Page 19 of My Viscount’s Madness

Chapter 19

The Fight

S ilver teapots reflected fractured images of ladies gathered in the drawing room at Lady Morton’s estate while cups struck saucers with sharp little sounds. Liquid splashed against porcelain while spoons scraped sugar from bowls.

Marguerite’s fingers pressed against her teacup’s smooth surface, the warmth failing to reach the cold that had settled in her chest at Lord Edgecombe’s words.

“Such an enchanting tale,” he said, reaching every corner of the room. Ladies in the back straightened to listen. Even the footmen by the door caught each syllable. “Your betrothal in the rose garden, was it not? How perfectly romantic.”

The ladies tittered, but Marguerite caught the predatory gleam in his eyes. Her throat constricted around words that refused to emerge.

“Though curiously,” he continued, settling into a chair with an ease that made Marguerite’s blood boil, “none of the gardeners recall seeing his lordship that day. Indeed, they’re quite certain he spent the entire afternoon inspecting the tenant farms.”

Heat crept up Marguerite’s neck. Around them, conversation dimmed as other guests caught the undertone in Lord Edgecombe’s voice.

“Memory,” she managed, “proves notoriously unreliable in matters of detail.”

“Does it?” He extracted a small notebook from his coat. “Then perhaps you might explain why Lady Crawford’s correspondence mentions receiving news of your engagement before the date you gave me for Lord Guildford’s proposal?”

The teacup trembled in Marguerite’s grasp. Across the room, she caught her sister’s concerned gaze.

“I wasn’t aware,” she said carefully, “that you made such a study of my family’s private affairs.”

“Oh, but I do.” His smile held no warmth. “Such fascinating inconsistencies one finds when examining the details. The varying accounts of where his lordship proposed, the confusion over dates, the curious lack of witnesses to your growing attachment.”

Lady Morton leaned forward, her lorgnette fixed upon them both. “What exactly are you implying, Lord Edgecombe?”

“Implying? Nothing at all.” But his voice, so full of poison, suggested otherwise. “I merely find it curious that a man known for avoiding society should suddenly develop such a passionate attachment. Unless, of course, there were other motivations for this…hasty arrangement.”

The assembled company’s chatter faded to nothing, that peculiar silence that comes when scandal hovers at the edges of propriety. People leaned forward in their seats, necks craning while trying to appear unmoved. Marguerite set her cup aside before her trembling hands could betray her further.

“I believe,” she said, rising from her chair, “that speculation about my betrothal hardly befits a gentleman of your standing.”

“No?” He rose as well, his greater height forcing her to look up. “Then perhaps we might discuss your father’s gambling debts instead? Or Lord Guildford’s convenient intervention just as certain notes came due?”

Blood rushed in Marguerite’s ears. Through the drawing room’s doorway, she glimpsed a familiar figure in the hall—Tristan’s tall frame unmistakable even at this distance. He moved towards the room, towards her, and Marguerite couldn’t help but stare.

“Ah,” Lord Edgecombe’s smile widened. “Speaking of your betrothed…”

Tristan’s entrance drew every eye, but Marguerite noted the strain in his jaw, the way his fingers curled at his sides.

“Lord Edgecombe.” The whispers died away at his words. Shoulders tensed. Hands fidgeted with cups and glasses. “I wasn’t aware you’d been invited to Lady Morton’s gathering.”

“A late addition to the guest list.” Lord Edgecombe’s chin lifted. “We were just discussing your…romantic proposal to Lady Marguerite. Such a touching scene in the rose garden—though curious that none can quite agree on which rose garden, or indeed, which day the happy event occurred.”

Not a flicker of feeling showed through his face, but Marguerite caught the slight flexing of his hands—the same movement she observed before he confronted Lord Edgecombe at the village fair.

“I wasn’t aware,” he said with deadly quiet, “that my private affairs warranted such investigation.”

“Private affairs?” Lord Edgecombe laughed infuriatingly. “Or carefully constructed fiction? Tell me, My Lord, did you rehearse your story before presenting it to society? Did you coordinate your tales to ensure all the details aligned?”

Nearby guests edged away, creating a circle of empty space around the two men as though sensing the impending violence. Every eye tracked their movements while pretending not to watch.

“Choose your next words with extreme care.” Tristan’s voice dropped lower. “You tread on dangerous ground.”

“Do I?” Lord Edgecombe extracted another paper from his coat. “Or perhaps that’s you, My Lord. After all, what might society make of a man who enters into a false engagement merely to thwart another’s suit? What might the people say about such…deliberate deception?”

Tristan moved towards Lord Edgecombe, all consideration, the people that watched him—forgotten. His height advantage forced Lord Edgecombe to retreat past settees and occasional tables until he nearly stumbled against a chair.

“My Lord.” Marguerite stepped between them. “Perhaps this discussion might wait for a more appropriate venue?”

“I think not.” Edgecombe leaned forward, watching his verbal barbs strike home, savoring them like fine wine. “Unless you’d prefer I present my evidence to your father? I understand his current financial situation leaves him rather…susceptible to pressure.”

The threat made her physically recoil. Tristan’s hands moved to Marguerite’s waist, drawing her aside with gentle inexorability. The pause before his next statement only increased its impact.

“Name your seconds.”

Understanding rippled through the assembled guests as people shifted in their seats. Glances darted between faces as whispers passed from person to person, and their fans snapped open to hide their conversations.

“Surely,” she began, “gentlemen, this need not—”

“A duel?” Lord Edgecombe’s laugh held genuine amusement. “How delightfully antiquated. Though I suppose a man of your particular sensibilities might prefer such resolution.”

“Name them,” Tristan repeated, “or admit yourself a coward as well as a blackmailer.”

Marguerite’s fingers caught his sleeve. “My Lord, no.”

But she saw the familiar shadows gathering in his eyes—the same darkness that emerged when memories of Madrid pressed too close. She watched the pulse point in his neck throb. It betrayed his agitation, so he tilted his chin higher but couldn’t hide his reaction.

“Dawn,” Lord Edgecombe said, curving his mouth. “The field behind Fitzroy Manor seems appropriate, given the circumstances. Unless you’d prefer somewhere more…discreet?”

“The field will serve,” he said through clenched teeth. “Though I suggest you use these hours to set your affairs in order.”

“No!” Marguerite’s grip tightened on his arm. “My Lord, I forbid this.”

His eyes met hers, and the raw emotion there made her chest constrict. “You cannot.”

“Cannot protect your honor?”

She stepped closer, uncaring of their audience. “Cannot risk everything we’ve built?”

“He threatens your reputation.”

“He threatens an arrangement that has already evolved far beyond his understanding.” She leaned closer, keeping her voice soft. The words traveled no further than the space between them, and the room’s chatter covered their exchange. “Would you throw your life away for pride?”

“For you.” His fingers brushed her cheek, the gesture intimate enough to draw gasps from their observers. “Always for you.”

“How touching.” Lord Edgecombe’s tone dragged them back to their surroundings. “Perhaps we might discuss certain financial arrangements that would render such dramatic gestures unnecessary?”

The suggestion’s crudeness shocked even his supporters into silence. Marguerite turned slowly, fury replacing fear in her breast.

“You dare?” She advanced on him, forcing him back a step despite their difference in height. “After everything you’ve done—the gambling debts you’ve used to pressure my father, the rumors you’ve spread about Lord Guildford’s war service—you dare suggest we might pay you off?”

“My Lady.” Tristan’s hand settled at her waist, steadying rather than restraining.

“No.” She lifted her chin. “Let him make his threats. Let him expose whatever inconsistencies he discovered in our courtship. His evidence will matter little against the truth society has already accepted.”

“And what truth is that?” Lord Edgecombe’s composure cracked slightly.

“That Lord Guildford and I suit each other perfectly.” She covered Tristan’s hand with her own, which rested at her waist. “That any irregularities in our courtship stem from private understanding rather than public display. That love, when genuine, requires no elaborate explanation.”

The word ‘love’ silenced all other conversations. It echoed in the sudden quiet, every head turned toward them. Tristan’s fingers tightened against her side, but she kept her gaze fixed on Lord Edgecombe’s increasingly uncertain face.

“Now,” she continued with deadly civility, “I suggest you withdraw before Lady Morton summons her footmen. Unless you’d prefer we discuss your own irregularities? The extortion? The compromised young ladies whose families you’ve threatened into silence?”

The color drained from Lord Edgecombe’s face. Around them, whispers began, the crowd no longer able to restrict itself.

“This isn’t finished,” he managed before withdrawing with what dignity he could muster.

Only when he had gone did Marguerite allow her shoulders to drop. Tristan’s arm slid fully around her waist, drawing her back against his chest in a gesture too intimate for proper society yet ideally suited to the moment.

“The duel,” he murmured against her hair.

“Is unnecessary.” She turned within the circle of his arms, uncaring of their audience. “Unless you truly wish to risk imprisonment or exile for the sake of pride?”

His free hand rose to cradle her face. “For you.”

“Then live for me instead.” She covered his hand with her own. “Fight beside me rather than for me. Trust that there are better ways to defeat him than violence.”

Around them, ladies leaned forward in their seats, their smiles softened around the edges. Even Lady Morton’s pinched mouth relaxed, and the corners of her eyes crinkled. She lowered her lorgnette to dip her chin in acknowledgment.

They had given society a better story than mere inconsistencies could destroy—a love strong enough to break propriety’s bonds yet restrained enough to command respect.

Whether that love had grown from convenience or convenience had merely provided cover for its growth no longer mattered.

What mattered was the truth in Tristan’s touch, in the way he held her as though she represented everything worth protecting and living for.