hand into her lap. Mrs. Wade. Forever tending to her needs as if she were two. “I am quite well, Mrs. Wade,” she called over her shoulder. “There is no need for you to come in.”

      “I heard a terrible noise from within your room. Please assure me all is well.”

      “Yes, yes.” She waved her hand about. “The curtains and the rod fell off the wall. As old as this house is, I dare say everything will fall off the wall in time. But there is no need for concern, I assure you. All is well. You may retire.”

      “You cannot possibly expect me to retire without even knowing what—”

      “Mrs. Wade,” Zosia snapped, turning her chair and glaring at the door. She wished the woman would cease treating her like an invalid. A missing leg did not denote a missing brain. “I have a right to privacy. Do I not?”

      “Yes, Countess, of course, but—”

      “Good night. Or as we Poles say, dobra noc.”

      “And what of your laudanum?”

      Zosia smoothed the lace and linen nightdress against the length of her sore thighs and winced. She needed to use her crutches more, lest she become too sore. She hated being dependent on a rancid liquid that made her feel like she was drowning in a hazy fog. She considered pain a much better option than missing out on reality. “I feel content to sleep as I am, thank you. Tomorrow, I intend to make use of my crutches and take a few turns about the square. That should relieve whatever discomfort I am in.”

      “You know full well you aren’t permitted to leave the house without His Majesty’s approval. If you seek a turn about the square, Countess, you must send him a missive.”

      She was surrounded by wardens, not servants. She’d already sent His Majesty countless missives asking for permission to leave the house, only to be told it wasn’t advisable. “His Majesty seems to be under the delusion that I have no rights left to my name. I am tired of his games and refuse to be confined to both a chair and a house and will find my way to the door whether it pleases His Majesty or not. I suggest you send him a missive telling him that. Now I bid you a very good night, Mrs. Wade.”

      The door rattled again. “Please. Unlatch the door. What if you should require assistance during the night?”

      Zosia sighed. “I do not mean to be ungrateful, Mrs. Wade, but I am increasingly agitated by everyone’s misguided devotion to my well-being. Now, I demand you retire and will not ask again.”

      Mrs. Wade hesitated. “As you wish, Countess.” Steps clicked down the corridor and faded.

      Zosia veered her chair back toward the window, ready to resume her play, only to discover Moreland’s curtains had already been drawn shut.

      She huffed out a disappointed breath.

      She could easily blame Mrs. Wade for interrupting her strategic flirtation, but she sensed she’d intimidated the poor man into retiring. Karol had warned her that the British, especially the aristocracy, were as reserved as nuns during prayer, and that she needed to be mindful of that. She supposed it was time to play God, whilst all of the nuns prayed.

      TRISTAN PACED before the curtains he had dragged shut, wishing he had it in him to dash across the square and be a rake. When he’d earlier wandered over to the window in hopes of glimpsing her, he was astounded to find her enthusiastically waving and smearing kisses all over the glass of her window. Kisses he desperately wanted to feel against every inch of his skin. Kisses he had no doubt every neighbor in the square had seen, including whatever neighbor was spying for his grandmother.

      For all he knew, his grandmother already had a very long list bearing each and every one of his neighbor’s faults. Aside from being overly protective, his grandmother had always foolishly believed that those who broke the rules of genteel society were of no worth and deserved to be humiliated. Little did his grandmother realize that genteel society and its vicious hold on everyday life had ultimately created the terrible situation that she had been forced to accept as a woman.

      Her struggle to retain her dignity despite having been completely stripped of her own mind by society, her parents and a man who was supposed to be her protector, had prompted him, at the age of three and twenty, to unleash his quill and write How To Avoid a Scandal.

      He had wanted to offer women a weapon. The sort of weapon both his mother and his grandmother never had. One that would give women a true СКАЧАТЬ