Page 8 of My Viscount’s Madness

Chapter 8

End of Summer

M arguerite adjusted her emerald silk gown. Each murmured comment and sideways glance from the gathering crowd registered with painful clarity. The end-of-summer celebration had drawn what seemed like half of Guildford to their meadow, transforming Fitzroy Manor’s grounds into a tapestry of colorful dresses and fashionable coats.

“Lord Guildford hasn’t arrived,” her mother observed, arranging a plate of delicacies with nervous fingers. “Perhaps he’s forgotten the time?”

“He hasn’t forgotten.” Marguerite watched another carriage approach. “He’s merely—”

The words died in her throat as Lord Edgecombe emerged from the vehicle, resplendent in a lime green waistcoat that made him look rather like an overfed budgie. His sister followed, her piggish features arranged in what presumably passed for a pleasant expression.

“Marguerite.” Dinah appeared at her elbow. “I believe I see his lordship’s greys approaching.”

Indeed, Lord Guildford’s matched pair drew his carriage up the drive. He descended with the assurance that spoke of years in society, though Marguerite noted the tension in his shoulders as he surveyed the crowd.

Their gazes met across the lawn. Something flickered in his expression—a momentary softening that vanished so quickly she might have imagined it.

“How fortunate,” Dinah murmured, “that your betrothed arrives just as Lord Edgecombe makes his presence known.”

“Quite. Though I wasn’t aware, the Edgecombes had been invited.”

“They weren’t.”

Lord Guildford approached their group. His bow contained just the right degree of respect—neither too deep to suggest servility nor too shallow to give offense. His dark coat emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, and Marguerite found her attention drawn to the way the material stretched across them as he straightened.

“Lady Marguerite.” His voice carried the proper note of affection, though his eyes retained their usual guardedness. “You look particularly lovely today.”

“How kind of you to notice.” She offered her hand, conscious of their audience. “Though you’re rather late.”

“Fashionably so.” His fingers brushed hers as he bowed over her hand. “I trust you’ll forgive me?”

“That depends entirely on your comportment for the remainder of the afternoon.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Then I shall endeavor to be on my best behavior.”

“Your worst behavior might prove more entertaining.” The words escaped before she could check them.

His eyes darkened at that, and the air seemed to be still. Marguerite withdrew her hand, suddenly aware of how warm the morning had grown.

“Lady Marguerite!” Mrs. Porter, the baker’s wife, approached with several companions. “We were just discussing the preparations for the harvest festival. Might we have your opinion?”

Marguerite touched Lord Guildford’s arm lightly. “You’ll excuse me?”

“Of course.” His voice lowered. “Though perhaps we might take a turn about the grounds later?”

She noted that he selected his place with the care of a man who understood strategic advantage. He chose his position high up by the grand oak tree, keeping the entire meadow in view, and this stance allowed observation of all movement. Marguerite saw the way his gaze constantly swept their surroundings. “When you require a respite from our neighbors’ enthusiasm?”

Understanding passed between them. He inclined his head slightly, and she left him to join Mrs. Porter’s group.

Marguerite’s smile never faltered as she wove through her neighbors; though verbal traps lay beneath seemingly innocent questions, each conversation presented new opportunities for social missteps. Mrs. Fairfax cornered her by the refreshment table, armed with questions about wedding preparations that Marguerite could scarcely answer.

“But surely you’ve chosen the church already?” Mrs. Fairfax pressed, her lorgnette focused on Marguerite’s face with unnerving intensity. “St. Michael’s would be most appropriate, given your family’s connection.”

“We’ve not settled on any particulars yet.” Marguerite lifted a glass of lemonade to her lips, buying precious seconds. “Lord Guildford and I prefer to take things slowly.”

“Slowly?” Hovering at her mother’s elbow, Miss Fairfax tittered behind her fan. “One might think you reluctant.”

Before Marguerite could form a suitably cutting response, Lady Morton descended upon their group with several other matrons in tow. Their eyes followed her movements while their tongues clucked disapproval.

“My dear,” Lady Morton clasped Marguerite’s hands. “We were just discussing the lending library committee. Surely, as our future Viscountess, you’ll want to take a more active role.”

Each requirement of her position added to her burden. Through the crowd, she caught glimpses of Lord Guildford—how he preferred observation over interaction, responding to direct questions with remarkable civility while avoiding deeper engagement.

Lord Edgecombe had positioned himself near the oak trees, his gaze following her movements with predatory intent. His sister held court among a cluster of local ladies, her voice carrying just enough for fragments to reach Marguerite’s ears.

“…most peculiar arrangement…”

“…changed since the war…”

“…quite mad, they say…”

The poison in those words settled like lead in Marguerite’s stomach. She turned away, only to find herself face-to-face with old Mrs. Pembroke, whose deceased husband had served the previous Lord Guildford.

“Such a shame,” the elderly woman said, her rheumy eyes fixed on Marguerite. “He was such a lively young man before Spain. So full of promise.”

“He still is,” Marguerite replied, surprised by the edge in her voice.

“Is he?” Mrs. Pembroke’s expression held something between pity and doubt. “Then perhaps you might explain why he starts at sudden noises? Why does he position himself so he can see every approach? Why he remains aloof.”

“Yes, your betrothed seems rather distant.” Lady Morton’s voice drew Marguerite’s attention. “One might almost think he found our company lacking.”

“Lord Guildford prefers intimate gatherings to large assemblies.” Marguerite kept her tone light. “Though he makes an exception for occasions such as this.”

“How accommodating of him.” Lady Morton’s fan fluttered. “Though one wonders what other accommodations might be required in such a…unique marriage.”

“I wasn’t aware my marriage required your speculation, Lady Morton.”

“Oh, my dear. Everything about your situation invites speculation. A notorious recluse suddenly declaring his intention to wed? And you, accepting with such alacrity? One might almost suspect—”

“One might suspect,” Lord Guildford’s voice cut in smoothly, “that you’ve spent too much time listening to village gossip.”

He appeared at Marguerite’s side, close enough that his presence brought the subtle fragrance of his soap that seemed to cling to his clothing.

“Lord Guildford.” Lady Morton’s color rose. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

“Yes, you did.” His hand settled at the small of Marguerite’s back, the brush of his fingers kindling something deep within as though he’d struck a flint against ready tinder. “Your energy might be better spent attending to your own affairs.”

The women withdrew, muttering something about finding refreshments. Marguerite turned to face Lord Guildford, noting the muscles in his face worked as he fought for control.

“That was unnecessarily cutting,” she said softly.

“Was it?” His fingers flexed against her back. “I found it rather restrained, given the circumstances.”

“Are you well?” She studied his face, marking the shadows beneath his eyes. “We could—”

“Walk with me.” The words emerged more as a command than a request.

They moved away from the main gathering, his hand remaining at her back. The touch felt possessive and protective, though Marguerite knew better than to read too much into either sentiment.

At the edge of the crowd, Lord Guildford’s breathing eased slightly. Marguerite allowed him his silence, understanding his need to reclaim his composure.

“Your sister,” he said at last, “is watching us rather intently.”

“Dinah watches everyone intently.” Marguerite glanced toward where her sister stood with her husband. “It’s her particular talent.”

“And Lord Edgecombe?”

“Has been watching me since his arrival.” She felt his fingers press more firmly against her spine. “Though I imagine you noticed that yourself.”

“I notice everything where you’re concerned.”

Truth lay exposed between them like an unsheathed blade, but both were too wary to examine it.

“A word, if you please.” Lord Edgecombe materialized before them, his waistcoat even more gaudy in the bright afternoon. “Lady Marguerite, might I borrow a moment of your time?”

Lord Guildford’s fingers pressed against her back. “I believe my betrothed—”

“Was just remarking on the lovely gardens,” Marguerite interrupted smoothly. “Perhaps Lord Edgecombe would care to accompany us?”

The older man’s lips curved into something approaching triumph. “I had rather hoped for a private audience.”

“I’m afraid that would be most improper,” Marguerite replied. “Given my engagement.”

“Ah, yes. Your…engagement.” His gaze shifted to Lord Guildford. “Though one wonders at its suddenness. Almost as if it were a convenient solution to an immediate problem.”

“I wasn’t aware my personal affairs required your analysis.” Lord Guildford’s voice carried an edge sharp enough to draw blood.

“No?” Edgecombe’s expression turned thoughtful. “Perhaps you might explain why a man who hasn’t attended a social gathering since his return from Spain suddenly developed such a passionate attachment?”

Marguerite felt Lord Guildford’s entire body go rigid beside her. “My Lord,” she said quietly, “perhaps we might—”

“Tell me, Guildford,” Edgecombe continued, his tone deceptively mild, “does Lady Marguerite know about that night in Madrid? About what happened at the embassy ball?”

The color drained from Lord Guildford’s face. His hand fell away from Marguerite’s back as if burned.

“I suggest,” he said, choosing his response with deliberation, “that you choose your next words with extreme care.”

“Or what?” Edgecombe’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ll react as you did that night? Create another scene that sends ladies fleeing in terror?”

“That’s quite enough.” Marguerite stepped between them, her pulse quick, blood rushing in her ears. “Lord Edgecombe, you forget yourself.”

“Do I?” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Or perhaps you’re the one who’s forgotten what’s at stake. Your father’s debts won’t vanish simply because you’ve attached yourself to a man whose madness makes him more of a liability than an asset.”

“The only liability,” Marguerite replied, her tone arctic, “is the man before me who imagines his wealth grants him leave to terrorize those he cannot possess.”

Something ugly flickered across Edgecombe’s features. “You’ll regret that choice, my dear. When his past finally catches up with him—when the nightmares and memories prove too much—you’ll wish you’d chosen differently.”

“I believe,” Dinah’s calm voice cut through the tension, “that my sister expressed herself quite clearly.”

Edgecombe retreated a step, though his expression remained calculating. “Lady Langston. How fortunate that you’ve joined us. Perhaps you might share what your husband has told you about Lord Guildford’s…experiences in Spain?”

“Perhaps,” Dinah replied, “you might remove yourself from our presence before I’m forced to mention your use of gambling debts to manipulate people to Lady Morton? I understand she’s quite interested in such matters, given her nephew’s recent losses at your card table.”

The threat, delicately delivered but sharp as a blade, had its intended effect. Lord Edgecombe withdrew, though his parting smile promised future retribution.

Marguerite turned to face Lord Guildford, but he had already moved away, the gap between them widening. The shadows in his eyes had deepened, and his hands—usually so steady—trembled slightly at his sides.

“My Lord—”

“Don’t.” He didn’t look at her. “Whatever questions you’re forming, whatever curiosity Edgecombe has sparked—don’t.”

The harsh angles of his face drew her attention, and she observed the tension in every line of his face, noting the muscle jumping in his jaw and how he held himself apart. “I wasn’t going to ask anything.”

“Weren’t you?” Now he did turn, his gaze piercing. “Not even about Madrid? About what happened at that ball?”

“No.” She met his stare steadily. “Though not because I don’t wish to know.”

A momentary vulnerability crossed his features—a crack in his facade. “Then why?”

“Because whatever happened that night belongs to you.” She touched his arm lightly. “And you’ll share it when you choose, not when Lord Edgecombe forces the issue.”

For a moment—just a moment—his expression softened into something dangerously close to tenderness. Then the mask slipped back into place, and he stepped away from her touch.

“The celebration appears to be concluding,” he said formally. “Shall I escort you back to the main party?”

Marguerite accepted his arm, but each step seemed to increase the gulf between them despite their physical proximity. Whatever wounds Lord Edgecombe had reopened, whatever memories he had stirred—they would have to wait for another day.