Page 2 of My Viscount’s Madness

Chapter 2

A Convincing Lie

“ G et out.”

Lord Guildford’s command rang out like the snap of boots on the parade ground, brooking no argument, leaving no room for hesitation. However, his butler, Mr. Thorne, remained immobile in the study doorway.

“My Lord, Lady Marguerite Fitzroy requests—”

“I heard you the first time.” Tristan stared down into his half-empty glass, twisting it between his fingers and watching as the brandy sloshed against the glass sides, catching the candlelight, looking almost red. “And I believe I made my position clear.”

“Indeed, My Lord.” Mr. Thorne’s expression didn’t change. “However, given that you publicly declared your engagement to the lady just yesterday, perhaps—”

“Damn.” Tristan set the glass down with more force than necessary. The events at the market had slipped his mind the moment he’d returned home. He rubbed his forehead, eyes squeezed shut. “Send her in.”

He rose as Lady Marguerite and Betty entered, his gaze immediately drawn to the flush that graced her cheeks and the taut line of her shoulders. The soft green of her gown, with its empire waist, accentuated her delicate frame, lending her an air of elegance that belied her petite stature. The stark contrast between her poised appearance and his own disheveled state did not escape him, heightening his awareness of the moment’s gravity.

“You missed our appointment with my father last night.” Her voice held remarkable composure for someone whose planned future had shifted so dramatically in the space of a day.

“I was otherwise occupied.”

“Otherwise occupied?” She entered the room, her eyes sweeping over his rumpled shirt and lack of cravat. “While I spent hours convincing my father that we are madly in love, you were here…drinking?”

“Among other pursuits.” He gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Sit down before you exhaust yourself with your childish indignation.”

“I prefer to stand.”

“And I prefer solitude, yet here we are.” He dropped back into his chair. “What tale did you spin for your father?”

“The one you suggested. You found me in the rose garden yesterday afternoon, made an impulsive declaration of love, and secured my acceptance before propriety could intervene.” Her lips curved into a brittle smile. “He didn’t believe a word of it.”

“No?” Tristan leaned back, considering her. “Why not?”

“Because, My Lord, you have behaved like a hermit for the past six months. The notion that you would suddenly develop a passionate attachment to anyone, let alone his daughter, strikes him as highly suspect.”

“Ah.” He reached for his brandy again. “And what did Lord Edgecombe make of it?”

“He departed in high dudgeon before dinner.” She gripped her own hands, nails digging into her palms until they hurt. “Though I doubt we’ve seen the last of him.”

“Undoubtedly not.” Tristan took a sip. “Your father’s reaction?”

“He alternated between rage at your presumption and calculating your annual income.” Her composure cracked slightly. “When you failed to appear at eight, he declared the whole thing a farce.”

“Which it is.”

“Yes, but it wasn’t supposed to be obvious.” She paced to the window, then back. “If you truly wish to help me avoid marriage to Lord Edgecombe, you must at least pretend to play your part.”

Tristan set his glass aside once more, irritation prickling beneath his skin. “I don’t recall agreeing to a performance worthy of Drury Lane.”

“What did you imagine would happen?” She whirled to face him. “That my father would simply accept your word and release me from all other obligations? That Lord Edgecombe would gracefully withdraw?”

“I imagined,” he bit out, “that you would handle your family while I handled mine.”

“You have no family.”

“Precisely.”

They stared at each other across the shadowed room. With unwelcome clarity, Tristan noticed how the lamplight caught the auburn highlights in her dark hair.

“Your interference without follow-through makes everything worse,” she snapped. “Now I’m not only still in danger of that marriage, but my reputation—”

“Edgecombe’s reputation is well known,” he cut in, voice hardening. “I won’t stand idle.” His fingers drummed once on his desk. “The ruse continues.”

She exhaled slowly. “I suppose I have little choice, but we need rules.”

“We established that earlier.”

“No, My Lord. We mentioned rules. Now, we must define them.” She moved closer to his desk. “First, this arrangement cannot exceed three months. That should provide sufficient time to discourage Lord Edgecombe and locate a more suitable match.”

“Agreed.” He gestured for her to continue.

“Second, we must establish a believable courtship. That means you’ll need to call at Fitzroy Manor, escort me to local gatherings, and generally behave as an engaged man should.”

“No.”

“No?” Her eyes narrowed. “Then what was the point of this?”

“I will call your house once a week,” he conceded. “And escort you to any events I would normally attend, but I won’t alter my habits to suit your social calendar.”

“You attend nothing.”

“Then I suppose we shall have a very quiet engagement.”

She pressed her palms against his desk, leaning forward. “My father will never believe—”

“Your father,” Tristan interrupted, standing to meet her eye to eye, “will believe whatever story we craft. If you want this deception to succeed, you’ll need to accept that I have my own conditions.”

Their faces were now uncomfortably close, the tension crackling between them. He noticed the faint quiver of her lower lip, betraying her efforts to maintain an air of indifference, and for a moment, the steely determination in her gaze faltered.

“What conditions?” she asked.

“No prying into my personal affairs. No attempts to ‘draw me out’ or reform my character. No unexpected visits without prior notice,” he said firmly, his gaze locked on hers. “And no touching beyond what is strictly necessary for appearances.”

“You needn’t worry on that score, My Lord.” She straightened, creating a deliberate distance between them. “I find the prospect of touching you about as appealing as you apparently find social interaction.”

“Then we understand each other.”

“Perfectly.” She turned toward the door but paused, glancing back over her shoulder. “One more thing. You’ll need to call this afternoon to formally apologize for missing last night’s appointment. Bring flowers.”

“I don’t keep a hothouse,” he replied, his tone clipped.

“Then I suggest you visit the flower seller in the village.” The corners of her lips curled upward, a knowing, mischievous smile. “White roses, if you please. They’re my favorite.”

He opened his mouth to retort, but she swept out of the room before he could summon a suitably cutting reply. The faint scent of rose water lingered in her wake, along with the undeniable impression of unyielding steel beneath her polished grace.

Tristan reached for his brandy glass, only to find it empty.

“Mr. Thorne!” he called.

The butler materialized in the doorway. “Yes, My Lord?”

“I need white roses.” He dropped back into his chair. “And God help me; I need a fresh cravat.”

That afternoon, Marguerite stood by the sitting room window, the delicate lace curtain brushing against her hand as she gazed out. Lord Guildford’s carriage appeared at the far end of the drive, the matching grey horses moving at a brisk yet reluctant pace as if mirroring their master’s hesitation.

“He has come, after all,” she murmured, more to herself than to anyone in particular, a note of surprise threading through her tone.

“With flowers, no less.” Her mother appeared at her elbow, peering through the glass. “Though I must say, dear, your father remains unconvinced.”

“Papa would remain unconvinced if Lord Guildford arrived bearing the crown jewels.” Marguerite smoothed her dress. “He had his heart set on Lord Edgecombe’s offer.”

“His purse, perhaps.” The Marchioness sighed. “But surely you see why this sudden engagement seems…peculiar?”

Before Marguerite could respond, their butler appeared in the doorway. “Lord Guildford, your ladyship.”

Her mother’s eyes widened. “Heavens, he’s actually properly dressed.”

Indeed, Lord Guildford cut a decidedly debonair figure as he entered the room, his every movement deliberate and composed. His dark blue coat, impeccably tailored, emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, while his crisply tied cravat and upright bearing spoke of an unyielding attention to propriety. In his hand, a bouquet of pristine white roses offered a striking contrast to his otherwise somber attire, their delicate beauty a silent reflection of the concession he had been compelled to make.

“Lady Fitzroy.” He executed a perfect bow. “Lady Marguerite.”

“My Lord.” Marguerite curtsied, noting the way his jaw clenched at the formality. “How thoughtful of you to bring my favorite flowers.”

“Yes, well.” He thrust the bouquet toward her with all the grace of a schoolboy. “I trust they meet your exacting standards?”

“They’re lovely.” She buried her nose in the blooms, using them to hide her smile at his obvious discomfort. “Mama, might we have tea?”

“Of course, dear.” The Marchioness rang the bell. “Though I’m afraid your father is engaged with his steward this afternoon.”

“How unfortunate.” Lord Guildford’s relief was palpable. “Perhaps I might speak with him another time.”

“You’ll stay for tea,” Marguerite said firmly.

The arrival of the tea tray offered a welcome diversion from the charged atmosphere. Marguerite seized the opportunity, occupying herself with arranging the roses in a delicate crystal vase, though her usually steady fingers faltered, fumbling with the stems before settling them into place. Meanwhile, her mother, ever poised, poured the tea with practiced elegance.

“Tell me, My Lord,” the Marchioness began, her tone light yet unmistakably probing, “how long have you been harboring feelings for my daughter?”

He accepted a cup with a smile, though his hands were shaking. “I have always found Lady Marguerite…intriguing.”

“Indeed?” Her mother’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve scarcely spoken two words to her before yesterday.”

“Quality over quantity, Madam.”

Marguerite nearly dropped the vase. “What my betrothed means to say,” she interjected, “is that his feelings developed gradually, through observation rather than direct interaction.”

“Like a military campaign?” The Marchioness’s tone remained mild.

Lord Guildford’s teacup paused midway to his lips. “I beg your pardon, Madam?”

“I merely wondered whether you approach courtship with the same… tact you presumably exercised during the war,” the Marchioness replied with an arched brow, her tone as smooth as the porcelain in her hands.

“Mama!” Marguerite exclaimed, setting the vase down with a sharp clink that echoed in the otherwise quiet room.

“It is a reasonable question, my dear.” The Marchioness stirred her tea with measured grace as if the matter were of no great consequence. “After all, your engagement was rather… strategically timed.”

Lord Guildford placed his cup down with deliberate care, his gaze unwavering. “I have come to care deeply for your daughter.”

Marguerite’s breath hitched, and her shoulders lifted slightly, betraying the effort it took to remain composed.

“I simply refuse to stand idle,” he continued, his voice steady, “while the woman I care for is coerced into an unwanted marriage to a brute.”

Silence descended upon the room. The Marchioness watched Lord Guildford with new interest while Marguerite could not look at him directly.

“I see.” Her mother set her cup down with a decisive click. “Well, that certainly explains matters.”

“Does it?” Lord Guildford’s tone suggested he found nothing explained at all.

“Oh yes.” The Marchioness rose with a graceful air, “You will excuse me, I trust? I have household matters that require my attention.” Turning to her daughter, she added with a faint smile, “Marguerite, my dear, do be so kind as to show your fiance the gardens.”

She departed before either of them could protest, leaving an awkward silence in her wake.

“Your mother,” Tristan said at last, “is more perceptive than I expected.”

“She sees more than she says.” Marguerite moved to the window, needing distance from his unsettling presence. “Though in this case, I believe she sees what she wishes to see.”

“And what is that?”

“A romantic gesture.” She turned to face him. “The gallant war hero, stepping in to rescue a lady in distress.”

His expression darkened. “I am neither gallant nor particularly romantic these days.”

“No.” She watched the tension in his shoulders and the way he held himself still, so still, she could see his pulse in his throat. “You’re something else entirely.”

“Something less, you mean.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” He stood, adjusting his coat, hands moving in straight lines. “Shall we take that turn about the gardens? We wouldn’t want to disappoint your mother’s romantic sensibilities.”

The gardens were mercifully empty as they made their way along the gravel paths. Marguerite maintained a proper distance between them, but for some reason, she felt every crease in her dress, every loose strand of hair.

“Your mother’s questioning raises a valid point,” Tristan said as they approached the rose garden. “We need a more convincing history.”

“I thought you didn’t care for elaborate deceptions.”

“I care for being caught in a lie even less.” He gestured to a bench. “Sit. Let us construct a suitable narrative.”

They spent the next quarter hour fabricating a romance, weaving truth with lies until they had created something both believable and easily remembered.

“There.” Tristan rose. “That should satisfy most inquiries.”

“Except those of Lord Edgecombe.”

“Leave Edgecombe to me, My Lady.” His expression suggested methods Marguerite preferred not to contemplate.

“I would prefer to return home.” He offered his arm. “But first, we should give your watching servants something to gossip about.”

Before she could utter a word of protest or inquiry, he guided her beneath the shelter of a rose-covered archway, the delicate fragrance surrounding them. His free hand rose to her face, cupping her cheek with a tenderness that caught her entirely off guard.

“Don’t move,” he murmured.

He bent his head, and for one heart-stopping moment, Marguerite thought he meant to kiss her. Instead, his lips brushed her temple, a touch so light she might have imagined it.

“There.” He stepped back. “That should generate enough speculation to keep tongues wagging until my next visit.”

Marguerite released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “When will that be?”

“Missing me already?” His mouth twisted into an uneven smirk, more sneer than smile, igniting her simmering irritation.

What an insufferable man .

“Sunday, after church,” he said smoothly. “We’ll need to address your social obligations—and determine how many of them I can reasonably avoid.”

He escorted her back to the house, maintaining perfect propriety despite the gardener’s and several maids’ knowing looks. At the steps, he bowed over her hand.

Marguerite watched his carriage disappear down the drive, her temple still tingling from his touch. This game they played was dangerous—not because of Lord Edgecombe or her father’s disapproval, but because of the way her heart had stuttered when he’d drawn her close.

She pressed her fingertips to the spot where his lips had brushed against her skin, the warmth still vivid, and a shiver ran through her. She wondered if she had just made the most dreadful mistake of her life.