Page 7 of My Viscount’s Madness

Chapter 7

Stuck Together

M r. Thorne appeared at the door, eyes widened in surprise as he took in their bedraggled state.

“My Lady, what happened?” he said, letting them in quickly and guiding them to the nearest hearth.

“Lightning and loud thunder…” said Marguerite, trying to keep from tearing up. “Lord Guilford crouched to the ground and was gone to a distant memory…in Madrid.”

“Ah…,” the butler said, realizing that Marguerite had witnessed one of his lordship’s episodes of “madness” from the war.

“Please, Mr. Thorne. Do you know what happened in Madrid? Can you tell me,” she pleaded.

“My Lady…I am not at liberty to talk about certain subjects,” he whispered. “His lordship has forbidden me from doing so. Please don’t insist…”

“But, Mr. Thorne…”

“His lordship will be the one to share his demons with you, your ladyship. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will take his lordship upstairs and have his valet change his clothes immediately.”

“Should we call the doctor?” Marguerite insisted.

“No need. His lordship would not approve.”

As Mr. Thorne was about to leave, a maid hurried in with towels and a warm fur.

“His lordship will join you shortly,” Mr. Thorne said hesitantly, hoping this would be the case but knowing well that Lord Guilford would be too exhausted to do anything but sleep. Then, ever so quietly, she nearly missed it; Mr. Thorne said: “The screams wake him most nights. Perhaps…perhaps you might help him find peace again somehow, My Lady.” She could see the pleading in his eyes.

Before she could respond, he had withdrawn, leaving her with more questions than answers. She moved closer to the fire, wrapping the fur around her shoulders and rubbing warmth back into her fingers while observing Lord Guildford’s domain.

A half an hour passed before Mr. Thorne returned. “The weather does not abate, My Lady. It appears that you will not be able to return to Fitzroy Manor tonight. We have sent word as to your whereabouts. His lordship is resting and will not come down for dinner.”

The clock in the hall struck six as Mrs Thorne, the housekeeper, appeared in the doorway. “The blue chamber has been prepared for Lady Marguerite. We have prepared a warm bath, after which we will bring her some tea with bread, cheese, salted meat, and fruit. We were not prepared for a proper dinner for guests, as his lordship prefers simple meals.”

“That is quite all right; that will suffice,” replied Marguerite.

“Then follow me; I will lead you to your chambers.”

M arguerite stood before the looking glass in her borrowed chamber at Carlisle Manor, fingers working to pin her hair into some semblance of order. One of the maids’ borrowed dresses fit poorly, and the neckline sat lower than propriety dictated. A proper lady would have refused such attire, but proper ladies did not find themselves trapped at a Viscount’s estate overnight.

“His lordship requests your presence at breakfast,” a maid announced through the door.

“A moment, please.” Marguerite reached for the modest fichu that might save her borrowed gown from complete impropriety. “I’m not properly—”

The door opened with barely a knock. Lord Guildford strode in, his attention fixed on a letter in his hand. “Lady Marguerite, my Aunt—”

He stopped abruptly. Marguerite froze, the fichu clutched uselessly in her fingers, painfully aware of her state of undress. A proper gentleman would have averted his eyes immediately. Lord Guildford, it seemed, was no proper gentleman.

His gaze traveled from her unbound hair to the borrowed gown’s revealing neckline before snapping to her face. “I… apologize for the intrusion.”

“Do you?” Her fingers twisted in the fabric. “You seem rather fixed in your position.”

A tell-tale movement rippled beneath the skin of his cheek. “I was merely…”

“Admiring the view?” The words escaped before she could catch them.

His earlier appreciation fled his face. “I assure you, Madam, I was doing nothing of the sort.”

“Then perhaps you might do nothing of the sort from the corridor?” She lifted her chin, fighting the warmth climbing her neck. “Unless you intend to assist with my toilette?”

That provoked a reaction—a sharp intake of breath, a tightening of his fingers on the letter. “You go too far.”

“I go too far?” She gestured to his continued presence in her chamber. “You burst into a lady’s private room without proper warning, catch her in a state of undress, and then have the gall to accuse her of impropriety?”

“I hardly burst in.” But he took a step back, his facade splintering like ice in spring, revealing glimpses of raw emotion beneath. “The door was…”

“Was what, My Lord? Inconveniently closed? Insufficiently barred against your intrusion?”

His expression flattened, lips nearly disappearing. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.” Her amusement showed plainly on her face now, all pretense abandoned. “Though perhaps less than you appear to be.”

That finally prompted him to turn away, though not before she caught the flash of his hardened gaze, as if his civility had nearly slipped. “Breakfast will be served in the morning room. Try not to be too…indecent when you join us.”

“Us?”

“My aunt will join us.” He paused at the door. “Apparently, news of your overnight stay traveled faster than expected.”

Marguerite’s amusement faded. “Lady Crawford is here?”

“She will be shortly. She sent this letter ahead, announcing her imminent arrival. I came to inform you.” The curve of his mouth did nothing to soften his expression. “So you might wish to hurry with your preparations. She’s not known for her patience.”

He closed the door more forcefully than necessary, leaving Marguerite to contemplate this new complication. Lady Crawford’s presence changed everything—she and Lord Guildford couldn’t hide. They would need to present a convincing facade of attachment.

The borrowed gown would never do. Marguerite rang for the maid, who appeared with suspicious promptness.

“Send word to Fitzroy manor,” she instructed. “I require my morning dress and proper undergarments immediately.”

“There’s no need, My Lady. The late Viscountess’s wardrobe has been opened,” the maid said. “The Viscount thought, given the circumstances…”

“His mother’s clothes?” Marguerite stilled the maid’s hands. “Surely Lord Guildford wouldn’t—

“His lordship instructed us himself.” The maid’s voice dropped. “Said it wouldn’t do for you to not be properly dressed for breakfast with Lady Crawford and all.”

The words caught in Marguerite’s throat. To wear his mother’s gowns—the intimacy of it struck her with unexpected force. “Did he specify which one?”

“The blue silk morning dress, My Lady. And…” Her cheeks pinked. “The necessary underthings.”

The thought of Tristan contemplating her need for proper underthings sent heat climbing up her neck. More unsettling still was the image of him ordering his mother’s wardrobe opened—he who guarded every remnant of his past with such fierce privacy.

“Mrs. Thorne says they haven’t been touched since her ladyship passed. Locked away these past five years, though they’re still quite fine. His lordship never allowed…” She caught herself. “That is to say, no one’s been permitted to disturb them until now.”

Marguerite closed her eyes, understanding blooming like bruises beneath her skin. This wasn’t merely practicality. This was trust, offered in the only way he seemed to know how—through actions rather than words.

Of course, he had. The man thought of everything except the basic courtesy of knocking properly before entering a lady’s chamber.

By the time Marguerite descended to the morning room, properly attired in the borrowed clothing, she had composed herself. Lady Crawford sat like a queen holding court, her silver-streaked hair arranged in elaborate curls beneath a modest cap.

“My dear.” The older woman gestured for her to sit. “How fortunate that the storm brought you to us.”

Marguerite sank into an elegant curtsy. “Indeed, your ladyship. Though I fear I’ve imposed upon your nephew’s hospitality.”

“Nonsense.” Lady Crawford’s sharp eyes missed nothing—not the undercurrent of strain that persisted between them nor the way Tristan positioned himself by the window, his remaining discomfort evident in his posture. “What sort of gentleman would leave his betrothed to brave such weather alone?”

“What sort indeed?” Marguerite accepted a cup of tea from the hovering footman.

“The sort of gentleman that is surprised to find his Aunt calling so early.”

“Are you surprised, my dear nephew?” Lady Crawford’s smile conveyed precisely what words could not. “It is my responsibility to call on you when I’m in the neighborhood. The fact that you spent an unchaperoned night with your betrothed under your roof merely added urgency to my usual visit.”

Tristan’s teacup clicked against its saucer. “Your concern for propriety is noted, Aunt. Though perhaps we might discuss that less publicly?”

“Why?” The temperature in the room seemed to plummet at his aunt’s tone. “Have you something to hide?”

“I assure you,” Marguerite interjected smoothly, “Lord Guildford has behaved with perfect propriety.”

“Has he?” Lady Crawford’s gaze fixed on her nephew. “Then perhaps you might explain why he entered your chamber this morning without proper announcement?”

Marguerite’s teacup froze halfway to her lips. Tristan’s expression gave way to something more volatile.

“You are remarkably well-informed,” he said.

“Your servants are remarkably concerned for your reputation.” His aunt set her cup aside deliberately. “Both of yours.”

“The door was open,” Tristan lied, his voice clipped.

“It most certainly was not.” Marguerite couldn’t resist the correction. “Though I’m sure his lordship had some pressing matter that required immediate attention.”

“Did you?” Lady Crawford’s words emerged with enough acid to make even Tristan step back. A vein pulsed at his temple as he held back his response.

He moved to the fireplace, positioning himself to maintain clear sight of both door and windows—at equal distance from both ladies. “I failed to consider the…impropriety of the hour.”

“Among other things.” Marguerite sipped her tea to hide her smile.

Lady Crawford’s eyes narrowed. “I begin to understand why you chose each other.”

“Do you?” Tristan’s tone barely concealed steel beneath.

“Oh yes.” His aunt’s smile was razor-sharp. “You’re equally impossible.”

The breakfast that followed held more verbal sparring than actual eating. Lady Crawford probed their engagement story, each word calculated for maximum effect, while Tristan grew increasingly rigid with each question. Marguerite found herself fabricating details with alarming ease—the exact shade of roses blooming in the garden during his proposal, the precise words he’d used to declare his affection.

“And you accepted immediately?” Lady Crawford pressed.

“Not immediately, no.” Marguerite met Tristan’s gaze across the table. “I required some convincing.”

“Did you indeed?” His voice lowered dangerously.

“You can hardly blame me, My Lord.” She spread preserves on her toast. “Your reputation hardly recommended you as husband material.”

Lady Crawford’s laugh held genuine delight. “Oh, you’ll do nicely.”

“For what?” Tristan demanded.

“For keeping you honest, dear nephew.” His aunt rose. “Come now, Lady Marguerite. Your father will be quite beside himself, and I daresay my presence will barely suffice to quiet the inevitable gossip.”

Tristan stood, his posture rigid as Marguerite gathered her things.

“The carriage is ready,” Mr Thorne announced.

“Then we shan’t delay.” Lady Crawford moved towards the door.

Marguerite paused beside Tristan, lingering for a moment. “Your aunt is formidable.”

“She’s interfering.”

“She’s concerned. Though perhaps not without reason, given your behavior this morning.”

A ghost of a smile touched his expression. “Are you still vexed about that?”

“Wouldn’t you be? A lady’s private chamber is sacred ground, My Lord. Even real betrothals don’t grant such liberties.”

“I apologized.”

“Did you? I recall several statements of fact regarding my state of dress, but no actual apology.”

Lady Crawford’s quiet ‘mmph’ suggested she missed nothing of their exchange.

“Thank you,” Marguerite said finally, “for your hospitality.”

His eyes met hers, holding for a moment too long, and something passed between them—an acknowledgment of boundaries crossed, of trust extended and accepted. “Next time, perhaps consider waiting out storms at home.”

“Next time,” she couldn’t resist adding, “perhaps consider knocking properly.”

She left him standing by the door. He appeared uncertain whether to laugh or scowl. The memory of his face when he’d first entered her chamber—that flash of unguarded appreciation before propriety reasserted itself—lingered in her mind as she made her way to the carriage.

“You know,” Lady Crawford murmured as Marguerite joined her, “I haven’t seen him quite so disturbed since his return from the war. Most refreshing.”

She settled back against the squabs, her shrewd eyes missing nothing. “I suppose we must now convince your father that your reputation remains intact despite my nephew’s rather…unconventional approach to courtship.”

“There’s nothing to convince him of,” Marguerite said, perhaps too quickly. “Lord Guildford was a perfect gentleman.”

“Was he? How disappointing.”

As Fitzroy Manor came into view, Marguerite wondered if Lady Crawford suspected their arrangement. The older woman’s pointed comments and knowing looks hinted at a greater understanding than she revealed.

Then again, perhaps that was simply her way—observing, needling, testing the edges of their facade for weakness. Like her nephew, she seemed to prefer action to direct questions.

The thought was not entirely comforting.

From his vantage point near the milliner’s shop, Lord Edgecombe observed Lady Marguerite’s return with narrowed eyes. His fingers traced the edge of a betting book in his coat pocket. The morning’s racing results had proven disappointing, and the Marquess of Ash’s debts remained frustratingly unpaid. The solution had seemed so elegant—marriage to the old fool’s pretty daughter in exchange for the debt until Guilford’s interference.

The carriage door opened. Lady Crawford descended first, her gaze sweeping the street as though sensing Lord Edgecombe’s presence. Marguerite followed, wearing what appeared to be—interesting—one of the late Lady Guilford’s gowns. The cut was unmistakable; he remembered admiring it at an assembly some years ago.

So. The girl had spent the night at Carlisle Manor. The knowledge settled like a weight in his stomach. It seemed Lord Guilford had compromised her thoroughly, in which case the marriage was inevitable.

He watched Marguerite disappear inside Fitzroy Manor. If he could cause them to break up, the scandal would destroy her prospects. No decent man would have her then except, perhaps, a man willing to overlook such indiscretions in exchange for the cancellation of certain gambling debts.

The thought curved his mouth into something approaching a wicked smile.