Page 28 of My Viscount’s Madness
Chapter 28
The Wedding
T ristan stood before the mirror in St. Michael’s vestry, fighting the urge to adjust his already perfect cravat. Through the leaded glass windows, he glimpsed carriages arriving, one after another, each bringing more witnesses to this transcendent celebration.
“Your collar sits perfectly straight already, My Lord,” said Mr. Black, his valet, batting away his employer’s restless fingers. “Though if you continue fussing, I shall need to retie it entirely.”
“I am not fussing.” Tristan forced his hands to his sides. “Merely ensuring everything meets the occasion’s requirements.”
“I suppose that also includes making your own path in the carpet. “Mr. Thorne nodded towards the strip of floor between the window and door where Tristan’s boots had indeed left visible tracks. “The ceremony begins in twenty minutes. Might I suggest you remain still long enough for Mr. Black to ensure your coat sits properly?”
A knock at the door saved Tristan from responding. Lord Langston entered, looking the same as he did back in their military days. All the memories came flooding back, though they weren’t as painful as they used to be.
“I thought I might find you here,” James said, closing the door behind him. “Some habits never change—you always did prefer to prepare for engagement in solitude.”
“This hardly compares to military operations.” But Tristan’s shoulders eased slightly at his presence.
“Doesn’t it?” James settled into a chair, stretching out his leg—the one that still troubled him from an old war wound. “You face a life-changing event, surrounded by observers, with success dependent entirely on courage and preparation.”
“You make marriage sound like a siege.”
“Not at all.” James grinned. “Sieges prove far less demanding. Though I must say, you seem better equipped for this particular campaign than I initially expected.”
Tristan turned from the mirror. “Because I no longer hide from life?”
“Because you’ve finally remembered how to live it.” James leaned forward, his expression growing serious. “Henry would have loved this, you know. Seeing you find happiness despite everything we witnessed in Madrid.”
The name no longer brought immediate pain. “I thought of him this morning. Of all those conversations we had about our futures back before…”
“Before reality intervened?” James nodded. “I remember those talks. Though I suspect Henry would say reality has finally aligned with those hopes, rather than destroying them.”
“Thanks to Marguerite.” Tristan’s voice softened. “She saw past my defenses when I thought them impenetrable.”
“She’s rather good at that.” James rose, clapping him on the shoulder. “However, you must admit that some credit also belongs to you. It takes courage to let someone breach those walls.”
“Does it?” Tristan adjusted his coat sleeves. “Or merely weakness in the wall to let someone through?”
“Both, I’d wager.” James moved towards the door. “Though I should return to my seat before Dinah comes looking for me. Unless you require moral support for these final minutes of bachelorhood?”
“I believe I can manage.” Tristan’s lips curved upward. “Though I thank you for the offer.”
“Save your thanks for the wedding breakfast. I intend to tell several fascinating stories about your military exploits.”
“Nothing too fascinating, I trust?”
James’s laugh echoed in the room as he made his way out. “Only the ones that show you in an appropriately heroic light. Though perhaps I might mention that incident with the general’s horse?”
The door closed on Tristan’s groan. Mr. Black stepped forward with the buttonhole—a white rose matching Marguerite’s bouquet.
“Lord Langston seems in fine spirits,” the valet observed, gently pinning the flower to his chest.
“He means to entertain our guests with tales of my misspent youth.” Tristan stood still under his valet’s ministrations. “Though I think Lady Marguerite might enjoy such stories.”
“Lady Guildford,” Mr. Thorne corrected gently. “In less than an hour.”
The title sent an odd thrill through Tristan’s chest. Lady Guildford, not just as a facade that benefitted them both, but as his wife in truth. His partner in all things, just as she’d proven herself these past months.
Another knock heralded the vicar’s arrival. “We’re ready to begin, My Lord.”
Tristan nodded, squaring his shoulders as though preparing for battle. But this was no siege, no military campaign where victory meant survival. This was choosing joy over fear, love over loneliness.
The church fell silent as he took his place before the altar. His heart was beating erratically. He recognized faces in the gathering—Emily Hoffman beside her mother, the Porters from the village, Lady Morton already dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.
Then the organ music began, and Tristan turned to watch Marguerite enter on her father’s arm. Her white silk gown practically made her glow, seeming almost ethereal. But her eyes, meeting his across the church, held the same warmness they always had. It made his heart settle.
The Marquess’s grip on his daughter’s arm showed emotion that belied his dignified bearing. When they reached the altar, he kissed Marguerite’s forehead before placing her hand in Tristan’s.
“Take care of her,” he said gruffly.
“Always,” said Tristan. And in that moment, standing before God and witnesses, he knew the word for truth.
The vicar finally began the ceremony, and a quiet took over the church as he spoke. Tristan repeated the vows he had been memorizing these past few weeks, his voice loud and clear, his eyes locked into Marguerite’s. She smiled, her eyes glittering.
When it was her turn to make the vows, she took a deep breath, and her grip on his hands tightened. Tristan could hardly believe the moment was real. How did he get here? How was it possible to feel such happiness?
When he slid his mother’s wedding ring onto her finger to join her engagement ring, her smile made his heart pound.
“I present to you, Lord and Lady Guildford.”
After the vicar’s pronouncement, Tristan led Marguerite back down the aisle. She gripped his arm tightly, walking with surety.
The wedding breakfast was held at Carlisle Manor, where Mr. Thorne had transformed the long-unused ballroom into a space worthy of such an occasion. Crystal sparkled on white-clothed tables while flowers filled every corner—not merely decorative arrangements but living proof of how the house had awakened from its long sleep.
“Rather different from when I first visited,” Marguerite murmured as they entered.
“As am I,” said Tristan, covering her hand where it rested on his arm. “Thanks to you.”
The Marquess rose for his toast, his voice deep and proud. “When this match was first proposed, I saw only convenience—a solution to immediate difficulties. I failed to recognize the gift being offered to my daughter.” He paused, blinking rapidly. “To us all.”
Marguerite squeezed Tristan’s fingers under the table as her father continued.
“You’ve taught me much about courage these past months,” the Marquess said. “About facing truth rather than hiding behind pride. I can think of no better man to entrust with my daughter’s happiness.”
He raised his glass, tears now flowing freely down his cheeks. “To the bride and groom. May your life together prove as rich in joy as it began in courage.”
The gathering echoed his toast. Tristan found himself studying his new father-in-law’s face, seeing not the proud peer who had once opposed their match but a man who had learned wisdom through difficulty.
James Langston claimed the next toast. “I’ve known Tristan since our military days,” he said, grinning. “Though I must say, he showed far more strategic brilliance in winning Lady Marguerite than he ever did on the battlefield.”
“I dispute that assessment,” said Tristan dryly.
“Do you?” James’s eyes twinkled. “Shall I tell them about that incident with the general’s horse?”
“You promised heroic tales only!”
“But this one proved quite heroic.” James turned to address the gathering. “Picture, if you will, a young lieutenant determined to prove his tactical abilities. The general’s prized stallion had developed a habit of throwing every rider who dared mount him.”
“I maintain the beast was half-wild,” said Tristan.
“Half-wild and wholly magnificent,” James continued. “Our young hero here decided the best way to impress our commanding officer was to master this unmanageable horse. He failed to account for the general’s daughter’s fondness for feeding the animal sugar cubes every morning.”
Dinah leaned forward. “Don’t tell me…”
“Oh yes. The moment Tristan mounted that stallion, it made straight for the general’s quarters, convinced its favorite provider of treats must be waiting. Through the parade ground, past the drilling soldiers, straight through the general’s wife’s prized rose garden…”
“The roses were hardly damaged,” Tristan protested.
“Only because you managed to keep your seat while the beast pranced through them, looking for Miss Elizabeth’s sugar cubes.” James grinned. “Though I must say, seeing our dignified Lieutenant Carlisle covered in rosebush thorns while the general’s daughter fed his horse treats rather ruined the impression of tactical genius he’d hoped to create.”
Marguerite’s delighted giggles joined the general laughter. “And what did the general say?”
“He said,” James adopted a gruff voice, “‘Well boy, if you can stay mounted on that devil while he decimates my wife’s garden, you might have some promise after all.’ Though I suspect his wife’s reaction proved somewhat less charitable.”
Tristan buried his face in his hands, but Marguerite’s obvious enjoyment of the tale made his embarrassment worthwhile. “I notice you fail to mention your role in suggesting the endeavor, James.”
“Merely offering support to a fellow officer,” James said innocently. “But we should save the tale of your attempt to rescue my hat from that French lake for another occasion.”
Dancing followed the toasts. Tristan led Marguerite onto the floor, marveling at how naturally she fitted in his arms. No tension now, no hidden glances. Just the simple joy of holding his wife as music filled the ballroom that had stood silent for so long.
“Happy?” he asked softly.
“Perfectly.” She smiled up at him. “Though I confess myself curious about this tale about that French lake…”
“I might be persuaded to share the truth of it. Later.”
Her eyes sparkled. “I shall hold you to that, My Lord.”
“Tristan,” he corrected. “No more formality between us, my love.”
Emily Hoffman appeared as the dance ended, her golden curls bouncing excitedly. “Lady Marguerite! You look just like a princess from Mama’s stories!”
“Thank you, dearest.” Marguerite knelt to embrace the child. “You haven’t forgotten about your riding lesson tomorrow, have you?”
“Oh no! Lord Guildford promised we might try cantering soon.” Emily turned to Tristan. “You did promise, didn’t you?”
“So I did.” He ruffled her curls gently. “Though you must now call her Lady Guildford.”
“Because you’re married now?” Emily asked innocently. “Mama says marriage changes everything.”
“Some things.” Tristan met Marguerite’s eyes over the girl’s head.
The festivities continued until late night. Tristan conversed with neighbors he’d avoided before, realizing how much he was missing out on due to his seclusion.
“Rather different from your usual social gatherings,” Dinah observed, claiming him for a dance. “I must admit, however, that you seem to be managing admirably.”
“Thanks to your sister’s influence,” said Tristan.
“Thanks to your own courage in accepting it,” she corrected. “I didn’t think you had it in you at first, you know?”
“No?”
“I thought you a coward, hiding from life.” Dinah’s direct gaze held no apology. “I’m glad to have been proven wrong.”
“As am I.” He guided her through a turn. “But most of the credit goes to Marguerite.”
“Oh, I credit her with many things.” Dinah smiled. “Including making my taciturn new brother-in-law almost chatty.”
F inally, inevitably, the time came for farewells. Marguerite embraced her family while Tristan shook hands with their guests. The Marquess clasped him especially tight.
“Welcome to the family,” he said gruffly. “Remember, you belonged there long before today.”
They watched their guests depart from the front steps, Marguerite’s hand warm in his as the last carriage rolled away. When they turned back inside, the manor felt different—not empty as it had so often before, but homey.
“Well, my love?” Marguerite’s eyes sparkled as she looked up at him. “Shall you tell me that story about the French lake now?”
Tristan pulled her close, breathing in the joy of this moment. “I believe, my dearest, we have far more interesting matters to discuss.”
Their laughter rang through the manor that looked like home for the first time in a long while.