Page 27 of My Viscount’s Madness

Chapter 27

Sapphires

T ristan paced the confines of his study at Carlisle Manor, counting steps between the desk and window. Ten paces forward. Ten paces back. The exact path he’d worn into the carpet since dawn, as though physical motion might quiet the thoughts roiling through his mind.

His hands kept reaching for items that weren’t there—letters he’d already read thrice over, ledgers he’d long since memorized. The desk stood too neat, too empty without Marguerite’s presence. No scattered papers bearing her annotations. No teacups marking where she’d sat puzzling over Edgecombe’s schemes.

“Enough,” he muttered, halting before the window. His reflection stared back at him, mocking his indecision. When had his life become so delicately woven with hers that even his study felt wrong without her in it?

The door opened behind him. “My Lord.” Mr. Thorne’s voice broke through his brooding. “Miss Hoffman has arrived for her riding lesson.”

“Cancel it.” He blurted out before he could think about it.

“Cancel?” Mr. Thorne’s eyebrows rose fractionally. “The young lady has only just begun her instruction. To break such a commitment—”

“Would prove me exactly the sort of man I’ve tried so hard not to be.” Tristan pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “Forgive me, Mr. Thorne. I find myself rather…distracted this morning.”

“By thoughts of a certain lady, perhaps?”

Tristan turned sharply. “You overstep.”

“Forgive me, My Lord. But I believe it was necessary.” Mr. Thorne said, “When his lordship seems determined to deny himself happiness out of misplaced guilt.”

“Guilt has nothing to do with it.” But even as he spoke, Tristan recognized the lie. Guilt over Madrid, over surviving when others hadn’t—it had shaped every choice since his return. Every retreat into solitude, every wall built between himself and the world.

Until Marguerite breached those defenses with her utmost strength and unflinching honesty.

“The Fitzroys hold a family dinner this evening,” Mr. Thorne said carefully. “I believe Lady Marguerite mentioned it during her last visit.”

“Did she?” Tristan’s fingers drummed against the windowsill. “And you know this how?”

“A butler has his sources.” Mr. Thorne’s mouth twitched. “Perhaps more pertinent is that your evening remains conspicuously unoccupied.”

Tristan stared at his grounds—the gardens Marguerite had suggested reviving, the paths they’d walked together. Every corner of his estate bore marks of her influence now.

“Have the carriage readied,” he said abruptly. “But first, fetch my mother’s ring from the safe.”

“The ring?” Now, both of Thorne’s eyebrows rose. “You mean to—”

“Make an honest woman of her?” Tristan’s smile was grim. “No. I intend to make an honest man of myself.”

He strode to his desk, pulling paper and ink toward him. Now that he was confident of his choice, his hands seemed to move independently.

My dearest Marguerite,

You once accused me of hiding from life rather than living it, of retreating behind walls of my own making rather than facing my fears. You were right, as you so often are.

But walls, once breached, cannot be rebuilt. Nor would I wish them to be, not when letting them fall has brought such unexpected joy.

I find myself unable to maintain this facade any longer, not when convenience has given way to something far more significant—something I never thought to find, let alone deserve.

Wait for me this evening. I must speak words that belong to no arrangement save that of my heart.

Yours,

Tristan

He sealed the note, his hands shaking, pressing his signet ring into the wax more firmly than necessary. “Have this delivered immediately.”

“Of course, My Lord.” But Mr. Thorne lingered in the doorway. “Shall I inform Miss Hoffman that her lesson must be postponed?”

The question jerked Tristan back to present duties. “No. My obligations cannot be neglected, even for matters of the heart.” He shrugged into his coat. “Though I trust you’ll have everything prepared for this evening?”

“I prepare for everything,” Mr. Thorne said proudly, his broad smile displaying all his shiny teeth. “I will ensure all contingencies are addressed. However, you, My Lord, need to focus on winning the lady’s hand before concerning yourself with such details.”

Tristan paused in the doorway, suddenly uncertain. “Do you think she’ll accept?”

“My Lord.” Thorne’s voice gentled. “I think she accepted long ago, though neither of you quite realized it then.”

The words strengthened him as he made his way to the stables, where Emily Hoffman waited eagerly beside her mother. The child’s golden curls caught against black crepe, reminding him why he’d begun these lessons.

Teaching Henry’s daughter to ride wouldn’t bring his friend back. But it might, finally, allow him to honor that friendship by embracing life rather than merely surviving it.

“Lord Guildford!” Emily bounced on her toes as he approached. “I’m beyond excited about our lessons! Can’t wait till I can ride all on my own.”

“Let’s hope you catch on quickly.” He helped her mount the mare they’d selected for her instruction. “Though today we might focus on proper posture. A lady must learn to carry herself with dignity in the saddle.”

“Like Lady Marguerite?” Emily’s eyes sparkled. “My mama told me she rides beautifully.”

“She does,” said the Viscount softly. “Though I suspect your mother should be far more interested in your progress than my betrothed’s horsemanship.”

Catherine Hoffman’s hand touched his arm briefly. “Henry would be grateful, Tristan. That you’ve finally allowed yourself to live again.”

He covered her fingers with his own. “I begin to believe he knew me better than I knew myself. His last letter…” He stopped, the memory still fresh in his mind, “He told me not to let guilt become a prison of my own making.”

“And have you? Let it imprison you?”

Tristan watched Emily guide her mare in a small circle, her little face set in concentration. “Not anymore. But the credit goes not to me but to someone else.”

“Good.” Catherine withdrew her hand. “Now, just focus on your student rather than your heart. Though I suspect both endeavors will prove equally rewarding.”

He turned his attention back to Emily’s lesson, but his mind kept straying to the note making its way to Fitzroy Manor, to the ring waiting in its velvet box. To the future, he finally dared to imagine that it might be his.

By the time the lesson ended, his nerves had steadied. He had faced battles before and led men into danger without flinching. Surely proposing marriage required no more courage than that?

But as Mr. Thorne helped him dress for dinner, selecting his finest evening coat and most elaborate cravat, Tristan admitted that no battle had ever felt so momentous. No victory had ever mattered quite so much.

“The ring, My Lord?” Thorne presented the velvet box, unable to hide the smile on his face.

Tristan opened it slowly, studying the sapphires that had graced his mother’s hand. The stones winked at him as though sharing some private joke about his racing pulse and damp palms.

“Your mother would have approved,” Thorne said softly. “Of both the lady and your choice to offer her this ring.”

“Would she?” Tristan traced the delicate setting. “I remember so little of her now.”

“She would have recognized Lady Marguerite’s strength. Her ability to see past surfaces to the truth beneath.” Mr. Thorne adjusted his master’s cravat one final time. “Much as she saw past your father’s reserve to the man within.”

Mr. Thorne’s words comforted him through his restless journey to Fitzroy Manor. Every second seemed like an eternity; he wanted the moment to stretch and end simultaneously.

The Fitzroys’ butler admitted him to a scene of such tranquillity he’d never dared imagine might include him. The Marquess sat reading correspondence while his wife and daughters worked at their embroidery. Marguerite’s head bent over her frame, dark curls escaping their pins as she concentrated on her stitches.

She looked up at his entrance, her fingers stilling on her needle. “My Lord. We didn’t expect you this evening.”

“Didn’t you?” Dinah asked innocently. “Though I saw Mama and you talking about his letter.”

The Marchioness shot her eldest daughter a quelling look. “You are always welcome here, Lord Guildford.”

Tristan bowed, forcing his fingers to unclench at his sides. “I trust I don’t intrude?”

“Not at all,” said the Marquess, setting aside his letters. “Though I confess myself curious about what brings you to us tonight.”

“A matter of some importance.” Tristan’s gaze found Marguerite’s across the room. “If I might have a moment of your time? All of you?”

She rose slowly, her embroidery sliding forgotten into her chair. Something in his expression must have betrayed his intent, for her eyes widened fractionally.

“Of course,” said the Marquess. “But you must join us for dinner first. These matters often prove easier to discuss over good food and better wine.”

Tristan would not have been able to recall what the meal had been even if he’d been asked about it on pain of death. His hands seemed to freeze on their own. He found himself studying Marguerite’s profile, the way she toyed with her food rather than eating it. Their eyes met across the table; all he could focus on was her.

Finally, mercifully, they withdrew to the drawing room. Tristan waited until the servants had served tea before clearing his throat.

“My Lord,” he said formally, addressing the Marquess. “I come tonight to discuss my engagement to your daughter.”

“Do you indeed?” The Marquess leaned back in his chair. “I was under the impression that matter had been settled some time ago.”

“Our initial arrangement was one of convenience,” admitted Tristan. “A shield against unwanted suitors and society’s demands, but circumstances have changed significantly since then.”

“Have they?” Dinah asked softly. “Or has your understanding of them simply grown clearer?”

Tristan crossed to where Marguerite stood by the fireplace. She turned to face him, her complexion pale but spine rigid.

“I find myself unable to maintain our pretense,” he said quietly. “Not when every day spent in your company has shown me what real courage looks like. What real love might be.”

Her lips parted slightly. “Tristan…”

He reached into his coat, withdrawing the velvet box that had burned against his chest all evening. “This belonged to my mother. I’ve kept it locked away since her death, much as I’ve kept myself locked away from life.” Opening the box, he sank to one knee before her. “But I no longer wish to.”

The sapphires glinted as he held out the ring. “Marry me, Marguerite. Not for convenience or protection but because I cannot imagine my life without you. Because you make me want to be worthy of the faith you’ve shown in me.”

She stared down at him, tears gathering in her eyes. “You’ve always been worthy,” she said shakily. “I’ve merely helped you remember it.”

“Is that a yes?” he asked hoarsely.

“Yes.” She extended her trembling hand. “A thousand times, yes.”

The ring slid onto her finger as though it had been made for her. Tristan rose, drawing her into his arms before remembering their audience.

“Well,” said Dinah, dabbing at her eyes. “I suppose this means we must begin planning a proper wedding?”

The Marquess raised his glass. “To proper endings and new beginnings. Though I trust you’ll make my daughter happy, My Lord Guildford?”

“I shall spend my life trying,” said Tristan. His arm tightened around Marguerite’s waist.

Wedding preparations began immediately, all unease forgotten. The Marchioness immediately started preparing a guest list, going on about the troubles she’d have to face if she forgot someone. Dinah suggested flower arrangements to Marguerite, and Tristan could see the plain joy on her face. He breathed a sigh of relief.

“Lady Morton must be seated with the Blackwoods,” the Marchioness said, scribbling rapidly. “After her support during that dreadful business with Lord Edgecombe.”

“The Yardleys must be included,” Dinah added.

The Marquess groaned. “Must we invite the entire county?”

“Of course, we must!” The Marchioness brandished her quill at him. “Our daughter marries a Viscount. Everyone will expect an invitation.”

“The church will overflow,” Dinah observed dryly. “Unless we stack the guests in the gallery.”

“The gallery!” Their mother’s eyes lit up. “We could fit at least another twenty people—”

“Absolutely not,” the Marquess said firmly. “I won’t have our guests hanging from the rafters like circus performers.”

“I need a moment,” Marguerite said eventually, slipping from the room while her mother debated the merits of various church decorations.

Tristan waited precisely three minutes before following. He found her in the library, standing before a large shelf.

“Do you remember that day?” she asked without turning. “When you found me reading your journal?”

“I remember wanting to kiss you even then,” he said honestly. “Though I told myself it was merely irritation at your impertinence.”

She turned, and the look in her eyes stole his breath. “And now?”

His hands settled at her waist, drawing her closer. “Now, I find myself rather grateful for your impertinence. For your courage in facing my demons when I could not.”

Their lips met in a kiss that contained all the passion they had restrained since her retreat to Berkeley Square. Her fingers curled into his coat as his hand rose to cradle her face.

“Really?” Dinah’s amused voice interrupted. “In the library of all places?”

They sprang apart guiltily. Marguerite’s sister lounged in the doorway, her eyes mischievous.

“A few more days won’t kill you,” she said dryly. “Though Mama might if she catches you behaving so improperly before the wedding.”

“A few days seems an eternity,” said Tristan roughly.

“Then I suggest you focus on wedding preparations rather than compromising my sister in the library.” But Dinah’s smile softened the rebuke. “Though I must say, you make a rather handsome couple when you’re not trying to pretend indifference.”

She withdrew, leaving them standing apart and unable to speak a word.

“A few days,” Marguerite finally murmured.

“An eternity,” Tristan agreed. But his smile matched hers—the smile of those who knew they’d be together eventually.

At that moment, it was enough to stand in the library, in each other’s presence, sharing secret glances while their families planned the celebrations. A few days of proper courtship seemed a small price to pay for the lifetime that waited beyond.

Even if Dinah had insisted on chaperoning their every moment until then.