Page 21 of My Viscount’s Madness
Chapter 21
Confessions
M arguerite traced her finger along the edge of Tristan’s desk, the Norwegian wood smooth beneath her touch. Their evening of investigating Edgecombe’s financial records had left them both drained, yet neither seemed inclined to end their time together. Papers lay scattered across every surface, teacups crowding one edge of the table, but her attention kept straying to the man who stood at his window.
“The fire needs tending,” she said, though the excuse felt flimsy even to her ears. Anything to lessen the stress that had taken over them since they’d finished reviewing Sir Richard’s letter.
Tristan turned from the window, his coat making him look debonair.
“Allow me.”
He moved to pour them both brandy instead, his hands firm despite the strain she read in his bearing. When he pressed a glass into her fingers, his fingers brushed hers, and something inside her stomach twisted.
“You never speak of it,” she said quietly, watching him over the rim of her glass. “Madrid. The embassy ball. Even when Lord Edgecombe uses it against you, you maintain your silence.”
His fingers tapped around his own glass as he took up a position near the fireplace. He swallowed as if merely mentioning all this had a physical strain on him. “Some memories resist sharing.”
“Even with me?”
The vulnerability in her voice drew his gaze back to her. She sat in his chair as though she belonged there, her dark curls escaping their pins after hours bent over ledgers and letters. She still couldn’t quite believe this moment: they were together in his study like this. When exactly did their relationship change? She couldn’t remember but was still grateful for whatever led to this.
“Especially with you.” He lifted his glass but didn’t drink. “Your good opinion has become…unexpectedly precious.”
“Then trust in it.” She set her brandy aside, the crystal making no sound against his desk. “Trust that nothing you tell me could diminish how I…” She caught herself before completing the thought.
His body went still. “How you what?”
“How I see you.” She murmured painstakingly, though her heart raced. “The man beneath the mask you present to society.”
“And what man is that?” Bitterness crept into his tone. “The mad Viscount? The recluse? The coward who lets memories rule his life?”
“The only real version of you, which really matters, is the one in your head. Don’t pay heed to what they say. You are a great man, Tristan. Listen to me and not them,” Marguerite rubbed her hand against his shoulder.
“You give me too much credit.” He turned back to the fire, but she saw a glimpse of his glistening eyes.
“You give yourself too little.” She crossed to him, her face directly in front of his now. “Tell me more about Madrid. Not because Edgecombe uses it against us, but because sharing the burden might ease its weight.”
He took a long swallow of brandy before setting the glass aside. Tristan cleared his throat, bracing himself to speak. “We received intelligence about French movements. Nothing concrete, but enough to warrant concern. I urged the ambassador to cancel the ball, but he insisted the appearance of normalcy must be maintained.”
“You blame yourself for not insisting more strongly?” She touched his arm, trying to comfort him in any way possible.
“I blame myself for many things.” He muttered, his hand slowly covering hers. “For not posting additional guards. I regret not thoroughly investigating when that serving girl mentioned strange packages being delivered. For dancing with Lady Russell while my men…”
His voice broke. Marguerite stepped closer, needing to offer comfort yet unsure how much he would accept. “What happened wasn’t your fault.”
“Wasn’t it?” The words tore from his throat. “I was their commanding officer. Their safety was my responsibility, yet I let myself be distracted by music and laughter and pretty gowns while the French planted their explosives beneath the ballroom floor.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“I should have. Why am I still alive?” He cupped her cheek with his other hand, his eyes desperate for some measure of peace. He was desperate to forget. “Just as I should resist this pull between us. You deserve better than a man haunted by ghosts, who starts at sudden sounds and can’t bear to hear a waltz without remembering flames and screams and—”
“Stop.” She moved closer. Her hand rested on his chest as it rose and fell. “You speak as though survival were a sin. As though living when others died somehow makes you unworthy of happiness.”
“Doesn’t it?” His shaking thumb slowly caressed beneath her eyes. “How can I claim the right to joy when Henry laid crippled and later died? When other good men also died while I danced?”
“Because they would want you to live.” She met his gaze steadily, willing him to believe her. “Because surviving doesn’t dishonor their sacrifice—letting guilt consume you does.”
He tried to step back, but her fingers curled into his coat, holding him in place. The fabric bunched beneath her grip as she refused to let him retreat behind his walls of guilt and propriety again.
“No more running,” she whispered. “No more hiding behind duty and self-recrimination. You’ve carried this burden long enough.”
“Marguerite.” He spoke her name as if imploring her. “I cannot—”
“Cannot what? Feel? Hope? Love?” She said, her voice so low it could scarcely be heard despite the quietness of the room. “You’ve proven yourself capable of all three, no matter how you try to deny it.”
He gripped her hand even more tightly, clinging onto her as if he were a drowning man and she was his only savior. The calluses on his fingers caught against her skin, reminding her that a soldier’s strength lay beneath his nobleman’s polish.
“Please don’t make me long for things I can’t have,” he desperately pleaded.
“Who says you can’t have this?” She leaned into his touch, uncaring that the gesture crossed the boundaries of propriety. “I know God wants you to have this. You need to understand that you deserve happiness.”
“And if I destroy your chance at happiness in the process?” The fear that had haunted him since their first kiss emerged at last. “If my demons prove stronger than whatever exists between us?”
A small smile curved her lips. “Just remember that I will not leave your side, nor will God. We shall battle your demons side by side. I’ll cling to you, won’t I? And if you trust Him and have faith in Him, God will bless and heal you.”
His breath caught audibly. He lowered his head onto her shoulder, unable to control the overwhelming emotion that took over him. When he turned to face her again, his eyes shimmered, his voice oozing a rawness she’d never heard before.
“I wake screaming most nights,” he confessed. “Lost in memories of flame and smoke and the sounds of dying men. How can I ask any woman to bear such a burden?”
“You don’t need to ask.” She covered his hand, where it still cradled her face. “I’ve already chosen to share it.”
“How can you be so certain?” Tristan’s hands delicately moved up to grip her shoulders, and his grip was gentle despite his agitation. “When I myself remain plagued by doubt? How can I ask God to help me? How…When I feel I should be punished instead?””
Marguerite caught the tremor in his voice, his fingers pressed against her as though seeking an anchor. “Oh, Tristan…God does not wish to punish you because of what happened in Madrid. But He does want you to trust and have faith in His power to heal you.” Tristan’s eyes looked down as she continued, “I also understand what it means to fear the future. To watch helplessly as circumstances conspire to steal one’s choices.”
His expression shifted, concern replacing anguish. “Your father’s debts?”
“Among other fears.” She stepped back, needing distance to voice thoughts she’d scarcely admitted to herself. “Do you imagine I entered our arrangement purely to avoid Lord Edgecombe?”
“Did you not?”
A mirthless laugh escaped her. “I sought to preserve my independence. To maintain some small measure of control over my fate.” Her fingers twisted in her skirts. “Even a false engagement seemed preferable to becoming another man’s property.”
“Property?” His voice sharpened. “Is that how you view marriage?”
“How else should I view it?” She moved to the window, seeing nothing beyond her reflection. “I’ve watched my mother sacrifice her peace to maintain appearances. I saw my sister trade her dreams for security. Even our arrangement began as a transaction—my reputation for your solitude.”
He nodded slowly, getting up to stand right beside her. His hand gripped hers. “Yet it became something more.”
“Yes.” She said without hesitating. “And that terrifies me more than any loss of fortune.”
“Why?”
She turned to face him, lifting her chin despite the vulnerability clawing at her throat. “Because I never meant to care. To risk my heart when I’d sworn to protect my independence. Even now, I wonder, will you retreat behind your walls of guilt and duty? Will I wake one morning to discover myself trapped in a cage of my own making?”
His mouth moved as if to speak, but then he stopped. After a while, he mumbled, “Do you truly believe I would cage you?”
“I believe you would try to protect me.” She met his gaze steadily. “From your demons, from society’s judgment, from my own choices if you deemed them too risky. Just as my father sought to protect our family through increasingly desperate schemes.”
He finally made sense of what she meant. “You fear becoming your mother.”
“I fear becoming anyone except myself.” The words left her mouth hastily. “Yet here I stand, breaking every rule of propriety, risking my reputation and heart for a man who considers himself unworthy of either.”
Tristan moved closer until barely a handspan separated them. “You speak of independence, yet you’ve bound yourself to our charade. Why?”
“Because you never sought to change me.” Her voice softened. “Even amid our deception, you’ve allowed me my own choices. My own battles to fight.”
His fingers brushed her cheek, the touch soft against her skin. “How could I do otherwise? Your strength and resolve to chart your own course are not flaws to be corrected.”
“Aren’t they?” She questioned, “Society would say otherwise.”
“Society says many things.” His other hand settled at her waist. “Most of them untrue.”
A small smile tugged at her lips. “Like the rumors of your madness?”
“Perhaps I am mad.” His thumb traced her jawline. “To want what I cannot deserve. To dream of a future I cannot possibly attain.”
“Tell me about this future?” She muttered before she could stop herself.
His answer came not in words but in the press of his forehead against hers.
“I cannot promise freedom from fiends,” he said at last. “Nor can I swear the memories will ever fully fade, but I can promise this—I will never cage you, Marguerite. Never seek to clip your wings or dim your spirit.”
Tears pricked at her eyes. “And I cannot promise to heal your wounds or banish your guilt, but I can stand beside you as you fight your battles, just as you’ve stood beside me in mine. God is our witness.”
His hands framed her face once more, thumbs brushing away moisture she hadn’t realized had fallen. “Do you think He really cares?”
“He does, indeed. Immensely. Would you like us to pray and ask Him?” She asked in earnestness, gazing at him.
“I don’t have a habit of praying out loud,” he confessed, “but I’m willing to try if you think it will help.” They both closed their eyes as Marguerite sincerely prayed to their Heavenly Father. It felt good and warm and not awkward like Tristan thought it would feel. It filled them with joy.
When they opened their eyes, they stared at each other lovingly, and he asked, “When did our convenient arrangement become so inconveniently real?”
“Perhaps it always was.” She covered his hands with her own. “We simply needed time to admit it.”
The clock in the hall struck eleven, reminding them of propriety’s demands. Marguerite stepped back reluctantly, smoothing her dress with trembling hands.
“I should go,” she said, though every part of her wished to remain.
Tristan nodded, though his expression suggested similar reluctance. “Allow me to escort you and Dinah to your carriage.”
They walked through the manor’s halls quietly, still processing their earlier confessions to each other. At the front steps, he took her hand, pressing a kiss to her gloved fingers that spoke volumes.
“Tomorrow then,” she said, “Sir Richard in the morning, young Morton in the afternoon.”
“And victory by evening.” His eyes met hers without wavering. Not a muscle moved in his face. “Though I warn you, I may find it difficult to stay away from you at Almack’s.”
“Then don’t.” She turned toward the carriage, pausing momentarily. “After all, what’s one more scandal between conspirators?”
His low laugh followed her as she walked toward the carriage, making her heart swell against her ribs as a peculiar ache grew behind her breastbone and spread outward from her center. The sensation wasn’t unpleasant, just overwhelming. She struggled to name it.
As her carriage carried her and her sister home through the darkened road, Marguerite pressed her fingers to her lips as she smiled, trying to make sure what just happened wasn’t just a dream.
Dinah couldn’t help but feel concerned as she watched Marguerite’s attachment to Lord Guildford deepen with every moment they spent together. Yet, despite her worries, a smile tugged at her lips whenever she saw the unmistakable happiness shining in her sister’s eyes.