Page 3 of My Viscount’s Madness

Chapter 3

Expectations

M arguerite paced the empty rose garden, her fingers tracing the spots on her temple and cheek where the servants had seen Lord Guildford’s lips graze her skin. Three days had passed, yet her mother’s relentless barrage of questions showed no sign of abating, and the housemaids continued to titter behind their hands whenever she entered a room. The memory of it all set her nerves on edge, the peaceful garden offering little solace.

“A message from Lady Norbury, My Lady.” Betty appeared at her elbow, holding out a cream-colored envelope. “And…there’s talk in the kitchen.”

“More talk?” Marguerite accepted the envelope with a sigh. “What are they saying now?”

“Cook swears she saw his lordship steal a proper kiss, not just that gentle peck he gave you.” Betty looked away. “And Bertha claims you were in his arms for quite some time.”

“Wonderful.” Marguerite broke the seal on the envelope. “So now I’m not only engaged to the village recluse, but I’m also apparently engaging in wanton behavior in broad daylight.”

“Your mother is quite distressed.”

“My mother is always distressed these days.” She scanned Lady Norbury’s elegant script, then folded the letter. “Fetch my pelisse, Betty. I need to speak with Lord Guildford.”

“But, My Lady, surely—”

“Not now, Betty.”

Twenty minutes later, Marguerite marched up the steps of Carlisle Manor, her anger growing with each step. The butler’s attempt to announce her was met with a quelling look.

“Is his lordship in his study?” At the butler’s nod, she continued, “Excellent. Betty, come along.”

She found him standing at the window, his back to the door. Without turning, he said, “I thought I made my views on unannounced visits clear.”

“And I thought you understood the meaning of discretion.” She closed the door behind her with more force than necessary. “Do you know what the servants are saying about us?”

“I neither know nor care.”

“They claim you kissed me properly in the rose garden.” She advanced into the room. “That you held me in your arms for an extended period.”

Now he did turn, one eyebrow raised, and moved to sit at his desk. “And this disturbs you because…?”

“Because my mother hasn’t stopped weeping since she heard, utterly convinced I’ve been compromised beyond redemption. Because Lord Edgecombe’s sister saw fit to call yesterday solely to express her grave concern for my reputation. And because every servant in Hampshire now seems to think—”

“That I’m properly courting my betrothed?” he interjected, his smile beginning as a faint twitch, then stretching into a lopsided smirk that stopped just short of a grin.

That same maddeningly crooked lift of his mouth made her fingers itch to slap him.

“How shocking,” he added, his tone dripping with feigned innocence.

“This isn’t amusing. Your little performance has created expectations.”

“Expectations?”

“Of affection. Of…passion.” The words tasted strange on her tongue. “Everyone now believes we’re madly in love.”

“Isn’t that what we wanted them to believe?”

“Not like this.” She rubbed her palms together. “Not with whispers and speculation about improper behavior. A gentle peck on the temple was one thing, but now—”

“Now they believe exactly what we need them to believe.” He rose and moved around the desk towards her, his height forcing her to step back. “That this engagement is real, born of genuine feeling rather than convenience.”

“There are other ways to convince people.”

“Are there?” His unsettling grey eyes moved from her face to her hands, then back. “Then perhaps you’d care to explain why Lady Norbury sent me an invitation to her ball, knowing I don’t attend them?”

He gestured to an envelope on his desk. “Along with a note expressing her delight at our ‘romantic attachment’ and her certainty that we’ll make the perfect couple on her dance floor. Isn’t that exactly the sort of event a properly engaged couple would attend?”

“Yes, but—”

“So you see, My Lady, my little performance in your garden served its purpose.” He leaned against his desk now, arms crossed. “It convinced people we’re genuinely attached, which is precisely what we needed.”

“And the ball?”

“Oh, I shan’t be attending that.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Lady Norbury’s ball is the most significant social event of the season,” she said, smoothing her skirts. “Our absence would be remarked upon.”

“Let them remark. I haven’t attended a ball since—” He cut himself off.

“Since the war?”

His shoulders stiffened. “I believe we agreed you wouldn’t pry.”

“I believe we agreed to present a convincing courtship.” She sat on a chair. “Which requires occasional public appearances.”

“So?”

“So we must attend the ball. Lady Norbury is my godmother, and she specifically requested your presence.”

“Did she?” He raised an eyebrow. “How unexpected, given my reputation for being perfectly dreadful company.”

“Actually, she said your presence would add a dash of mystery to the proceedings.” Marguerite bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. “I believe she’s quite taken with your brooding demeanor.”

“Wonderful.” He dropped into his chair, and she rose, approaching him and perching herself on the edge of his desk, ignoring his scowl at her familiarity. “I’ve become entertainment for romantic old ladies.”

“Better that than the subject of speculation about why you’re avoiding society. We’ve been engaged for a week, yet you’ve called my home exactly twice, both times when you knew my father would be absent. You refuse all invitations, speak to no one beyond your servants, and treat this entire arrangement as though it were a mild inconvenience rather than a serious deception.”

“It is an inconvenience,” he snapped. “One I’m beginning to regret.”

“Because I demand you act like a living person rather than a ghost?”

“Because you refuse to respect the boundaries we established.”

She slid off his desk and closed the distance between them. “The boundaries you established, you mean. Without any consideration for what maintaining this charade would actually require.”

“I considered—”

“You considered your own comfort,” she interrupted. “Your own desire for solitude, but if we’re to convince anyone that this engagement is real, you must occasionally endure the company of others.”

They stood mere feet apart now, close enough that he could detect the faint scent of roses that seemed to follow her everywhere. The same scent lingered in his study after her last visit, taunting him with memories of her presence.

“One dance,” she said softly. “That’s all I ask. We’ll arrive fashionably late, make our appearance, share one dance, and depart before midnight. Surely even you can endure that much?”

Tristan knew he should refuse. Every instinct warned him against placing himself in a situation where memories of another ball, another crowd, might overwhelm him. Still, something in her expression—she lifted her chin and met his eyes directly—made him hesitate.

“If,” he said at last, “and I stress if I were to agree to this madness, you would need to promise something in return.”

“What?”

“No more unexpected visits. No more sitting on my desk as though you belong there, and absolutely no attempts to draw me into a conversation about my habits or state of mind.”

She considered this for a moment. “I will agree to send word before calling and to maintain proper decorum during my visits, but I won’t promise never to question you when your behavior threatens our arrangement.”

“Threatens our arrangement?” His eyebrow arched, the faintest trace of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “How very diplomatic of you.”

“I learned diplomacy at my mother’s knee,” she replied, catching her bottom lip between her teeth to suppress the smile threatening to escape. “Along with the finer points of negotiation. So, do we have an agreement?”

He should refuse. Should escort her to the door with a curt reminder that their arrangement was strictly one of convenience, nothing more. Yet, against all reason, he found himself nodding.

“One dance,” he said firmly. “And we leave the moment propriety allows.”

Her smile bloomed fully then, transforming her entire countenance. “Also,” Marguerite added. “We need clearer rules about public displays of affection.”

He straightened. “What do you propose?”

“No more unexpected gestures. If you plan to…to demonstrate affection, warn me first.”

“As you wish.” He moved closer until the scents that marked him wove through her senses—rich leather from his riding boots, the ghost of brandy on his breath, and beneath it all, the clean, sharp tang of soap and starched linen. “Shall I warn you now that I’m going to touch your cheek? That I’m going to lean in, just so?” His fingers ghosted along her jaw. “That I’m going to—”

“Stop it.” She stepped back, her heart hammering against her ribs. “This is exactly what I meant. You can’t just—”

“Can’t I?” His hand dropped to his side. “Isn’t this exactly what an engaged man would do when alone with his fiancee?”

“We’re not alone and we are actually not engaged.”

“No,” he agreed softly. “We’re not. Which is why you’ll leave now before the servants have anything new to gossip about.”

She turned toward the door, then paused. “The ball…”

“Will be discussed another time.” His tone left no room for argument. “For now, I suggest you return home and consider whether you truly want this deception to succeed.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, My Lady, you can’t have it both ways. Either we convince people we’re in love with all the speculation that entails, or we fail to convince them and face the consequences.”

The bluntness of his words stung, but Marguerite refused to acknowledge it. Instead, she lifted her chin and said, “Friday. We’ll discuss the ball then.”

“Will we?”

“Yes.” She reached for the door handle. “And this time, My Lord, remember that a gentleman warns a lady before he attempts to prove a point.”

His mocking laughter followed her into the hallway, and Marguerite quickened her steps, trying to outpace the memory of his fingers on her skin.

Tristan’s smile faded when she was gone, leaving only that damnable rose scent behind. He sank into his chair, running a hand over his face. When had he lost control of this situation? When had she begun treating his study as an extension of her own drawing room?

“Mr. Thorne!” he called.

The butler appeared with his usual silent efficiency. “My Lord?”

“It seems I need my evening clothes pressed by Friday.” He reached for the brandy decanter and then thought better of it. “And perhaps…perhaps you might send someone to check on the state of the carriage.”

Mr. Thorne’s expression didn’t change, but something like approval flickered in his eyes. “Excellent, My Lord. Will there be anything else?”

Tristan thought of Marguerite’s scarlet lips pressed together, her talk of rules and social obligations. “Pray for me. I believe I’m going to need it.”

For the first time in years, his butler smiled at him. “Indeed, My Lord. I shall.”