Page 1 of My Viscount’s Madness
Chapter 1
Betrothed
L ady Marguerite Fitzroy’s fingers tightened around the ivory handle of her parasol as she made her way through the crowded village market. She ignored the familiar faces of merchants and farmers that walked past her, some of them staring while her father’s words from that morning echoed in her mind.
“You shall marry Lord Edgecombe, and that is the end of it!”
Her throat constricted at the memory. To be bound in matrimony to a man almost thrice her age, whose reputation for gambling and debauchery was known throughout Surrey—the very thought made her stomach turn. She threaded her way between market stalls, barely registering the cheerful greetings of the villagers who had known her since childhood.
“My Lady?” Mrs. Porter, the baker’s wife, called out. “Are you quite well? You look rather pale.”
Marguerite forced her lips into what she hoped resembled a smile. “Perfectly well, I thank you.” The lie tasted bitter on her tongue.
She hurried past the baker’s stall, her steps quickening. The bustling market, alive with its usual vibrant energy, provided an unexpected refuge. Amid the shifting tide of shoppers, she felt a fleeting sense of freedom—an escape, however brief, from the relentless weight of her father’s expectations.
“Watch where you tread, madam,” a deep voice growled as she collided with something solid.
Marguerite stumbled backward, saved from falling only by a strong hand gripping her elbow. She looked up into the face of Tristan Carlisle, Viscount of Guildford—or what was visible of him beneath several days’ worth of dark stubble and an unkempt fall of black hair.
“My Lord.” She dropped into a shallow curtsy, pulling free from his grasp. “I beg your pardon.”
His grey eyes, sharp despite his otherwise disheveled appearance, went flat and distant as they gazed upon her. “You seem rather intent on fleeing something.” A sardonic amusement crept into his voice, his words coming softly, almost gently, as though he understood too well what drove someone to flee through crowded markets.
“I assure you, My Lord, I flee nothing.” Marguerite lifted her chin, meeting his gaze directly. “Still, I can’t help but wonder—what brings you to the village market? I was under the impression you preferred the solitude of your empty manor over the company of actual people.”
“And I find myself curious—what could bring the daughter of a Marquess to the market unaccompanied by a proper escort?”
“I have my maid with me.” Marguerite glanced around, realizing she had lost sight of Betty in her hasty retreat from home.
“Ah, yes. I see her clearly.” His lips curved into a mocking smile. “Invisible maids being all the fashion this season.”
Heat crept up Marguerite’s neck. “I fail to see how my movements are any concern of yours, My Lord.”
“Indeed not.” He inclined his head, the gesture containing more mockery than respect. “Though perhaps you might consider that your father—”
“Marguerite.” The Marquess of Ash’s voice cut through the hum of the market like a finely honed blade, sharp enough to draw glances from nearby shoppers. “Come here at once.”
Marguerite’s breath hitched, her heart thudding against her ribs. She closed her eyes briefly, willing herself to remain composed. When she opened them, Lord Guildford’s gaze was fixed on her, calm yet penetrating, as though he could see straight through her.
“Your father appears to be seeking you,” he observed dryly.
“How fortunate that you’re here to state the obvious.” The retort slipped out before she could rein it in.
To her surprise, a flicker of genuine amusement softened his features. “How fortunate indeed.”
“Marguerite.” Her father’s voice drew nearer, low but laced with unmistakable authority.
She turned to see him approaching, his expression a mask of restrained anger. Lord Edgecombe followed closely behind, his garish yellow waistcoat clashing with the Marquess’s subdued but immaculate attire. The sight of them together sent a fresh wave of unease crashing through her.
“Papa, I—” she began, but the Marquess held up a hand to silence her.
“What could you possibly mean by wandering off alone as though you were some common tradesman’s daughter?” His words were quiet yet clipped, his tone carrying the full weight of his disapproval. He leaned closer, taking her arm firmly, though not enough to draw undue attention. “Lord Edgecombe has done us the courtesy of calling, and you will return home immediately,” the Marquess said, his tone icy enough to draw the attention of nearby onlookers without raising his voice. “We will discuss your conduct in private—”
“You’re drawing unnecessary attention, My Lord,” Lord Guildford interrupted smoothly, his voice calm yet pointed. “And you appear to be troubling the lady.”
The Marquess’s hand fell away as he turned to face the Viscount, his brow furrowing. “This is a family matter, Guildford. I suggest you keep to your own affairs.”
Lord Guildford stepped forward, his presence commanding without a hint of aggression, forcing the Marquess to shift slightly to meet his gaze. “And I suggest,” he said evenly, “that you remember where you are. The village market is hardly the venue for such discussions.”
Lord Edgecombe, who had remained silent until now, seized the moment to interject. “Come now, Lord Ash. The girl is merely high-spirited. Once we are wed—”
“Wed?” Lord Guildford’s brow arched, his tone one of mild incredulity. “I fear there has been a misunderstanding.”
Marguerite’s gaze snapped to him, her heart pounding anew. What was he doing?
“Lady Marguerite cannot marry Lord Edgecombe,” he continued calmly, stating an irrefutable fact. “She is already engaged—to me.”
The silence that followed his pronouncement seemed to sweep through the market like a wave, drawing the attention of every merchant and customer within earshot. Marguerite stared at him, her mouth slightly agape, while her mind raced to make sense of his words.
“What nonsense is this?” her father demanded. “You haven’t called on her, made no offer—”
“I called at your estate yesterday.” Lord Guildford’s expression remained impassive. “You were indisposed, but Lady Marguerite accepted my suit. I had planned to speak with you this evening, but since we are all gathered here…” He turned to Lord Edgecombe, whose face had taken on an interesting shade of purple. “I trust you understand, My Lord, that you must now consider any prior arrangements void.”
Lord Edgecombe spluttered, “This is preposterous! Surely you cannot—”
“Perhaps,” Lord Guildford suggested, his voice dropping to a dangerous pitch, “we might continue this discussion at a more appropriate venue? Unless you prefer to air all our affairs before the entire village.”
Her father’s face darkened, but he was too conscious of his dignity to continue arguing in public. “This evening, then. You will call at eight.” It was not a request.
“Of course.” Lord Guildford bowed slightly. “Lady Marguerite, might I escort you home?”
She found her voice at last, though it emerged rather faint. “Thank you, My Lord. That would be most kind.”
As Lord Guildford offered his arm, Marguerite caught a glimpse of Lord Edgecombe’s thunderous expression and her father’s barely contained fury. Whatever game Lord Guildford was playing, she knew with dreadful certainty that she had just traded one impossible situation for another.
They walked a few steps in silence until they reached the middle of the market, where Betty waited by the fountain of water, wringing her hands in distress. Only then did Lord Guildford speak, his voice low enough that only Marguerite could hear.
“I believe you owe me an explanation, My Lady.”
Marguerite’s fingers tightened on his arm. “I believe, My Lord, you also owe me one.”
“I imagine your father is quite desperate,” Lord Guildford remarked as they walked along the village lane, Betty trailing at a discreet distance. “To consider Lord Edgecombe as a potential son-in-law.”
“You know nothing of our situation,” Marguerite replied, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
“I know Lord Edgecombe’s reputation.” His jaw tightened. “And I know your father’s fondness for the gaming halls.” At her sharp intake of breath, he added, “Country estates have ears, My Lady. Even crumbling ones like mine.”
They passed the milliner’s shop, where several ladies peered through the window at them. Marguerite lifted her chin, conscious of the gossip already spreading through the village.
“Why did you interfere?” she asked.
“Perhaps I have a natural aversion to watching young ladies being sold to dissolute old men.”
“How charitable of you.” She withdrew her hand from his arm. “And what do you imagine will happen when my father discovers your deception?”
Tristan’s lips curved. “Who says it must be a deception?”
Marguerite halted in her tracks, forcing him to stop as well. “If you are suggesting—”
“A temporary arrangement,” he interrupted, turning to face her. “One that provides you time to find a more suitable match and me respite from the local matrons who seem convinced I require a wife.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“I assure you, I am perfectly serious.” His grey eyes held hers. “Unless you prefer Lord Edgecombe?”
The mention of that name sent a chill through her bones. “And what would you gain from this arrangement?”
“Peace.” He glanced toward the curious onlookers. “A false engagement would discourage unwanted attention from match- making mothers while simultaneously protecting you from Edgecombe’s advances.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“Is it not?” He offered his arm again. “We need only maintain the pretense until you secure a more advantageous match.”
Marguerite hesitated. “There would need to be rules.”
“By all means.” That hint of amusement returned to his voice. “Though perhaps we might discuss them somewhere less public?”
She accepted his arm, aware of the weight of watching eyes. “You realize my father will demand to know why you failed to speak with him first.”
“I shall tell him your beauty and charm overcame me.” His tone dripped with irony. “It happens occasionally, even to reformed rakes.”
“Reformed?” She arched an eyebrow. “Is that what you call hiding away in your manor, except, of course, the parts of the house where guests might visit?”
His mouth pressed into a thin line.” Mind your tongue, My Lady. I may have offered assistance, but I am not your friend.”
They walked the remaining distance to Fitzroy Manor in strained silence. At the gates, Lord Guildford bowed over her hand, his lips barely brushing her glove.
“Eight o’clock,” she reminded him.
“Eight o’clock,” he agreed. “I suggest you spend the intervening hours convincing your father of our mutual affection.”
“And how am I to do that when I can barely tolerate your presence?”
“Practice, My Lady.” His mouth pressed into a thin line before twisting up, his eyes narrowing. “I assure you, my performance shall be equally challenging.”
He turned to leave, then paused. “One more thing. When your father asks, tell him I made my offer in the rose garden yesterday afternoon. The details matter.”
Marguerite watched him stride away, his tall figure cutting a sharp silhouette against the afternoon light. What manner of madness had possessed her even to consider his proposal?
“My Lady?” Betty’s worried voice broke through her thoughts. “What are we to do?”
“We are going to my chambers,” Marguerite replied, gathering her scattered wits. “Where you shall help me compose a believable tale of courtship and then assist me in selecting an appropriate gown for dinner.”
“But, My Lady, surely you cannot trust him? The Viscount has such strange ways about him, and they do say—”
“What they say matters not.” Marguerite swept past the gates. “At present, Lord Guildford represents my only escape from Lord Edgecombe. I would ally myself with far worse to avoid that fate.”
In her chambers, as Betty helped her change from her morning dress, Marguerite caught her reflection in the looking glass. Something had shifted in her reflection, like a portrait painted over with bolder strokes. Her mother’s daughter still gazed back, but now with her eldest sister’s hardness in her spine and generations of stubborn pride in the tilt of her chin.
“The rose garden,” she murmured, practicing the lie. “He found me in the rose garden.”
“And what will you say when his lordship calls this evening?” Betty asked, fingers working deftly at the buttons on the back of her dress.
“I shall say whatever I must.” Marguerite smoothed her hands over her silk dress. “Though I doubt Lord Guildford will allow me much opportunity to speak. He strikes me as a man accustomed to managing his affairs.”
“He’s nothing like Lord Edgecombe,” Betty observed.
“No.” Marguerite’s lips pressed into a thin line. “He is something else entirely.”
The candles needed lighting. The fire had burned low, so Marguerite instructed Betty to do so as she sat at her writing desk, composing a mental inventory of everything she knew about Tristan Carlisle.
It was common knowledge that he had fought in the war. He returned some months ago, clearly changed by his experiences, though none knew precisely what had occurred. He kept to himself, managed his estate with minimal interaction with his neighbors, and developed a reputation for being both mysterious and mildly threatening.
In short, he was exactly the sort of man her father would never have chosen for her.
A knock at her door preceded her mother’s entrance. The Marchioness of Ash looked as though she had been weeping.
“Marguerite, your father demands your presence in his study.” Her mother wrung her hands. “Oh, my dear, what have you done?”
“What was necessary, Mama.” Marguerite rose, squaring her shoulders. “Lord Guildford will explain everything when he arrives.”
“But Lord Edgecombe—”
“Is not suitable.” Marguerite kissed her mother’s cheek. “Have faith that I know precisely what I’m doing.”
As Marguerite approached her father’s study, she silently prayed that her confidence in Lord Guildford was not misplaced. Though he remained something of an enigma, he had, at least, displayed one commendable trait: a shared disdain for Lord Edgecombe. That alone offered her a sliver of reassurance in an otherwise uncertain alliance.