Page 18 of My Viscount’s Madness
Chapter 18
Fear vs. Courage
L ady Crawford’s masquerade ball had ended hours ago, yet Marguerite’s fingers still tingled where they’d pressed against Tristan’s coat, where his thumb had traced the contours of her face beneath her mask. She paced her bedchamber, her silver filigree mask discarded on her dressing table while Betty worked at removing her ball gown.
Her fingers found the pearl necklace she still wore, each bead warming beneath her touch as she recalled how Tristan’s gaze had lingered there during their dance. Even her slippers seemed to hold memories—the intoxicating way he’d guided her across the ballroom floor, each step bringing them closer to that tormenting moment in the conservatory.
The heavy beadwork of her dress pulled at the silk as she walked back to the dressing table. Each pearl and crystal sewn into her white silk twinkled like the stars that had witnessed their indiscretion in the conservatory. She touched one loose bead, remembering how it had clinked against him during their dance.
“Such a lovely ball, My Lady,” Betty murmured, easing the gown from Marguerite’s shoulders. “Though perhaps a touch too warm in the conservatory?”
Heat bloomed across Marguerite’s cheeks at the knowing tone in her maid’s voice. “The exotic blooms require specific conditions,” she replied, focusing on the pattern of her carpet rather than meeting Betty’s gaze in the looking glass.
“Indeed?” Betty’s fingers worked at Marguerite’s hairpins, each one releasing another dark curl. “And did his lordship find those conditions…agreeable?”
Marguerite’s hands curled against her dressing table. Against her will, memories of Tristan’s touch flooded back—the press of his fingers against her waist, the warmth of his breath against her lips, the way his voice had roughened when he’d confessed how she made him forget his demons.
“His lordship,” she said carefully, “conducted himself with perfect propriety.”
“Perfect propriety doesn’t usually leave messy hair and flushed cheeks beneath one’s mask.” Betty’s reflection raised a pointed eyebrow. “Nor does it explain why you’ve touched your lips twelve times since we began your toilette.”
Marguerite snatched her hand away from where it had, indeed, drifted to her mouth yet again. “You overstep.”
“Someone must.” Betty gathered the discarded gown and smoothed wrinkles from the silk. “Especially when My Lady seems determined to lose her heart to this man. The entire Ton noticed his lordship’s attention to you; Lady Morton’s maid says her mistress spoke of nothing else, and Miss Edgecombe’s face grew quite purple when his lordship ignored her completely to claim your third dance.”
“The Ton notices everything,” Marguerite replied.
She remembered how thoroughly he’d disregarded society and focused solely on her. Suddenly, her stays felt too tight, constricting her rapid breathing. She pressed her palm against her chest, counting heartbeats, steadying herself just enough to dismiss her maid with a gesture as soon as they were removed. She waited until the door closed before allowing her composure to crack.
Her silk shift provided poor defense against the night’s chill, yet she barely noticed the cool air. Everything felt altered now—she touched her dressing table’s polished surface, finding a scratch she’d never noticed before. Her face looked different in the mirror—cheeks pinker, eyes brighter. She leaned closer, studying the subtle changes.
She crossed then to her window seat, grabbing a robe from her bed and wrapping it tightly around herself as she settled against the cushions. The garden below her window lay in patches of light and dark. She counted six stone urns between the hedges and watched how their surfaces looked pale against the shadows.
A fox darted across the gardens, but her mind’s eye saw only Tristan’s face as he’d drawn her deeper into the conservatory. The way his hands had trembled slightly as they cradled her face. The intensity in his eyes as he’d admitted she made him forget his pain.
It had been madness from the start—this arrangement was built on desperation and convenience. Still, somewhere between their first meeting in the village market and tonight’s stolen kisses, things had changed drastically. Something that made her pulse race at his slightest touch, that drew her gaze to him whenever he entered a room.
Something that felt dangerously like love.
The realization settled into her bones, a peculiar feeling rushing through her body. She had fallen in love with a man who saw their engagement as shelter from society’s demands. A man whose demons still haunted his dreams, whose wounds might never fully heal.
A man who deserved better than deception, no matter how sweetly wrapped in good intentions.
She paced the length of her chamber, counting steps. At twenty, she turned back. At forty, she had to sit down.
Tomorrow, she decided, she would end it. She would release him from an arrangement that had grown too complex, too tangled with genuine emotion to serve its original purpose, which it had regardless. Lord Edgecombe wouldn’t marry her now.
Besides, this was always meant to be temporary. Better to suffer a clean break now than risk her heart completely.
Logic demanded this course of action. Prudence insisted upon it, yet her heart rebelled against every argument her mind presented. Each time she rehearsed the words she would say, her throat closed around them. How could she speak of ending something that felt more like a beginning? How could she pretend their arrangement hadn’t become as essential as breathing?
Her fingers rose once more to her lips, remembering the press of his mouth against hers. The way he’d whispered her name like a prayer in the conservatory’s intimate shadows.
She settled on her bed and turned from her left side to her right. The sheets tangled around her legs. Her pillow grew hot against her cheek. She listened to the church bells marking each quarter hour. She counted twelve chimes, then one, then two.
In a far corner of her mind—or was she actually there?—she saw masked figures and a man who stole kisses from her. It was him, that man. Lord Guildford. His hands were gentle like a butterfly against her skin even as he kissed her with all the passion he was trying to restrain but had failed to do so. Then he was brushing away tears from her cheeks. Then she was running away as he called after her…
One of her eyes flickered open—had it closed at all?—and watched the brightness seep under her curtains. The shapes of her furniture gained definition. Night had faded into the morning, and Marguerite rose with her mind made.
She would go to him today. Would end this charade before it destroyed them both.
Before, she lost not just her heart but her very soul to a man who had never asked for either.
She measured the carriage ride in landmarks: the old oak, the broken wall, the crooked milestone. Each one passed too slowly. She’d carefully chosen her words and practiced them until they sat like stones in her mouth.
She straightened the morning dress she’d chosen for its high neckline and modest cut. No frills or flounces betrayed uncertainty, and the deep blue of it felt like a battle dress now as her fingers traced the seams of her bodice. One, two, three bones in her stays. The routine calmed her racing thoughts.
The halls of Carlisle Manor echoed with Marguerite’s footsteps as Mr. Thorne led her toward the study. Her mind was made: she had to think of Tristan before thinking of herself.
She found him at his window, a book in one hand, but his gaze was far from it. His shoulders stiffened at her entrance, though he didn’t turn.
“I recognize your step,” he said, voice pitched low. “It has become habitual. The distinct manner in which your shoes sound against the floor, I’ve memorized it.”
Her throat tightened. Of course, he would make this more difficult, acknowledging such intimate observations on the very day she meant to end their charade.
“We must speak,” she managed.
Now, he did turn, and the sight of him stole what remained of her composure. One end of the white linen of his cravat hung lower than the other. His fingers tugged at the knot, making it worse. She saw the shadows beneath his eyes that suggested he’d found as little rest as she had.
He crossed to his desk, the book abandoned, and his gaze was on her. He halted two arm’s length away, fingers curled at his sides as though physically restraining himself from reaching for her.
“About last night?” He moved closer, near enough that she could kiss him if she wanted to—but no, she mustn’t think such thoughts. They did not befit a lady of her station.
“About our arrangement.” She forced her hands to remain still at her sides. “It cannot continue.”
The skin beneath his left ear twitched. His jaw clenched tight enough to whiten the skin. “Cannot?”
“You know why.” She gripped handfuls of her gown, releasing them only to gather more. The fabric would show creases later, but it did not matter. “This pretense has grown too complex, too…”
She trailed off. Her hands wouldn’t stay still. They moved from her gown to her hair to her throat and back as the room tilted slightly to the left.
“Too what?” His words came out hoarse, catching in his throat. He cleared his throat twice before continuing: “Say it, Marguerite. What has our arrangement become?”
“Something dangerous,” she whispered. “Something that risks both our hearts.”
His fingers stopped an inch from her cheek. They trembled slightly in the space between them, but the almost-touch still left her skin tingling. Even without contact, she felt the warmth of his palm.
“And if I choose to accept that risk?”
“Don’t.” She stepped back, trying to be away from him—practicing already. “You entered this arrangement seeking shelter from society’s demands. I cannot allow my feelings to become another burden you must bear.”
“Your feelings? What of mine?” His fingers caught her wrist as she retreated. Gooseflesh rose on her arms, where his fingers dug in. She rubbed at the spot, trying to erase the sensation. “Do you imagine I entered into this arrangement unchanged? Watching you defend me to society and support me through my darkest moments left me untouched?”
Her pulse leaped beneath her skin as he drew her close with her wrist, pressing her against him. She matched his stance—feet planted, chin lifted, shoulders back. Their shadows merged on the floor between them.
“You cannot—”
“Cannot what?” He drew her closer, thumb pressing against her racing pulse. “Cannot feel? Cannot want? Cannot dream of you each night, remembering how you taste and yield beneath my kiss?”
Heat bloomed across her skin. “Tristan…”
“No.” His other hand rose to cradle her face. “You don’t get to end this. Not when every touch, every glance, every moment between us speaks of something far deeper than convenience.”
Her fingers curled against his chest, neither pushing away nor pulling closer. “Your demons—”
“Quiet when you’re near.” She held perfectly still as his calloused thumb caught on the sensitive skin of her mouth despite feeling each roughened ridge against her lip. “You make the memories fade, replace darkness with light until I can barely remember why I ever chose solitude.”
“That’s not enough.” But her resolve wavered as his hand slid into her hair, loosening pins until dark strands fell around her shoulders.
“Isn’t it?” He lowered his head until their breaths mingled. “You make me want impossible things, Marguerite. Make me dream of futures I convinced myself I couldn’t have.”
“What futures?” She said, low and unsteady. She cleared her throat, tried again, and managed only the same hushed tone, “What futures…”
His answer came in the press of his mouth against hers, in the way his arms drew her flush against him as though he couldn’t bear even air between their bodies. She made a soft sound of surrender as the kiss deepened, her hands sliding up to twine around his neck.
The usual sounds of the house—servants’ footsteps, distant voices, creaking floorboards—all disappeared beneath the thunder of their heartbeats. He was the only thing in the world. All her focus was narrowed to his face, his hands, the space between them, the feeling of his lips on her own.
His hands trembled where they cradled her face, betraying how thoroughly she’d breached his defenses. This wasn’t their arrangement anymore—this was pure truth, the only thing that mattered.
When they finally parted, they both had difficulty catching their breath. “Stay,” he murmured. “Not for convenience, not for society’s sake, but because what lies between us deserves exploration.”
Marguerite’s fingers traced his jawline, feeling the tension there. “And if it proves too much? If the memories return?”
“Well, as long as you’re by my side, Marguerite,” He turned his head to press a kiss against her palm. “Haven’t you always helped me face everything? You may rest assured that I’ll do the same if need be.”
She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the tenderness in his touch, the honesty in his words. When had their arrangement transformed into this—this delicate, precious thing that made her heart ache until breathing hurt?
“This terrifies you,” she said softly, unsure if she was talking to him or herself.
“Beyond reason.” His arms tightened around her. “Yet the thought of losing you terrifies me more.”
They stood together in the study’s intimate quiet, neither quite willing to break the spell of honesty between them. At this moment, as if in a dream she wished would never end, Marguerite allowed herself to believe that some arrangements might evolve into something sweeter than mere convenience.
Love.
That’s what it was.