The Perfect Scandal. Delilah Marvelle
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moment, her dark eyes flitting toward his coat pocket. “Are you still carrying your razor case? Be honest.”
He glanced away and shifted his jaw, knowing his razor case was in fact in his coat pocket. Not because he used it—hell, he hadn’t used it in almost a year—but because it gave him a sense of … comfort. It also challenged him to try to rise above his baser needs. “I don’t use it.”
She sighed. “You will always mar yourself. That is a sad fact I have had to accept. Who is to say it will not lead to more should you end up involving yourself with the wrong woman? I suggest you avoid this neighbor of yours until I find out more about her. Give me a week. My footman will deliver you a detailed letter pertaining to all of my inquiries. You can make a decision then.”
The trouble with her meddling was that she had a tendency to not only expose all of the grisly details to him, but to all of London. Then neither him or London would want anything more to do with the poor woman.
He leaned in and pointed at her, barely missing her nose. “The devil you will. Leave it be. Leave her be. Your meddling will only expose her to gossip. I will call on her when I am ready.”
She narrowed her gaze. “Remove your finger from my face, Moreland, and then remove yourself from my presence. I have had more than enough intimidation in my lifetime and I most certainly don’t need it from you.”
Dropping his hand to his side, Tristan swung away and stalked toward the open door, agitated with her for always choking him like this. “I’m leaving. Before I realize I don’t like you.”
He grabbed at the brass handle and slammed the door hard behind himself, the tension in his body progressively rising. Pushing himself down the length of the corridor, the sudden need to escape not only that corridor, but his entire life, swelled.
No matter how much distance he tried to set between himself and the past, no matter how quietly he went about leading a good, respectable life he could be proud of, his grandmother always managed to burrow herself in and point out how much further he had to go. He was well aware more needed to be done. For one, he needed to stop carrying his razor case.
He glanced toward the long row of paintings and jerked to a halt, noting a new painting was hanging on the corridor wall. He turned and stared at a green field set against a low, setting sun. He swallowed, unable to push away the unsettling clench of his stomach.
He hadn’t seen that painting in almost thirteen years. Mahogany-paneled walls flashed within his thoughts, and despite not wanting to see it, he did. He always did. His father’s lifeless body forever remained slumped over his writing desk, dark blood smearing the polished wood, tendrils of it spreading over estate ledgers. A bloodied shaving razor lay angled upon the floor beside his father’s booted feet, having fallen from his large hand, whispering of the tragedy that had occurred. Tristan had never thought his own father capable of destroying himself. Especially after they had spent months battling to keep his mother from doing the very same thing.
Noting the painting was crooked, he edged toward it and nudged each end of the carved frame until it was even. He stepped back and pushed out a breath, wishing he had it in him to rip that painting off the wall and smash it through a window. Of course, it wouldn’t change anything and would only make him feel like a petulant child.
“I found it in the attic,” his grandmother offered cheerfully from down the corridor. “Rather lovely, isn’t it? It was your father’s.”
Tristan turned toward the direction of her voice. “Yes. I know. It was also hanging four feet from the desk where he slit his throat. Might I request you remove it from the wall before my next visit? I don’t care to see it.”
She hesitated. “Forgive me, I didn’t realize—”
“Don’t apologize. Just do it.”
“Yes, of course.”
He pointed at her. “And no inquiries. Do you understand? None.”
“I beg your forgiveness, but no amount of intimidation will keep me from ensuring you don’t end up like your father. Whilst I cannot protect you from yourself, I can protect you from the vile nature of others. And protect you I will. I intend to fully investigate this woman and set not only your mind at ease, but my own.”
He lowered his hand and stared her down, ensuring she felt the pulsing intensity of his displeasure. “If you expose her to any gossip—any—I will marry her without even bothering to know her name, merely to demonstrate who is really holding the reins here.”
She set her chin, her taut, pale features now marked with cold dignity. “I dare you to defy me and what I deem best for you.”
He stepped toward her and tapped on his chest. “I dare you to defy me. I define what is best for me. Not you. Whether I choose to get involved with her isn’t for you to control or decide. I may be a queer in your eyes, and in the eyes of every goddamn woman I stupidly allow myself to get involved with, but lest you and those women forget, I am first and foremost a gentleman. A gentleman! And I will not be treated otherwise.”
“Moreland.” She hurried toward him, her features twisting in anguish. “You are no queer. I have never looked upon you as such. But you cannot expect me to—”
“Good day to you, Grandmother. I take my leave.”
Before I start ripping paintings off the walls and swearing at you for always treating me like a child.
Without deigning to give her another glance, he turned and stalked off down the corridor, down the stairs and to the entrance door, wishing she would spare him from enduring any more of her stupid manipulation at the cost of his own sanity. It was as if she truly believed he was on the brink of suicide. If she of all people didn’t believe in him, who the hell ever would?
Settling into the upholstered confines of the carriage, Tristan impatiently waited until the door was secured by the footman. The need to rip out almost a year’s worth of pent-up frustration from his mind, body and soul rose with each uneven breath he took. He couldn’t tolerate it anymore. He simply couldn’t tolerate forever trying to avoid what he was and what he knew he would always be.
When the carriage clattered forward and away from his grandmother’s house, he yanked the curtains shut over each window. What did it matter anymore? He was a queer and would always be a queer.
Shifting against the seat, he stripped his gloves from his shaky hands and dug into his coat pocket, sliding out his razor case. He set it on the seat beside him and rolled up the sleeve of his gray morning coat, as well as the linen shirt beneath, exposing a section of his forearm.
With a flick of his thumb, he unlatched the hinged brass lid of the slim casing, revealing a folded white handkerchief, an ivory-handled razor and that damned faded piece of parchment he could never bring himself to burn despite trying to do so many times.
Setting his exposed arm on his upper thigh, he plucked up the razor and unfolded the straight blade, strategically positioning its edge on a clear patch of skin between the raised scars marring his entire forearm. He paused, his jaw tightening.
He had promised himself he wouldn’t do it anymore. He had promised. How was he to become a good husband to any respectable woman when he couldn’t even control his demented need to—
He swallowed against the tightness of his throat and hastily refolded the blade. He was going to be making an appearance at the House of Lords, for God’s sake. He couldn’t show up bandaged and bleeding.
Reorganizing everything back into his razor case, he secured the hinged lid and shoved it back into his coat pocket. Covering his arm, he swiped a trembling hand over his face and prayed he made it to Parliament without giving in to his need for release.
SCANDAL THREE
Devious behavior never benefits anyone. Although sometimes …
—How