Delilah Marvelle – The Perfect Scandal (страница 2)

There, lounging in a chair at the base of a window whose curtains had been pulled open, was a young woman brushing unbound, ebony hair. She brushed with slow, steady strokes, the oversized sleeve of her white nightdress shifting and rippling against the movement of her slim arm. The elegant curve of her ivory throat appeared and disappeared with each movement, displaying an exceedingly low neckline. All the while, her gaze was dreamily fixed up toward the cloudy night sky above.

In that single breath of a moment, Tristan’s intuition insisted that this stunning vision before him was the divine intervention he’d been waiting for since he was old enough to understand a woman’s worth. Hell, golden light was spilling forth from above with enough glorious intent to make the blind notice. All that was missing were the soft notes of a flute and the yearning strings of a violin. It really couldn’t be any more obvious what God was telling him to consider.

Love thy neighbor.

Though the realist corrupting his soul demanded he retire and ignore his moronic intuition, the romantic that occasionally peered out from time to time whispered for him to stay. Wandering closer, he moved beyond the shadows of the trees and focused on the features of that oval face as it came into better view. The light in her bedchamber illuminated her entirely, tinting one side of her smooth, porcelain face and the edges of her dark hair with a soft, golden hue that was mesmerizing.

Who was she? And what sort of woman left her curtains open at night for the world to see her in a state of undress?

Weeks earlier, he’d noted that the house, which had been standing empty for months, had finally been let. Various footmen, attired in royal livery, had been carrying in furniture and trunks for days. Prior to tonight, however, he’d never once seen this woman.

Reaching the pavement leading to the entrance of her home, he lingered, sensing he would remember this night for years to come.

The woman paused. She lowered her hairbrush, shifting toward the window. Sections of her face faded into the soft shadows cast by the streetlamps, making him keenly aware that she was now privy to his presence.

He didn’t know why he continued to stand there like some perverted dolt, but he did. He supposed limiting his association with women throughout the years had led him to do very strange things even he did not understand.

She hesitated, only to then wave, as if there was nothing wrong with waving to an unknown man lurking outside her bedchamber window at this time of night.

His pulse thundered as he stared up at her. Was she mistaking him for someone else? She had to be. Did he care that she was mistaking him for someone else? Hell, no.

Unable to resist, he touched his gloved hand to the curved rim of his hat in a gentlemanly salute, and hoped there wasn’t a husband there in the room with her. A husband who could already be loading lead balls into a pistol whilst enlisting his wife’s assistance in setting up the target.

The woman snapped up a forefinger, wordlessly requesting his patience, then unlatched the window and, to his astonishment, pushed it wide open. She leaned out, her wavy black hair cascading past the window in a single sweep, and casually propped herself against the sill as if she were Rapunzel in the flesh. The ruffled décolletage of her billowy, white nightdress shifted and spilled forward, exposing the golden glint of a locket swaying on a chain as well as the most stunning pair of breasts he’d ever had the pleasure of encountering.

Tristan fisted his gloved hands, forcing his mind and his body to remain calm.

She smiled flirtatiously down at him and spoke in a sensuous, foreign accent he couldn’t quite place. “‘Tis a pleasure to finally meet you, my lord. You live in the house directly across from mine, do you not?”

He couldn’t help but be flattered, knowing she had been waving to him, after all. Trying not to stare up at those lovely breasts that taunted him beneath the low hanging scoop of her nightdress, he offered, “Yes. I do.”

Awkward silence hung between them.

Should he ask for her name? No. That would be crass and overly familiar. So what should he say? Stupid though it was, he couldn’t think of anything.

She half nodded and glanced up toward the cloudy night sky above, tapping the brush against the bare palm of her other hand. “A rather pleasant evening despite all the clouds. Is it not?”

Weather as a topic was death to any conversation. Why couldn’t he be more dashing? Why couldn’t he be more … debonair? Why couldn’t he—”Yes. Yes, it is.”

“And is it always this cloudy in London?”

“Unfortunately.” Christ, he was pathetic.

Awkward silence hung between them again.

A playful, melodious laugh rippled through the night air. “Is that all I am worth? Two or three words at a time and nothing more?” She wagged her silver hairbrush down at him. “You British are so annoyingly coy. Why is that?”

He cleared his throat and glanced about the quiet darkness of the square, hoping that no one was watching him make an oaf of himself. “Coy? No. Not coy. Curt. Curt best defines us.”

She laughed again. “Yes. Curt. That certainly explains everyone’s apparent lack of conversational skills. Might I venture to ask how a woman, such as myself, is ever to befriend a man, such as yourself, when all forms of conversation here in London appear to be so … stilted?”

Though the last thing he wanted was to expose this sultry foreigner to any gossip by continuing their conversation, ass that he was he couldn’t resist. There was a playful intelligence in her demeanor that was as bold as it was fortifying. Even more intriguing was that delectable, soft twang of an accent. Unlike most foreigners whose English was irregular, coarse and difficult to understand whilst they struggled to find words, hers was clipped, perfect and beyond well versed.

Moving closer, Tristan grabbed hold of the iron railing lining her home. Propping his leather boot on the ledge between the railings, he hoisted himself up, wishing there weren’t three whole floors separating them.

He observed her heatedly, admiring the way her long, dark hair framed her pale face and how it swayed past the window against the soft breeze. A sharp nose and wide, full lips, made her exotic-looking in a subtle way, though he couldn’t quite make out the color of her eyes against the shadows and the light filtering out from behind her.

Damn, but she was alluring. A bit too alluring. “I am afraid, madam, that even if my conversational skills were to exceed all of your expectations, we still couldn’t be friends.”

Her lips parted. “Why ever not?”

Because friendship is not what I have in mind for us, he wanted to say. Instead, he smiled tauntingly and tilted his head, the weight of his top hat shifting. He wished he could reach up and glide his fingertips across her exposed throat. “I think it best I not comment on any of my thoughts.”

She arched a brow. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Attempting to.” And failing miserably….

“Shall I assist you in your attempt?”

“No. Please don’t.” Unlike most men, who eagerly chased after beautiful women, he avoided such stupidity at every turn because he knew what it would lead to: disaster. He had to be sensible when it came to women and do things properly to ensure nothing fell outside of his control. And this was not proper. Nor did he feel as if he were in control. He needed to retire and consider how to go about pursuing this in a civil manner.

He leaned against the railing he was balancing himself on. “Before I say good-night, madam—which I am afraid I must—being the gentleman that I am, I feel compelled to say something that I hope will not offend.”

She smiled. “I rarely find myself offended.”

“Good.” He lowered his voice. “Despite my pathetic attempt to capitalize on your naiveté, for which I can only apologize, you really shouldn’t be flaunting yourself like this. ‘Tis indecent. Come morning, regardless of whatever did or did not happen between us, everyone in this square will assume we are lovers and you will be ruined. Is that what you want for yourself?”

She shrugged. “What others have to say about my character does not concern me. After all, I am a foreigner and a Roman Catholic, and as such, everyone will seek to condemn me in whatever it is I do. Though I suppose if a man of your size quakes at the thought of what others will think, perhaps we should end this conversation. I most certainly do not wish to place your reputation at risk.”

He tightened his hold on the railing, squelching his urge to scale the wall, grab her and drag her over to his house for the night. “I suggest you cease being so flippant. London is extremely vicious when it comes to the reputation of a woman.”

She rolled her eyes. “If you are so worried about my reputation, why ever did you initiate this conversation?”

“Me?” He laughed. “I beg your pardon, but I didn’t initiate this conversation. You did.”

“In theory, yes, I did. But in fact, no, I did not. You did.”

“What?” he echoed, his brows coming together.