Page 4 of My Viscount’s Madness

Chapter 4

Rules of Engagement

“ E ngaged to the Viscount of Guildford?” Lady Dinah Langston spoke with the absolute authority of one who had never doubted her right to command. “Darling, have you taken leave of your senses?”

Marguerite looked up from her embroidery to find her eldest sister leaning forward slightly, watching her every slight movement with narrowed eyes. Dinah had arrived unannounced that morning, clearly having raced from London the moment she’d read their father’s announcement in the papers.

“Papa thinks it’s all rather suspicious,” Dinah continued. “Though he admits a Viscount—even one as peculiar as Guildford—might prove more advantageous than he first thought. Especially given the size of the Carlisle estates.”

“I assure you, I’m perfectly sensible.” Marguerite set aside her needlework. “More sensible than I’ve been in quite some time.”

“Yes, Papa mentioned something similar—right after his steward informed him that the Carlisle properties are entirely unencumbered by debt. How convenient that he should sweep in to rescue you just when Lord Edgecombe was pressing his suit.”

“What are you implying?”

“Why’d you agree to marry a man who hasn’t been seen in proper society since his return from the war?” Dinah paced the length of the room, her elegant blue dress moving around her legs as she did. “What of Lord Edgecombe’s offer?”

“What of it?”

“He has connections, influence—”

“He’s old enough to be our father and twice as dissolute.” Marguerite’s fingers clenched in her lap. “Surely you don’t support such a match?”

Dinah’s features settled into gentler lines. “Of course not, darling. When Catherine wrote to tell me Papa was considering his suit, I was horrified, but surely there were other options besides…” Her fingers waved through the air dismissively. “The mad Viscount?”

“He’s not mad.”

“No?” Dinah paused her pacing. “Then why does he hide away in that dreary manor? Why does he avoid all society? Maria Yardley’s husband served with him, you know. He says—” She stopped abruptly.

Marguerite leaned forward. “What does he say?”

“Nothing of consequence.” Dinah finally sat down. “Only that Lord Guilford was…changed by his experiences.”

“What experiences?”

“Really, Marguerite, I don’t gossip about such matters.” But something in Dinah’s tone suggested she knew more than she was willing to share. “I’m merely concerned. This engagement seems rather sudden.”

“Love often is.” She had to force that lie past her lips. She longed to confide in her sister and share the truth of her arrangement with Lord Guildford, but Dinah had always been proper to a fault—she would never understand.

“Love?” Her brows arched high on her forehead. “You barely know him.”

“I know enough.” Marguerite stood, needing to move. “I know he’s honorable, whatever else people may say. I know he—” She broke off as their mother entered the room.

“Really, Dinah,” the Marchioness chided, her tone carrying the faintest note of reproach, “you might have sent word ahead. The servants are in quite a flurry attempting to ready your old rooms on such short notice.”

“How could I possibly wait after reading such news?” Dinah replied, fixing her mother with a pointed look that spoke volumes. “Surely you must see how highly irregular all of this is?”

“Of course I do.” The Marchioness sank onto a settee. “But Lord Guildford is a vast improvement over Lord Edgecombe. You should have heard what that horrible sister of his said at Lady Morton’s tea yesterday. Implying that Marguerite was somehow compromised—”

“She what?” The warmth vanished from Dinah’s voice, taking on the harshness that had cowed governesses in their youth. “I hope someone put her in her place.”

“Lord Guildford’s aunt was present.” Their mother’s lips stretched wider, eyes crinkling. “She reminded everyone that her nephew’s honor is beyond reproach, whatever else might be said of him.”

Marguerite jerked her chin up suddenly. “His aunt was there?”

“Lady Crawford.” The Marchioness nodded. “Such a formidable woman. She seemed quite pleased about the engagement, though she mentioned she hasn’t seen her nephew since his return from—” She stopped, glancing uncertainly at Marguerite.

“Since the war?” Marguerite supplied. “You needn’t tiptoe around it, Mama. I’m well aware of my fiance’s…peculiarities.”

“Are you?” Dinah’s eyes did not leave Marguerite’s face. “Do you understand what you’re undertaking?”

“I understand that I’ve chosen my own path.” Marguerite met her sister’s gaze steadily. “As you did when you married Lord Langston against Papa’s wishes.”

Dinah had the grace to flush. “That was different.”

“Was it?” Marguerite moved to the window, watching as their carriage approached the drive. “You married for love, despite Papa’s objections. Why should I not do the same?”

“Because James wasn’t—” Dinah caught herself again. “Your situation is hardly comparable.”

“If you say so.” Marguerite turned back to her sister. “Now, I must go to Carlisle Manor for our appointment. The carriage should be waiting.”

She stood as well, reaching for her pelisse. “Though if you think I’m letting you call on that man alone, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“Am I?” Marguerite fastened her bonnet with quick, irritated movements.“Is Betty a ghost to you?”

“I shall accompany you both,” their mother announced, already donning her pelisse. “Betty, fetch my gloves. Really, Marguerite, it’s most irregular that he expects you to call on him rather than the other way around.”

Mr. Thorne showed them into the drawing room. Lord Guildford stood by the window, his back to the door, and Marguerite watched tension climb his spine at the sound of multiple sets of footsteps.

When he turned, only the slight tightening around his eyes betrayed his discomfort at finding his private space invaded by not one lady but three—plus a hovering maid.

“The Ladies Fitzroy.” He bowed to Marguerite and the Marchioness before turning to Dinah. “Lady Langston, I believe? We met at Almack’s some years ago.”

“Before the war,” Dinah agreed, something knowing in her tone. “How good of you to remember.”

Everyone’s breathing seemed louder suddenly. Marguerite watched as something passed between her sister and the Viscount—some unspoken communication that made Dinah’s eyes soften and Lord Guildford’s nostrils flare.

“I trust your husband is well?” Tristan’s words came out stiff.

“Very well, My Lord.” Dinah kept her eyes fixed on his face, unblinking. “He speaks of you often.”

“Does he, indeed?” Tristan’s cheeks didn’t crease with his smile. “How singular, given that we haven’t spoken since—” He stopped, his eyes shifting to Marguerite’s face for a brief moment. “But perhaps we might save reminiscences for another time? I believe Lady Marguerite and I have an appointment to discuss the arrangements for Lady Norbury’s ball.”

“Of course,” Dinah replied, her smile edged with a knowingness that set Marguerite on edge. “Though I do hope you’ll join us for dinner the following evening? James arrives tomorrow, and I have no doubt he would be utterly delighted to see you again.”

Tristan’s teeth ground together, showing in his jaw. “Another time, perhaps. Lady Marguerite?” He extended his arm to her.

Marguerite moved to his side, and her sister’s eyes followed her every movement as she and their mother joined them. Marguerite heard Dinah murmur something to their mother about “poor James’s letter” and “that dreadful night in Spain.”

What had truly happened in Spain? She knew his composure wasn’t flawless—there were cracks in his carefully maintained facade, moments when the pain seeped through like blood soaking through bandages, raw and unbidden. Memories ambushed him mid-conversation, leaving him momentarily unguarded. She had glimpsed fragments of truth in those fleeting spaces between his words, but what lay beyond those fragments? And why, of all people, did her sister seem to know more about it than she did?

More importantly, why did she care?

The thoughts wouldn’t quiet, wanting out, as they entered his music room. The room had clearly been unused for years. Dust cloths still draped half the furniture, and the piano’s keys held a dull patina that spoke of neglect. Her mother immediately claimed the most comfortable chair while Dinah prowled the perimeter like a cat inspecting new territory. Betty hovered by the door.

“Shall I play for you, My Lord?” Dinah asked, one elegant finger tracing the piano’s dusty lid. Her tone suggested she’d rather play a funeral dirge than anything festive.

Tristan froze, his posture stiffening as if bracing against a blow he could not deflect.

“That would be most kind,” their mother interjected smoothly before he could voice an objection. “Though, I must say, this room could benefit from a thorough cleaning, My Lord.”

A muscle in his jaw tightened at the veiled criticism of his household, but he responded with nothing more than a curt bow. “Your observation is duly noted, Madam, though there is no need for—”

His protest was cut short as Dinah, with deliberate precision, struck up a Russian waltz on the pianoforte. The hauntingly beautiful yet faintly menacing melody filled the room like an unspoken challenge.

Marguerite watched uneasily as her mother’s sharp eyes settled on Lord Guildford, her scrutiny relentless. Counting under her breath to steady herself, Marguerite saw his gaze drift to a distant point beyond the window. His breathing grew shallow, quick, and uneven, betraying the storm beneath his composed exterior.

His hand trembled almost imperceptibly, and a fine sheen of perspiration gathered at his temples. When the music swelled to its dramatic peak, he flinched as though each note struck him like a physical blow.

“No.” His voice broke the tension, raw and resolute, as he raised a hand to rub his face. “That’s enough.”

“We haven’t discussed—”

“I said enough.” He moved toward the door, then paused. “I am going to the library.”

“Marguerite,” her mother began, rising from her chair, but Marguerite was already moving to follow him.

“Really, sister,” Dinah laughed. “You two haven’t even married yet, and you’re already quarreling like an old married couple.”

Tristan’s shoulders stiffened at the jibe while Marguerite shot her sister a quelling look. “Perhaps you might find another target for your wit, Dinah?”

“Oh, but you make such an entertaining one,” Dinah murmured, just loud enough for them to hear as they left the room.

“Your sister gets on my nerves,” he said as they entered the library. “And I wasn’t aware the Langstons took such interest in my affairs.”

“Dinah takes an interest in everyone’s affairs.” Marguerite watched him move to the window. “It’s her particular talent.”

“And her husband’s?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve not spoken much to Lord Langston.” She drifted toward the bookshelves, noting how some books lay open at specific pages, finger marks smudging their leather spines. “Though apparently, you know him better than I do.”

“We served together.” The pitch of his voice dropped deeper. “Nothing more.”

“In Spain?” The air suddenly felt colder against her skin, her arms prickling with gooseflesh.

“I believe we had an agreement about prying.”

“Yes, but…” She traced the spine of a nearby book. “How am I to maintain this charade if I know nothing about you?”

“You know what you need to know.”

“Do I?” She pulled a volume from the shelf at random. “I know you fought in the war. I know something happened in Spain. My sister seems better acquainted with your past than your supposed betrothed.”

“Put the book down.”

Something in his tone made her look at the volume in her hands. It wasn’t a book at all but a leather-bound journal. The pages were dog-eared, and the binding cracked in certain places.

“Please,” he said, his voice rough. “Put it back.”

Instead, she opened it. His handwriting filled the pages—neat, military columns of text detailing troop movements, supply lines, and—

He crossed the room in three strides, snatching the journal from her hands. “What part of our arrangement did you fail to understand?”

“The part where I’m expected to convince the world I’m in love with a stranger.” She met his thunderous gaze. “The part where I must pretend intimacy while knowing nothing of the man I’m meant to marry.”

“You’re not meant to marry me at all.” He shoved the journal back onto the shelf. “This is a temporary arrangement, nothing more.”

“Tell that to my sister. To your aunt. To every person who looks at us and expects to see two people in love.”

“Then perhaps we should end it.”

“And leave me to Lord Edgecombe’s mercies?” She stepped closer. “You offered this solution, My Lord. You created this situation. The least you can do is help me understand—”

“Understand what?” His voice cracked like a whip. “What happened in Spain? Why do I avoid crowds? Why do I prefer solitude to society’s endless speculation about my state of mind?”

“Yes!”

“No.” He gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles white. “That wasn’t part of our agreement.”

“Our arrangement isn’t working.” She moved to stand beside him. “How can I defend you to Dinah, to anyone, when I know nothing of what I’m defending?”

“I don’t need your defense.”

“Don’t you?” She gestured to the journal. “Your aunt hasn’t seen you since your return. Your fellow officers whisper about that night in Spain. The entire county thinks you’re either mad or dangerous or both.”

“Perhaps I am.”

“I don’t believe that.”

He turned to face her, and something in his eyes made her step back. “You don’t know what to believe, My Lady. You read romance into survival, heroism into horror. You think understanding will somehow make this situation easier?”

“I think the truth might.”

“Truth?” A bitter bark of laughter escaped him. “The truth is I watched good men die. The truth is I survived when better men didn’t. The truth is I can’t close my eyes without seeing their faces, hearing their screams, smelling the smoke and blood, and—” He broke off, breathing hard.

Marguerite reached for him without thinking.

“Don’t.” He jerked away. “Don’t offer comfort you don’t mean.”

“Who says I don’t mean it?”

“Because this isn’t real.” He gestured between them. “This engagement, this pretense of caring—it’s all fabrication, and I won’t have you pretending sympathy just to satisfy your curiosity.”

“It’s not curiosity.”

“No?” His lips pulled into that mocking smile she was beginning to hate. “Then what is it, my dear pretend betrothed? Concern for my well-being? A desire to heal my wounded soul?”

“A desire to understand the man who offered to help me.”

Something flickered in his eyes—too quick to name. “I’m not a puzzle to be solved.”

“No,” she agreed softly. “You’re a man hiding from his own life, and I’m beginning to wonder if this arrangement doesn’t suit you perfectly—another excuse to avoid the world.”

“Get out.”

“My Lord—”

“Get out.” He turned away. “And next time you visit, remember our rules. No prying, no questions, no attempts to draw me out.”

“And if people continue to ask about you? About us?”

“Tell them what they wish to hear.” His voice was weary now. “Isn’t that what we agreed?”

She moved to the door, then paused. “We agreed to convince them, but I’m no longer certain who we’re trying harder to convince—them or ourselves.”

He didn’t respond, and after a moment, she left, closing the door quietly behind her. The journal’s pages seemed to burn in her memory—not the military notations she’d glimpsed, but the desperate, personal entries crammed into the margins.

God help me; I hear them still.

Everything about him hinted at unspoken horrors—in the way he startled at sudden sounds, in how his eyes constantly sought exits and defensible positions, in the darkness that sometimes swept across his face like storm clouds. Her chest constricted each time she watched him withdraw into his self-imposed exile as if a hand had reached between her ribs and squeezed.

What exactly haunted Lord Guildford’s dreams? What memories drove him to isolate himself in this grand, empty house?

Questions she couldn’t answer. Questions she had agreed not to ask.

Still, the pieces were beginning to fall into place—His resistance to attending the ball, his aversion to crowds, the way he’d tensed when the music started.

Something had happened at a ball that had marked him deeply enough to make even the memory of music unbearable, and she, in her determination to maintain their charade, was forcing him to relive it.

“Oh, you fool,” she whispered to herself. “You utter, complete fool.”

She would have to find another way to convince society of their attachment. Some method that didn’t require him to face whatever demons lurked in his memory of that long-ago celebration. She owed him that much, at least.

And then another thought struck her—one that made her stomach twist. She cared. Somewhere between their first meeting and this afternoon’s disastrous visit, she had begun to care about more than just maintaining their deception.

She had begun to care about him.

“Well,” she murmured, “that complicates matters considerably.”