Page 9 of My Viscount’s Madness

Chapter 9

The Ball

M arguerite stared at the silk gown laid across her bed—a creation of pale gold that had consumed the last of her pin money. The irony of spending her remaining funds on a gown for a ball her betrothed would likely avoid did not escape her.

“The Marchioness wishes to know if you require assistance with your toilette,” Betty said, hovering near the door. “Though she mentioned Lord Guildford hasn’t sent word about meeting you at Lady Norbury’s.”

“He’ll come.” The words emerged more prayer than conviction. “He promised.”

“As your father promised to protect you?”

Marguerite’s fingers stilled on the silk. “You overstep.”

“Someone must.” Betty moved to help her dress. “The servants whisper about his lordship’s gambling. About the missing funds from the estate accounts.”

“Enough.” But the word lacked force. How long had she ignored the signs? The unpaid bills slipped beneath her father’s study door, the growing tension between her parents, the way the household expenses dwindled while his nights at his club multiplied.

A knock interrupted her thoughts. Her father entered without waiting for acknowledgment, his evening clothes immaculate despite their age.

“You’re not dressed.” He frowned at her state of partial readiness. “Lady Norbury expects us within the hour.”

“I’m well aware of the time.” She met his gaze in the mirror. “As I’m aware of the conversation you had with Lord Edgecombe yesterday.”

Color rose in his cheeks. “You were not meant to hear that.”

“No?” She turned to face him fully. “I wasn’t meant to hear you bargaining away my future to cover your gambling debts?”

“You mistake business for—”

“Business?” The laugh that escaped her held no humor. “Is that what you call trading your daughter to a man thrice her age? A man known for preying on young girls?”

“Lord Edgecombe offers security.”

“He offers to clear your debts in exchange for my hand.” She lifted her chin. “How much do I fetch on the marriage market, Papa? What price have you set on my happiness?”

“You dare speak to me this way?” His voice rose. “After everything I’ve sacrificed—”

“Sacrificed?” Marguerite stepped closer, aware of Betty’s swift retreat from the room. “What exactly have you sacrificed? Our security? Mama’s peace of mind? My sisters’ dowries?”

His hand rose as if to strike her. Marguerite didn’t flinch.

“Go ahead,” she said softly. “Add physical correction to your list of paternal failures.”

His arm dropped. “You know nothing of my obligations.”

“I know everything about obligation.” She turned back to her dressing table. “I’ve watched you abandon yours one by one, leaving Mama to manage what remains of our dignity while you gamble away our future.”

“Lord Guildford cannot offer you—”

“Lord Guildford,” she cut in, “at least had the decency to offer me a choice.”

The absence of words spoke volumes. Neither broke the stillness that had descended as her father moved to the door, his shoulders stiff with wounded pride.

“You will remember your duty to this family.”

“As you’ve remembered yours?”

But he had already gone, leaving only the lingering scent of brandy in his wake.

Marguerite’s hands trembled as she finished her toilette. The pale gold silk whispered against her skin, a reminder of choices made and freedoms purchased at the cost of her peace.

The Fitzroy carriage delivered them to Lady Norbury’s manor as other guests arrived steadily. Marguerite noted the curious glances, the whispered speculations about Lord Guildford’s absence.

“Perhaps he’s been delayed,” her mother murmured as they entered the ballroom. “The roads—”

“Are perfectly clear.” Marguerite forced her lips into a smile as Lady Norbury approached. “As is my betrothed’s aversion to such gatherings.”

“My dear!” Lady Norbury embraced her goddaughter. “But where is Lord Guildford? Surely he means to attend?”

“He sends his deepest regrets.” Deception sat uncomfortably in her mouth. “An urgent matter of business—”

“How convenient.” Lord Edgecombe appeared beside them. “Though one wonders what business could be more pressing than attending his betrothed at such an important event.”

Marguerite met his gaze steadily. “I wasn’t aware Lord Guildford’s affairs required your speculation, My Lord.”

“Everything about him invites speculation.” He offered his arm. “Perhaps a turn about the room? We might discuss more…advantageous arrangements.”

“The only advantage I seek,” she replied, “is distance from your company.”

Lady Norbury’s fan fluttered, concealing what might have been approval. “Come, my dear. The first set forms, and I believe young Lord Hampton would be honored to stand up with you.”

As she moved through the crowd, Marguerite caught fragments of conversation that scraped against her composure like thorns.

“Most peculiar engagement…”

“Never appears in society…”

“Poor girl, to be tied to such a man…”

She lifted her chin, allowing none of her inner turmoil to show. Let them whisper. Let them speculate. She would maintain her dignity even as her father gambled theirs away, even as her betrothed’s absence spoke louder than any declaration of affection could.

But something in her chest ached at the empty space beside her—not for the social embarrassment, but for the man whose demons kept him prisoner in his own home.

Lord Hampton proved a capable, if unremarkable, dance partner. As they moved through the steps of the quadrille, Marguerite caught her father watching from the card room entrance, his expression dark with disapproval.

“I must say,” Lord Hampton ventured, “Lord Guildford’s absence has caused quite a stir.”

“Has it?” Marguerite executed a perfect turn. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Lady Morton suggests—”

“Lady Morton,” she interrupted smoothly, “might direct her considerable energies toward more worthy pursuits than speculating about my engagement.”

The dance ended, leaving her free to seek refuge near the refreshment table. Dinah appeared at her elbow, offering a glass of champagne.

“Papa’s losses mount,” her sister murmured. “Lord Edgecombe has him cornered in the card room.”

“Of course he does.” Marguerite watched their father accept another glass of brandy. “He means to press his advantage on all fronts.”

“I wish we could protect him from scoundrels like Lord Edgecombe.”

“I’m not protecting him.” The champagne tasted of ashes. “He should be protecting us. All of us.”

Dinah’s expression softened. “And yet he is our father…”

Before Marguerite could respond, their father emerged from the card room. His complexion held a ruddy flush that spoke of more than mere spirits.

“A word,” he said, gripping Marguerite’s elbow. “Now.”

He guided her into an empty alcove, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Lord Edgecombe has made another offer.”

“How fortunate for him.” She extracted her arm from his grasp. “Though I fail to see its relevance to me.”

“You will accept.”

“I will not.”

“You think your phantom engagement will save you?” His voice dropped lower. “That madman you’ve aligned yourself with can’t even attend a simple ball. How long before society sees through this charade?”

“Society,” Marguerite replied, “sees exactly what it wishes to see. A decorated war hero who chooses privacy over spectacle. A man of principle who—”

“A man of principle?” Her father’s laugh held no warmth. “Is that what you tell yourself? That his absence stems from principle rather than cowardice?”

“You know nothing about him.”

“I know he’s left you to face this evening alone.” He straightened his cravat with unsteady fingers. “I know Lord Edgecombe offers saving for this family’s reputation. I know your duty—”

“My duty?” The words emerged barely above a whisper. “Was it a duty that drove you to the gaming halls? That led you to risk everything you possess? That brought us to this precipice?”

The color drained from his face. “You forget yourself.”

“No, Papa.” She met his gaze steadily. “You forgot us first.”

She left him standing in the alcove, weaving between clusters of guests as though following her own path, never quite close enough to be drawn into the conversation for long. Each smile she gave and returned felt painted on, each pleasant word a fresh betrayal of her true feelings.

Lady Norbury caught her arm as she passed. “My dear, are you quite well? You look rather pale.”

“Perfectly well.” Marguerite summoned another smile. “Though I find myself missing Lord Guildford’s company.”

“Ah, yes.” Her godmother’s eyes held knowing sympathy. “These things can be…difficult for men who’ve seen war. My late husband—”

“There you are!” Lord Edgecombe’s voice cut through the general chatter. “I believe you promised me this dance, Lady Marguerite.”

“I made no such promise.”

“No?” He moved closer, alcohol heavy on his breath. “Just as your betrothed made no promise to attend? How convenient that his affliction keeps him from proper society.”

“Lord Guildford’s choices are his own.”

“Are they? Or perhaps he simply lacks the courage to face civilization? I understand certain memories can be quite…overwhelming.”

“The only thing overwhelming me at present,” Marguerite replied, “is your persistent inability to recognize when you’re not wanted.”

“You think him so noble? So worthy of your defense? Ask him about Madrid. About what happened when the music—”

“I suggest,” Marguerite cut in, her voice carrying the quiet authority she’d learned at her mother’s knee, “that you reconsider completing that sentence.”

Lord Edgecombe’s mouth snapped shut, though his eyes glittered with malice.

“My betrothed’s past is his own,” she continued, noting how her sister shifted closer in silent support. “Your attempts to malign his character speak more to your own failings than his.”

He withdrew with a curl of his mouth. Marguerite waited until he disappeared into the crowd before allowing her hands to unclench.

“Well done,” Dinah murmured. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Nor did I.” Marguerite watched their father disappear into the card room. “Though necessity proves an excellent teacher.”

“Indeed.” Her sister’s shrewd gaze missed nothing. “Lord Edgecombe grows desperate.”

“As do Papa’s debts, I imagine.” The words tasted bitter. “Though I begin to wonder which presents the greater danger.”

Couples whirled past them on the dance floor, their joy starkly contrasting with the empty space where Lord Guildford should have stood. Each introduction she made alone, each dance she declined, added weight to the whispers, yet she found she minded less than expected.

Her fingers traced the edge of her dance card, remembering his hesitation at the mention of the ball. The ballroom’s heat and noise would have been torture for him. Understanding didn’t entirely ease the ache of his absence, but it helped.

Dinah touched her arm. “You care for him.”

It wasn’t a question. Marguerite didn’t bother denying it.

As their carriage finally carried them home, Marguerite pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window.

“Well,” her father said into the silence, “I trust you’re satisfied with this evening’s performance.”

Marguerite didn’t turn from the window. “As satisfied as you must be with yours.”

His sharp intake of breath suggested the hit had landed. Good. Let him feel some small measure of the pain he inflicted so carelessly on others.

She would find another way—one that protected her family without sacrificing her soul to Lord Edgecombe’s ambitions, and somehow, she would help Lord Guildford find his way back to himself, even if it meant facing down every demon that haunted his dreams.