Page 5 of My Viscount’s Madness

Chapter 5

A Town Picnic

" I wasn't aware military men rode so carelessly," Marguerite called as Lord Guildford's stallion thundered past her mare for the third time. The annual village picnic had drawn most of the local gentry to the meadow beyond Fitzroy Manor, and several younger members of the party had suggested a morning ride before the festivities began.

He wheeled his mount around, and for a moment, she glimpsed something like genuine enjoyment in his expression. "I wasn't aware proper young ladies offered such pointed criticism of their betrothed's horsemanship."

"Then you've much to learn about proper young ladies." She guided her mare alongside his stallion. "Though I suppose that's hardly surprising, given your hermit-like tendencies."

His smile faded. In the distance, she could see the gathering crowd setting up blankets and baskets for the picnic. Curious eyes watched their exchange.

"Shall we give them something to gossip about?" he murmured, noting her attention to their audience. "Perhaps another display of affection?"

"I believe your last display generated quite enough gossip." She adjusted her riding habit. "Dinah hasn't ceased questioning me about it."

"Ah yes, your remarkably well-informed sister." His jaw tightened. "Has she shared any more insights about my character?"

"Would you shed some light on them if she had?"

"You know the rules."

Before she could respond, Dinah approached on her bay gelding. "Marguerite, darling, Mama's asking for you. Something about the lemonade being improperly prepared."

"Heaven forbid the lemonade fail to meet her exacting standards." Marguerite gathered her reins. "Will you escort me back, My Lord?"

"Actually," Dinah interrupted smoothly, "I hoped to borrow Lord Guildford for a moment. James sent a letter I believe would interest him."

Marguerite watched the muscle jump in his jaw. "Another time, perhaps," he said, turning his horse toward the gathering. "I believe my betrothed requires an escort."

They rode in silence until they reached the edge of the crowd. As they dismounted, Marguerite noticed how Lord Guildford positioned himself—back to a tree, with a clear view of all approaches and a careful distance from the pressing throng of neighbors and acquaintances.

"You needn't hover," she said quietly. "I can manage the social obligations alone."

"Can you?" His words came out with their usual bite. "And what would that say about our supposed attachment?"

"It would say you prefer solitude to society, which everyone already knows." She stepped closer, pitching her voice for his ears alone. "You're not fooling anyone by forcing yourself to endure this."

"Aren't I?" His grey eyes met hers. "Then perhaps I should leave now."

"If you wish to abandon me to Lord Edgecombe's attentions, by all means." She turned away, only to feel his hand catch her elbow.

"That's not—" He broke off as a child's cry split the air.

The baker's son, young Tommy Porter, had fallen while chasing a hoop. Blood trickled from his knee, and tears streaked his dirty face.

Before Marguerite could move, Tristan was already crossing the space between them and the boy. She watched, transfixed, as he knelt beside the child, his movements gentle despite his obvious discomfort with their growing audience.

"Steady on, soldier," he said, pulling a pristine handkerchief from his coat. "Let's assess the damage, shall we?"

Tommy's sobs quieted to hiccups as he examined his knee with gentle fingers. "It's bleeding, My Lord."

"So it is." The Viscount dabbed at the cut. "Though I'd wager you've survived worse. For instance, I'd say that scar on your chin is a battle wound."

"F-fell out of the apple tree," Tommy admitted with a watery smile.

"Ah, a cavalryman." Tristan's voice had none of its usual sarcasm. "Those are always the worst scrapes, aren't they? Fighting through difficult terrain."

By now, a small crowd had gathered. Marguerite noticed how his shoulders tensed, though his attention remained fixed on the boy.

"There." He tied the handkerchief around Tommy's knee. "That should hold until your mother can properly tend it. Though perhaps next time, consider a more strategic retreat when your hoop ventures into enemy territory?"

Tommy giggled, then threw his arms around Lord Guildford's neck in an impulsive hug. For a heartbeat, Tristan froze. Then, with infinite care, he returned the embrace before setting the boy on his feet.

"Off you go," he said gruffly. "And mind that knee."

As Tommy limped away to his waiting mother, Marguerite approached. "That was well done, My Lord."

"It was nothing." He straightened, the warmth draining from his face. "Though I notice you didn't rush to assist."

"I was rather occupied watching my supposedly unsociable betrothed demonstrate a remarkably gentle bedside manner."

"Don't." The softness had left him entirely now. "Whatever romantic notions you're constructing about that display—"

"I'm constructing nothing." She held his stare without blinking. "Merely observing that perhaps there's more to you than your carefully cultivated reputation suggests."

"Is there?" His lips twisted into that familiar shape. "Or perhaps I simply recognize a fellow soldier when I see one."

Before she could respond, Dinah appeared at her elbow. "Marguerite, Lord Edgecombe's sister, is spreading the most odious insinuations about your riding unchaperoned with Lord Guildford. Mama insists you join the main party immediately."

"Heaven forbid we give the gossips more fodder." Tristan held his elbow out stiffly, too high as if to make a show of the gesture. "Shall we, My Lady?"

As they made their way toward the gathering, Marguerite couldn't help noticing how his steps slowed, how he drew air in slowly and released it carefully with each approach to the crowd, yet he didn't release her arm or retreat to his preferred solitude.

"You don't have to go there," she murmured.

"Yes," he said quietly, "I do."

And somehow, watching him wage this private battle against his own demons, Marguerite felt something shift in her understanding of the man beside her. Perhaps there was more than one kind of courage. More than one way to fight.

More than one reason to maintain their facade.

Marguerite watched sweat bead at his collar despite the cool air as they spoke to the gathering. His fingers kept clenching, unclenching at his sides. He positioned himself at the edge of their blanket, maintaining that distance from the crowd while still appearing engaged in their party.

Lady Morton faced him. "I overheard you in the marketplace last week. Such fascinating conversations you have with your intended, my dear. Almost like verbal dueling."

"The Viscount seems rather tense," Dinah observed, settling beside her. "One might almost think he'd rather face a French battalion than Lady Morton's attempts at conversation."

"He's making an effort." Marguerite adjusted her parasol. "Which is more than can be said for your attempts at discretion."

"I merely—" Dinah broke off, her face hardening. "Ah. It seems we have unwelcome company."

Lord Edgecombe approached their group, his orange waistcoat a garish splash against the summer green. Beside him, his sister simpered behind her fan.

"Lady Marguerite," he intoned, dipping into an elegant, almost theatrical bow. "You are positively radiant today. It seems the country air has done wonders for you."

Tristan's head turned sharply at the sound of Edgecombe's voice. In two long strides, he was at Marguerite's side.

"We heard Lady Morton remarking how spirited your exchanges appear to be. Such sharp wit between betrothed couples is most unusual." Edgecombe said eagerly.

"Indeed," added his sister. "Though I must say, My Lord Guildford, we've seen precious little of you since your understanding with Lady Marguerite was announced."

"I prefer private moments with my fiancee to public spectacle." Tristan's hand came to rest at the small of Marguerite's back. "Though I'm sure you understand the sentiment, Miss Edgecombe, given your own…extensive experience with courtship."

Patches appeared on the lady's skin, an unflattering shade of puce.

"Such sharp tongues, both of you," Lord Edgecombe observed with oily smoothness.

"Indeed," Miss Edgecombe recovered enough to add.

"Meanwhile, I was just telling Lady Marguerite how well she looks," Lord Edgecombe said. "Though perhaps a touch flushed. Might I fetch you some lemonade, my dear?"

"I believe," Tristan's words barely carried past his lips, "that endearments toward my betrothed are my privilege alone."

"As are the constant barbed comments, it seems," Miss Edgecombe muttered just loud enough to be heard. "Such a unique way of showing affection."

A tense silence fell over their group. Marguerite felt Tristan's hand trembling slightly against her back—though whether from anger or the pressure from everyone watching, she couldn't tell.

"Come, brother." Lady Edgecombe tugged at her brother's sleeve. "I believe I see Lady Norbury beckoning."

As they retreated, Dinah let out a soft laugh. "Well done, Lord Guildford. I don't believe I've ever seen Lord Edgecombe retreat quite so quickly."

"Yes," Marguerite added quietly. "Though perhaps we might take a turn about the meadow? The crowd seems to be growing rather close."

Understanding flickered in Dinah's eyes. "Of course. I believe I see Mama requiring my attention, in any case."

Tristan's breathing steadied when they were beyond the immediate press of people. He kept his hand at her back though his touch relaxed.

"That was unnecessary," he said after a moment.

"Was it?" She glanced up at him. "You seemed overwhelmed, My Lord."

"I thought we agreed not to discuss my…sensibilities."

"We agreed not to pry." She guided them toward a quieter corner of the meadow. "I merely observed that a strategic retreat might benefit us both."

His lips twitched, but he said nothing. Neither felt pressed to fill the quiet until they reached a cluster of trees. Tristan's posture relaxed fractionally as they stepped into the shade.

"Your sister knows," he said abruptly.

"Knows what?"

"About our arrangement." He dropped his hand from her back, and she tried to ignore how cold the spot felt in its absence. "She's far too perceptive to believe this charade."

Marguerite sank onto the moss-covered log, her hands smoothing her skirt. "Dinah has always crafted her own version of reality," she said, fingers tracing the bark's rough patterns. "Though I admit, she seems to know more about some issues than expected.

"Don't."

"I'm not prying," she said, tone light but pointed. "Merely observing that, for someone fully aware our engagement is purely one of convenience, you defend my honor with remarkable conviction."

"Edgecombe is a fortune hunter and a snake," he replied, his posture rigid, every inch the disciplined soldier. "My distaste for crowds does not impair my ability to recognize a threat."

Her gaze narrowed, the faintest edge of challenge in her voice. "Is that all I am to you, then? A duty? A damsel in need of rescue?"

Something flickered in his eyes—an emotion too quick and fleeting to name. His answer came low and measured, tinged with reluctant honesty.

"You are... a complication."

"How flattering."

"It wasn't meant to be." But his voice held less edge than usual. "You should return to the gathering. People will talk."

"No."

To her surprise, he sat. "I don't know how to do this," he said.

"Do what?"

"This." He gestured vaguely. "The public performance. The constant attention. The expectations of a proper courtship."

"Then don't perform." She turned to face him. "Be exactly who you are—reserved, antisocial, occasionally cutting. People already expect it from you. Let them see that I accept it as well."

"And when they question why you would attach yourself to such a man?"

"Let them question." She offered a small smile. "I'm rather practiced at defying expectations."

His eyes moved over her features slowly, tracing them. "You're not what I expected."

"No?" She raised an eyebrow. "And what did you expect?"

"Someone more…conventional. Less…”

"Complicated?"

"Understanding."

Neither spoke for several breaths. The simple word seemed to grow edges neither dared to touch. When Dinah called out, both exhaled.

"We should return." Marguerite rose, brushing off her dress. "Before my sister decides to investigate our absence more thoroughly."

When he stood and presented his arm, something had shifted. As they returned, his movements were less rigid, his breathing more even.

"Thank you," he said quietly as they rejoined their party.

"For what?"

"For…" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "For observing without prying."

She smiled up at him, and for once, his answering smile held no trace of mockery.