Page 13 of My Viscount’s Madness
Chapter 13
Harvest Fair
R ibbons snapped in the breeze as merchants called their wares across the village green. Stalls lined the edges of the grass in uneven rows, their wooden posts decorated with streamers that danced and twisted with each gust. The scent of roasted nuts mingled with the sweetness of candied apples while a fiddle played somewhere in the crowd, its notes weaving through the general clamor of voices and laughter.
Marguerite paused beside a display of ribbons, her fingers trailing over the silk lengths while her attention remained fixed on Lady Morton’s little group near the punch bowl. The letter they’d ensured the lady “discovered” had done its work—already whispers about Lord Edgecombe’s use of gambling debts circulated through the gathering.
“Perhaps the blue?” The ribbon seller held up a length of azure silk. “To match your eyes?”
“Her eyes are grey.” Tristan’s voice came from behind her. His boots scraped against the packed earth as he moved to her side, close enough that his coat sleeve brushed her arm. “Though I imagine you’re more interested in the conversation beyond the punch bowl than the ribbons.”
“Lady Morton does seem rather animated.” Marguerite selected a length of ivory silk, though her gaze remained on the growing cluster of matrons. “I wonder what could have caused such excitement?”
“Besides the letter detailing Edgecombe’s manipulation of her nephew?” He couldn’t keep his hand still against the fabric of his trousers as he continued tightly, “Though perhaps we might discuss strategy somewhere less public?”
Before she could respond, Mrs. Porter’s voice rang across the green. “Lord Guildford! Lady Marguerite! You simply must participate in the couples’ contest!”
Tristan’s entire body went rigid. Marguerite caught the way his hands clenched at his sides, how his breathing shortened. She shifted closer, letting the side of her dress brush against his legs in her silent support.
“I fear we must decline,” she began, but Mrs. Porter had already seized her arm, tugging her toward the cleared space in the center of the green. Other villagers joined the chorus of encouragement, their voices rising in a wave of enthusiasm that allowed no argument.
“The first test of marriage,” Mrs. Porter announced to the gathering crowd, “is cooperation!” She gestured to where several chairs had been arranged in pairs, with ribbons laid across them. “Each couple must sit back-to-back and tie a bow without looking at each other’s hands!”
Marguerite found herself guided to a chair, Tristan behind her. The wooden slats pressed against her spine as they sat back-to-back, and she felt the tension radiating from him in waves.
“You needn’t do this,” she murmured as Mrs. Porter distributed ribbons. “We can still withdraw.”
“And send more tongues wagging?” His voice was low enough that only she could hear. “Besides, I believe you mentioned something about maintaining appearances?”
The ribbon settled across her palms—silk sliding like water against her skin. Behind her, she felt Tristan shift, their sleeves touching as his shoulders brushed hers.
“Ready?” Mrs. Porter clapped her hands. “Begin!”
Marguerite lifted the ribbon, attempting to form a loop without seeing her partner’s movements. Behind her, Tristan’s breathing remained controlled, slow, and even, but she felt how his shoulders moved as he manipulated half of the silk.
“Perhaps if you stopped trying to control every movement,” she suggested as their first attempt resulted in a twisted mess, “and simply followed my lead?”
“Follow your lead?” A hint of his usual sardonic tone crept into his voice. “I believe I’ve done nothing but follow your lead since this began.”
“This means the contest or our entire arrangement?”
His low laugh vibrated against her back. “Both, I suspect.”
Their next attempt produced something closer to a proper bow. Marguerite felt him relax fractionally as they found their pace, their movements becoming more coordinated.
“You’re rather good at this,” she said as their fingers brushed over the silk.
“At following your lead? Or at public performances?”
“At trust,” said Marguerite too quietly to be heard clearly. “When you allow yourself to try.”
His hands stilled for a moment before resuming their work. “Perhaps I simply recognize the futility of resistance where you’re concerned.”
Before she could respond, Mrs. Porter’s voice passed over their private communion. “We have a winner!”
Marguerite looked down at their completed bow—not perfect, but proof of their surprising harmony. Around them, other couples still struggled with twisted ribbons and tangled fingers.
“Well done!” Mrs. Porter beamed at them. “Now for the second challenge!”
Tristan’s spine hardened against hers. “Second?”
“The wedding breakfast race!” Mrs. Porter gestured to where several tables had been set with partial place settings. “Each gentleman must set his lady’s place properly while blindfolded!”
“Absolutely not.” Tristan began to rise, but Marguerite caught his hand.
“Please.” She leaned closer to whisper the words. “Look at how they watch us. Every reaction, every movement—it all feeds into Edgecombe’s narrative about your…difficulties.”
His fingers tightened around hers. “You fight dirty, My Lady.”
“I fight to win.” She squeezed his hand. “Though if you truly cannot bear it…”
“Cannot bear what?” Lord Edgecombe’s voice intruded on their private moment. “Surely the decorated officer isn’t afraid of a simple village game?”
Tristan’s entire body went still. Marguerite felt the change in him—the way his muscles coiled like a predator preparing to strike. She maintained her grip on his hand, lending what support she could through the contact.
“The only thing I fear,” Tristan said with deadly quiet, “is boring my betrothed with tedious competition. Though perhaps you might demonstrate your own expertise at proper table settings?”
Titters rippled through the crowd. Lord Edgecombe’s face darkened as he registered the implied insult to his social graces.
“Come now,” Mrs. Porter said into the growing tension. “Surely our couples are eager to begin?”
Marguerite released Tristan’s hand, allowing him to rise. He offered her his arm with the expected chivalry, though she felt the quake in his muscles as she accepted.
“I’m right beside you,” she murmured as they approached the tables. “Through all of it.”
His only response was a slight inclination of his head, but she felt some of the rigidity leave his shoulders.
The blindfold settled across his eyes, blocking his view of the watching crowd. Marguerite took her place in the chair, watching as he oriented himself to the table’s edges.
“Begin!” Mrs. Porter’s voice rang across the green.
Tristan’s hands worked with surprising surety, fingers finding each piece of silverware and placing it without hesitation. Marguerite watched in fascination as he assembled a perfect place setting.
“You’ve done this before,” she said softly.
“Blindfolded?” She heard the smile in his voice. “Not precisely. Though years of formal dinners leave certain patterns ingrained.”
“Even in darkness?”
“Especially in darkness.” His hands stilled for a moment. “Sometimes darkness provides its own kind of clarity.”
The implications of his words kept them quiet as they registered. Marguerite leaned closer, lowering her voice further.
“Does it? And what clarity does this darkness provide?”
His fingers brushed her hand as he placed the final fork. “Some battles are worth fighting, even when you cannot see the outcome.”
“Time!” Mrs. Porter’s announcement broke through their bubble of privacy. “Let’s see what our couples have managed!”
The blindfold came away, and Marguerite watched Tristan blink against the returning light. His place setting stood in perfect order, while the other competitors had produced various states of disarray.
“Another victory!” Mrs. Porter clapped her hands. “Though perhaps we should move to our final challenge?”
“I believe,” Lord Edgecombe’s voice reached them clearly across the green, “that we’ve all seen quite enough of Lord Guildford’s…performances.”
The word dripped with insinuation. Marguerite felt Tristan’s body coil and freeze, but before either could respond, Lady Morton’s voice drew the crowd’s attention.
“Indeed we have.” The older woman’s tone held no warmth. “Though I find myself far more interested in certain other performances. Your handling of my nephew’s funds, for instance?”
The color drained from Lord Edgecombe’s face. His fingers worked at his cravat as whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through wheat.
“My dear Lady Morton,” he said, raising his voice to reach every corner, “surely this isn’t the venue for such discussions.”
“No?” Lady Morton’s lorgnette fixed upon him like a weapon. “Yet you find it an appropriate venue to cast aspersions on Lord Guildford’s character?”
Marguerite felt Tristan adjust his position, his arm pressing briefly against hers. The contact steadied them both.
“The final challenge!” Mrs. Porter clapped her hands, clearly sensing the need to redirect attention. “Each couple must dance the waltz while balanced on this platform.” She gestured to a raised wooden square, barely large enough for two people.
“Now that,” Lord Edgecombe’s sister emerged from the crowd, her purple dress more garish than ever, “should prove interesting. Given Lord Guildford’s reaction to music at certain gatherings.”
Tristan’s breath caught. Marguerite moved closer. “We needn’t—”
“Yes,” he said quietly, “we do.”
He guided her toward the platform, and his hand at her elbow guided her surely. Their shoes struck the wooden surface in unison as they took their positions.
The fiddle began a gentle waltz. Tristan’s hand settled at her waist, and Marguerite felt it shake slightly against her sides. His other hand clasped hers, palm warm against her gloved fingers.
“Focus on me,” she murmured as they began to move. “Nothing else exists.”
The platform’s small size required complete synchronization of every step to maintain balance. She heard his steady breathing beside her forehead and felt his hands on her.
“Nothing else,” he repeated, his voice rough. Their bodies moved together as though they’d practiced this dance a hundred times, finding harmony in the limited space.
“You see?” She tilted her face up to his as they turned. “Some music brings peace rather than memories.”
His eyes met hers, and something darkened in his expression. “Some partners bring both.”
Neither spoke as they continued dancing. Around them, other couples attempted the challenge with varying degrees of success. Lord Hampton and his partner toppled off their platform with matching yelps. Miss Edgecombe’s shrill laugh cut through the music.
“How sweet,” she said, clearly enough to be overheard. “The mad viscount and his desperate lady, finding comfort in each other’s delusions.”
Tristan’s hand tightened at Marguerite’s waist. She pressed closer, forcing his attention back to her.
“Let them talk,” she said softly. “We know the truth.”
“Do we?” His voice dropped lower. “Sometimes I wonder if I know anything at all where you’re concerned.”
The music drew to a close. They remained on their platform, neither quite willing to break contact first. The crowd’s applause seemed to come from very far away.
“Another victory for our local love birds!” Mrs. Porter announced. “Though perhaps Lord Edgecombe might wish to comment on such a display of coordination?”
But Lord Edgecombe had already begun retreating through the crowd, his sister hurrying in his wake. Lady Morton’s voice followed them.
“Do stay, My Lord! I believe several gentlemen wish to discuss certain financial matters with you!”
Marguerite felt Tristan’s silent laugh rather than heard it. “I believe our plan may have succeeded beyond expectations.”
“The plan, yes.” He stepped back, though his hand lingered at her waist. “Though I find myself wondering about other successes.”
“Such as?”
“Such as your ability to make me forget everything except the feel of you in my arms.”
The words were almost inaudible. Had she imagined them? Before she could respond, he had already guided her from the platform and returned to their usual positions.
Smiles and nods followed them throughout the rest of the fair. Marguerite maintained her composure through the hubbub, though her skin still burnt where his hands had touched her.
“Well done, My Lord.” Lady Morton paused beside them. “Though I confess, I am far more impressed by your other performance.”
“Other performance?” Tristan said with perfect innocence.
“Indeed.” The lady’s eyes gleamed. “The way certain…information about Lord Edgecombe found its way to precisely the right ears. Most impressive.”
She moved away before either could respond. Marguerite pressed her lips together to hide her smile.
“I believe,” she said softly, “that counts as another victory.”
“Does it?” Tristan’s gaze remained fixed on the spot where Lord Edgecombe had disappeared. “Or merely the opening salvo in a longer campaign?”
“Either way.” She touched his arm lightly. “We’re in it together.”
His eyes met hers, and that same intensity from their dance flickered between them. “Together,” he repeated as though testing the word’s weight. “A dangerous proposition, My Lady.”
“All the best ones are.” She withdrew her hand and felt stares from every corner. Her eyes went to their audience. “Shall we talk somewhere less public?”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Ever the tactician.”
“Someone must be.” She gestured to where the crowd had begun to disperse. “Shall we withdraw while our victory remains fresh?”
He offered his arm in an exaggerated manner. “As My Lady commands.”
They made their way from the green together, their steps perfectly matched. Behind them, whispers followed like autumn leaves in the wind, but for once, the gossip held more approval than censure.
Perhaps, Marguerite thought as they walked, some victories came in unexpected forms. In the way his arm felt solid beneath her hand, in how he’d faced down his demons for her sake, in the moments between their public performance and private truths, something real had begun to grow.
The only question was whether either of them possessed the courage to acknowledge it.