Read The Perfect Scandal for Free Online Page A

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—”
    â€œDon’t apologize. Just do it.”
    â€œYes, of course.”
    He pointed at her. “And no inquiries. Do you understand? None .”
    â€œI beg your forgiveness, but no amount of intimidation will keep me from ensuring you don’t end uplike 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.”
    â€œMoreland.” 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—”
    â€œGood 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