Page 11 of My Viscount’s Madness
Chapter 11
Snooping
M r. Thorne’s footsteps echoed against the parquet floor as he led Marguerite and Betty through the shadowed corridors of Carlisle Manor. The butler’s shoulders remained perfectly straight, his pace calculated, offering no hint of discomfort at her unannounced arrival.
“His lordship is engaged with his steward at present,” he said, pausing before a set of double doors. “Please wait for him here in the drawing room until he’s available.”
Marguerite’s silk dress rustled as she moved past him into the room. Morning light spilled through tall windows, illuminating a space that bore the hollow feeling of long disuse. A thin film of dust coated the pianoforte, and the furniture retained that particular stillness of objects untouched by human hands.
“How long might he be occupied?” She traced a finger along the curve of a chair back, leaving a clean line in the dust.
“Difficult to say, My Lady.” Mr. Thorne’s expression remained impassive. “Estate matters often require…extensive discussion.”
She caught the hesitation in his voice. “You mean he’s again arguing with his steward about the tenant farms.”
The butler’s lips twitched as if he wanted to smile but was keeping himself from it. “As you say, My Lady. Shall I have tea brought?”
“No, thank you.” Her gaze drifted to the connecting door that stood slightly ajar. Beyond it, she glimpsed shelves of leather-bound volumes. “Is that his library?”
“His lordship’s private study.” Mr. Thorne’s tone carried a gentle warning. “He prefers it remain undisturbed.”
“Of course.” Marguerite settled onto a chair. Her hands moved across the silk of her dress. “I shall wait here.”
When Mr. Thorne’s footsteps faded, she rose and crossed to the connecting door. The brass handle felt cool beneath her fingers as she opened it wider.
“My Lady, what are you doing?” Betty gasped, but Marguerite ignored her.
The library opened before her like a cave of secrets. Dark wooden shelves climbed toward a coffered ceiling, their contents a mix of gilt-edged volumes and rough leather bindings. A massive desk dominated one end of the room, its surface covered in maps and papers held down by various weights—a brass compass, a chunk of unpolished crystal, and what appeared to be a cavalry officer’s medallion.
Her feet carried her into the room without being conscious of any decision. The carpet muffled her steps as she moved between the shelves, fingers skimming across book spines. Military histories. Tactical treatises. Campaign journals. And then, tucked between two massive volumes on artillery deployment, a slim leather book with no title.
She shouldn’t. The voice of propriety whispered all the reasons she must replace the book and leave, but her fingers had already closed around it, drawing it from its resting place.
The journal—for that’s what it clearly was—fell open to a page marked with a pressed leaf. Tristan’s handwriting filled the pages in neat columns, the discipline of his military training evident in each stroke.
June 15, 1812
Madrid grows restless. The French advance from the north, and with them comes the shadow of what we witnessed in Ciudad Rodrigo. The men speak of revenge, but I see the fear beneath their bravado. They remember, as I do, the sounds of that night. The screams. The—
The entry broke off mid-sentence as though the memory had proven too much to commit to paper. Marguerite turned the page, her breath catching at the change in the handwriting. The neat columns gave way to cramped, desperate scrawls in the margins.
God help me. I still hear them. In every celebration, every gathering. The music starts, and I’m there again, watching as the flames—
“What do you think you’re doing?!”
Tristan’s voice cracked through the air like a whip. Marguerite spun toward the door, the journal clutched against her chest. He stood in the doorway, his entire body rigid with fury. The light from the window cast half his face in shadow, but she saw the small muscle twitching repeatedly at the corner of his mouth, the way his fingers curled into fists at his sides.
“My Lord, I—”
“Put it down.” Each word was clipped and controlled, yet violence lurked beneath the surface.
She set the journal on the nearest shelf, her hands trembling slightly. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have—”
“No.” He crossed the room in four long strides. “You shouldn’t have.”
This close, she could see the pulse hammering in his throat, the barely contained tremor in his hands as he snatched up the journal.
“I was merely—”
“Merely what?” His voice dropped lower, more dangerous. “Merely invading my privacy? Merely satisfying your endless curiosity about matters that don’t concern you?”
“They do concern me.” The words tumbled out before her mind caught up. When it did, she pressed her lips together.
“Do they?” He advanced another step, and Marguerite found herself retreating until her back met the bookshelf. “Because we share a false engagement? Because you imagine that gives you the right to pry into my affairs?”
“Because I care what happens to you.”
Neither spoke for several breaths. Something flickered in his eyes—pain, fury, or both—before his expression hardened again.
“You care?” His mouth twisted into something between a grimace and a laugh. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know you were decorated for valor.” She gestured to the medallion on his desk. “I know you served with distinction in Spain. I know something happened in Madrid that haunts you still—”
“Enough!” The single word cracked like a pistol shot.
But Marguerite lifted her chin, refusing to back down. “No. Not enough. You hide away in this manor, letting memories consume you while life continues without you. You use our arrangement as another excuse for isolation, but I’ve seen glimpses of the man you could be—with Tommy Porter at the charity tea. That man isn’t lost, he’s just—”
“Just what?” He stepped closer until she could feel the heat radiating from his body. “Broken? In need of fixing? Is that what draws you, My Lady? The challenge of reforming the damaged war hero?”
“The challenge of helping someone I’ve grown to—” She caught herself before the word could escape.
His eyes narrowed. “Grown to what?”
“Care about,” she finished lamely. “Despite your best efforts to prevent it.”
Something shifted in his expression—a crack in his armor that revealed the pain beneath. But before she could press her advantage, he turned away, putting distance between them.
“You should leave.”
“Why? Because I dared to look behind your walls? Because I refuse to pretend I don’t see your pain?”
“Because,” he said without turning, “you make me want things I can’t have.”
They stood frozen at the confession, neither willing to break the silence nor able to meet the other’s eyes.
“Who says you can’t have them?”
His shoulders stiffened. “Experience. Memory. The ghosts that wake me screaming in the night.”
“Then let me help you fight them.”
Now, he did turn, and the devastation in his eyes stole her breath. “You can’t fight memories, My Lady. You can’t heal wounds you don’t understand.”
“Then help me understand.” She took a step toward him, then another. “Tell me what happened in Madrid. Let me—”
“Let you what?” Bitterness crept into his voice. “Save me? I thought we agreed this engagement was merely a convenient lie.”
“Perhaps,” she said softly, “some lies contain more truth than we intended.”
His hands clenched at his sides. “You should go.”
“Tristan—”
“Now,” he ordered sharp and clear, expecting immediate obedience. “Before I forget myself entirely.”
Marguerite pressed her lips together to keep more words from escaping. At the door, she paused. “I won’t apologize for caring. And I won’t stop trying to understand, even if you persist in pushing me away.”
She left him standing amid his fortress of books and memories, her heart beating against her ribs. She only realized she’d used his given name when she entered the drawing room.
And only then did she admit, in the privacy of her own thoughts, that she’d begun to lose her heart to a man determined to give nothing of himself in return.
Marguerite’s fingers trembled as she adjusted her bonnet. Her thoughts remained in that quiet room, replaying every moment. The drawing room felt colder now, its emptiness pressing against her skin. Each tick of the mantel clock marked another moment she remained, unable to leave despite his dismissal.
The door opened behind her. She didn’t turn, recognizing his presence by how the air changed.
“You’re still here.” His voice had gone hoarse through clenched teeth.
“Evidently.” Her fingers traced the silk of her dress, steadying herself. “Though if you’ve come to repeat your command for my departure, I assure you I heard it clearly the first time.”
“Then why remain?”
Now, she did turn. He stood in the doorway, the journal still clutched in his hand. Something had shifted in his posture—the rigid fury replaced by a weariness that seemed to settle into his bones.
“Because running away solves nothing.” She met his gaze steadily. “Though I suppose you’d know that better than most.”
His fingers tightened on the leather binding. “You presume much.”
“Do I?” She gestured to the journal. “Those words weren’t written by a man who runs from difficulty. They were written by someone who faced horror and survived. Someone who earned that medallion on your desk through courage, not cowardice.”
“Courage?” The laugh that escaped him was harsh and grating.
Marguerite scowled.
“Is that what you imagine it was? Let me tell you about courage, My Lady. About watching good men die while you survive through mere chance. About the weight of command when every decision might send more sons to their graves.”
“Then tell me.” She took a step toward him. “Help me understand what haunts you.”
“Why?” His voice cracked on the word. “So you can add my demons to your collection of charitable causes?”
“No.” Another step brought her close enough to catch the scent of brandy that clung to his skin. “So I can understand the man behind this fortress you’ve built.”
“The man?” His mouth twisted. “Or the mystery? The tragic figure you imagine needs saving?”
“The man who defended me at the charity tea.” She lifted her chin. “Who comforted Tommy Porter without thought for his own discomfort. Who offers charity to his tenants while pretending indifference.”
His free hand rose, fingers curling in the air between them as though he might touch her face before dropping back to his side. “You see what you wish to see.”
“I see what you try to hide.” She gestured to the journal. “Just as those pages contain what you try to forget.”
The space between them seemed to grow with each passing moment. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again as he turned away. The mantel clock’s steady ticking marked each moment of their stalemate.
“I dream of fire.” The words emerged so quietly she almost missed them. “Of music turned to screams. Of choices that sent good men to die while I—” He broke off, his throat constricted visibly around the words. “You want to understand? Understanding will not give you peace.”
“And isolation gives you peace?” She reached for his hand, ignoring how he stiffened, and Betty protested at her touch. “This half-life you’ve chosen, hiding from anything that might stir those memories?”
“You know nothing of my choices.”
“I know you’re stronger than your fears.” Her fingers tightened on his. “I know the man who wrote in that journal faced his nightmares rather than letting them consume him.”
“That man died in Spain.” He tried to withdraw his hand, but she held firm.
“No.” She took the journal from his other hand, holding it between them like a shield. “He’s right here, hiding behind walls of his own making. The question is whether he’s brave enough to let someone help him tear them down.”
Anger, pain, or perhaps something more profound sparked in his eyes. “And you propose to be that someone?”
“I propose to be whatever you need,” she said more softly than she’d intended. “Friend, ally, or simply someone who refuses to let you drown in memories.”
His fingers flexed in her grip. “Our arrangement—”
“Has become more than either of us intended.” She released his hand, stepping back to give him space. “Though if you prefer to maintain the lie of mere convenience, I won’t press the matter.”
He tilted to one side as he considered her words. “What do you want from me?”
“Truth.” She held out the journal. “Trust. The chance to understand.”
He accepted the leather-bound volume, his fingers brushing hers in the exchange. “And if understanding proves worse than ignorance?”
“Then, at least, it will be truth rather than speculation.” She moved toward the door, pausing with her hand on the handle. “When you’re ready to share that truth, you know where to find me.”
“Marguerite.” Her given name on his lips stopped her. “I cannot promise—”
“Then don’t.” She paused at the door, looking back over her shoulder. “Just be true to yourself.”
She left him standing amid the morning room’s hollow silence, the journal clutched in his hand like an anchor.
She paused halfway down at the banister, her hand trembling slightly on the rail. She took a steadying breath and continued descending, with Betty following. However, her feet seemed to drag against the stone, even as her mind urged her forward.
Behind her, the grand manor rose against the sky, its windows reflecting light like tears. Somewhere within those walls, a man fought battles she couldn’t see against enemies she might never fully understand, but she had glimpsed the truth in those journal pages—not just the horror that haunted him but the strength that had helped him survive it.
That strength remained, buried beneath layers of pain and isolation.
She would help him find it again, whether he wished it or not.
The autumn leaves crunched beneath her feet as she walked toward her waiting carriage, but distance did nothing to dampen the effect of their conversation. The memory of his words lingered still.
You make me want things I can’t have.
Perhaps, she thought as the carriage door closed behind her, those things weren’t as impossible as he imagined. Maybe all he needed was someone stubborn enough to help him remember how to obtain them.