Page 14 of My Viscount’s Madness

Chapter 14

Young Tommy

“ H ow is young Tommy recovering?”

Mrs. Porter’s fingers twisted her apron as she peered through the baker’s shop window. “He’s out back again, My Lady. With his lordship.”

“With Lord Guildford?”

Mrs. Porter nodded with a grin. Her words held none of the fear that had marked earlier discussions of Lord Guildford. Marguerite noted the change as she set her basket on the counter, the fresh bread still warm against the woven straw.

“Yes, your ladyship. The good Viscount is giving him lessons. Three times a week, regular as clockwork.” Pride crept into Mrs. Porter’s voice. “His lordship never misses a day, no matter the weather. Though perhaps you might see for yourself?” She gestured toward the back door. “They’ve been at it since breakfast.”

Marguerite’s shoes struck the wooden floor as she followed Mrs. Porter through the shop. The scent of fresh bread faded, replaced by leather and hay, as they emerged into the small stable yard behind the building.

She halted in the doorway, arrested by the scene before her. Tristan stood beside a placid brown mare, one hand on the bridle while the other steadied Tommy in the saddle. His coat lay discarded over a fence post, his shirtsleeves rolled to reveal muscled forearms as he adjusted the boy’s grip on the reins.

“Like this,” he demonstrated, his voice carrying the same gentle tone he’d used when treating Tommy’s injured knee. “Keep your hands steady but not rigid. The horse can sense the tension.”

Tommy’s tongue poked out as he concentrated on mimicking the adjustment. “Like when you’re nervous before a battle?”

A ghost of a smile touched Tristan’s lips. “Something like that. Though I imagine horse-mastery proves a far more valuable skill than soldiering.”

“But you were brave.” Tommy’s feet kicked against the mare’s sides, earning a quick correction from his teacher. “Papa says you won medals and everything.”

“Your papa,” Tristan said dryly, “should find better topics of conversation.” His hands moved to adjust Tommy’s posture, the movements betraying long practice. “Now, shall we try that posting trot again?”

Marguerite pressed back against the doorframe, unwilling to interrupt their interaction. She watched as Tristan led the mare in a circle, his stride matching the horse’s pace while he called out instructions. Gone was the rigid tension present in his public appearances. Even his voice had changed, losing its defensive edge in favor of patient encouragement.

“That’s it.” He steadied Tommy through a particularly bouncy stride. “Remember what we discussed about moving with the horse rather than fighting her tempo?”

“Like dancing!” Tommy beamed down at him. “Lady Marguerite says the same thing about the waltz.”

Tristan’s step faltered slightly. “Does she indeed?”

“At the fair.” Tommy’s hands tightened on the reins as they turned another circle. “Everyone says you danced beautifully. Even Miss Edgecombe, though she looked like she’d bitten a lemon when she said it.”

A low laugh escaped Tristan—a sound so rare that Marguerite found herself leaning forward to catch it. “Perhaps we might focus on your riding rather than village gossip?”

“But I like village gossip.” Tommy bounced slightly in the saddle, earning another correction. “Especially since you stopped being so stern all the time. Mama says Lady Marguerite’s been good for you.”

“Your mama,” Tristan said with familiar dryness, “shares your father’s unfortunate tendency toward speculation.” But Marguerite caught the softening around his eyes, the way his hands remained gentle as he steadied the boy through another turn.

She must have shifted or made a slight sound because Tristan’s head turned toward the door. Their eyes met across the stable yard, and for a moment, she glimpsed something unguarded in his expression. A vulnerability that vanished behind his usual disguise even as she registered its presence.

“Lady Marguerite.” He inclined his head without releasing the bridle. “I trust Mrs. Porter mentioned I borrowed her stable yard for Tommy’s lessons?”

She moved into the yard, kicking up scattered hay. “Though she failed to mention how long these lessons have been occurring.”

“Lady Marguerite!” Tommy waved from his perch, nearly unseating himself in his enthusiasm. “Did you see? I can post properly now! Well, mostly properly.” He looked down at his teacher. “Right?”

“Your form improves with each lesson.” Tristan’s tone remained even, though Marguerite noted the tension that had crept back into his shoulders. “Though perhaps we might end early today? I’m sure Lady Marguerite has business with your mother.”

“Actually,” Marguerite moved closer, “I find myself quite fascinated by these proceedings. How long have you been teaching Tommy to ride?”

“Since my knee healed!” Tommy answered before Tristan could speak. “His lordship said every gentleman should know how to sit a horse properly, and Papa’s always too busy at the shop, and—”

“And I believe that’s quite enough information for one day.” Tristan’s hands moved to Tommy’s waist, lifting him from the saddle with ease. “Remember what we discussed about discretion?”

Tommy’s feet struck the packed earth. “That a gentleman never boasts about his accomplishments?”

“Precisely.” Tristan’s mouth curved slightly. “Perhaps we might add that he never reveals all his secrets at once?”

The boy’s face scrunched in thought. “Is that why you didn’t tell anyone about teaching me? Because a gentleman keeps his good deeds private?”

Something flickered in Tristan’s eyes—pain or remembrance, Marguerite couldn’t quite tell. “Something like that. Now, I believe your mother mentioned something about fresh gingerbread and milk?”

Tommy’s eyes lit up. He darted toward the shop door, pausing only to execute a wobbly bow in Marguerite’s direction before disappearing inside.

Silence descended on the stable yard. Tristan busied himself with the mare’s bridle, adjusting each buckle and avoiding Marguerite’s gaze.

“Three times a week?” She moved closer despite his evident desire for distance. “Since his knee healed?”

“The boy needed instruction.” His fingers worked at the leather straps. “And I had time to spare.”

“Time you could have spent hiding in your study?” She reached out to stroke the mare’s neck, letting her hand rest inches from his. “Or was this simply another way to avoid society?”

His fingers stilled on the bridle. “You think this a mere avoidance tactic?”

“I think,” she said softly, “nothing about you proves mere anything.”

Now, he did look at her, and she caught the full impact of those grey eyes up close. “You disapprove?”

“Of you secretly teaching a baker’s son to ride?” Her hand dropped from the horse’s neck. “Of showing kindness without expectation of recognition? Of proving that your reputation for coldness masks something entirely different?”

“Marguerite.” Her name emerged rough, almost desperate.

“What?”

“You make things…complicated.”

“Do I?” She stepped closer, near enough to count the threads in his shirt. “Or do I simply see what you try so hard to hide?” The mare shifted between them, her movement forcing them apart. Tristan’s hands returned to the bridle, his fingers working the leather, fumbling despite their sure movements.

“What exactly do you imagine you see?” said Tristan more quietly than before.

“A man who spends three mornings a week teaching a child to ride, despite his supposed aversion to company.” Marguerite moved around the horse, refusing to let him hide behind the animal. “Who remembers that Tommy takes his gingerbread with milk, not tea. Who corrects his form with the same patience he showed while treating his injured knee.”

“Simple courtesy.” But his hands had stilled on the bridle.

“No.” She reached out, covering his fingers with her own. “Courtesy would be acknowledging the boy in public. Courtesy would be a single lesson or perhaps a donation toward proper instruction. This…” She gestured at the stable yard, the worn path where they’d walked countless circles. “This is kindness.”

His fingers moved slightly against hers. “You read too much into simple actions.”

“Do I?” She held his gaze. “Tell me then—why hide it? Why not simply acknowledge these lessons?”

“Because—” He stopped speaking, swallowing hard. The ball in his throat jumped as he fought for control.

“Because kindness doesn’t suit your carefully constructed image?” Her grip on his fingers strengthened. “Because the mad Viscount can’t be seen spending his mornings teaching a baker’s son proper horsemanship?”

“Because some things belong outside society’s speculation,” said Tristan, desperation creeping into his voice. “Some actions deserve to exist without becoming fodder for gossip or judgment or—”

“Or proof that you’re more than your reputation suggests?”

He jerked away from her touch, putting distance between them. The mare nickered softly as he rushed jerkily through removing her tack.

“I am exactly what my reputation suggests,” he said tightly. “A recluse. A damaged war veteran. A man ill-suited to society’s demands.”

“A man who remembers how it feels to be young and in need of guidance?” She followed him to the tack room, watching as he hung each piece in its spot. “Who recognizes another soul in need of understanding?”

His hands stilled on a leather strap. “You imagine me some sort of secret philanthropist?”

“I imagine you exactly as you are.” She moved closer until she could see the tension in his shoulders beneath his shirt. “A man who hides his better nature behind walls of his own making, yet can’t quite suppress it entirely.”

He turned then, and his features revealed everything he felt, stealing her breath. “And if that nature proves dangerous? If the very qualities you admire mask something darker?”

“Then I would still prefer truth to artifice.” She reached for his hand again, ignoring how he became utterly still at her touch. “I would still choose the man who teaches a child to ride over the one who pretends indifference to the world.”

“Marguerite.” Her name emerged rough, almost broken. “You cannot—”

“My Lady?” Mrs. Porter called to them from the shop door. “Tommy asks if you and his lordship might join us for gingerbread? He says it’s tradition after their lessons.”

The interruption shattered whatever had been building between them. Tristan stepped back, his features smoothed into blankness once again.

“Another time, perhaps.” He reached for his coat, shrugging it on. “I have estate matters requiring attention.”

But Marguerite caught the regret in his tone, the way his eyes lingered on the shop door. “You usually stay, don’t you? Share gingerbread and listen to Tommy’s stories?”

His hands stilled on his coat buttons. “What I usually do is hardly—”

“His lordship always stays!” Tommy’s voice piped up as he appeared in the doorway, face streaked with crumbs. “He tells the best stories about his cavalry days, and sometimes he even—”

“Tommy,” said Tristan, gently but firmly. “What did we discuss about discretion?”

The boy’s face fell. “That a gentleman knows when to hold his tongue?”

“Precisely.” But Marguerite noted how his features relaxed slightly, the way his hands gentled as he brushed crumbs from Tommy’s shirt. “Though perhaps just one story today? If Lady Marguerite doesn’t object to the company?”

The last words were questioning, almost uncertain. Marguerite felt something in her chest expand at this evidence of trust.

“I believe,” she said carefully, “that I would quite enjoy hearing these famous stories myself.”

They followed Tommy into the baker’s shop, where Mrs. Porter had set out thick slices of gingerbread and glasses of milk. Marguerite watched Tristan settle onto a worn wooden chair, his usual rigid posture relaxing as Tommy climbed onto the bench beside him.

“Tell me about the time you jumped that wall in Spain!” The boy’s face lit up at the words. “The one where your horse—”

“Perhaps,” Tristan interrupted smoothly, “a less dramatic tale? I believe Lady Marguerite might prefer to hear about proper cavalry formations?”

But his hand settled on Tommy’s shoulder affectionately, and Marguerite noted how naturally they interacted—the product of many such afternoons spent sharing stories and gingerbread.

She saw now what she’d missed before: how his gruff exterior masked a deeper capacity for kindness. This friendship with a baker’s son revealed more truth about his character than any gossip in society.

The revelation settled into her bones like warmth after winter. She watched him demonstrate proper cavalry hand signals with a piece of gingerbread, making Tommy laugh even as he taught him the correct terms.

She realized this was the real Lord Guildford—not the recluse who haunted his manor, nor the madman of society’s whispers, but a man whose private actions spoke louder than any public performance.

The knowledge changed everything. And nothing. For she had already begun losing her heart to him, and this glimpse behind his walls only confirmed what she’d suspected:

That beneath the scars and shadows lay a man worth knowing. Worth defending.

Worth loving.

The last thought surprised her, though perhaps it shouldn’t have. She had seen beyond his defenses and glimpsed the truth he tried so hard to hide.

Now, she just had to decide what to do with that knowledge.