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.