A Diamond in the Rough Page 14

  She colored slightly and began to finger the book in her lap. “Perhaps.” Under her breath she added, “But I doubt it.”

  “From you, at least, I should expect a more open mind,” he continued. “Not one colored by mere prejudice or hearsay.”

  Her cheeks burned a bit hotter. Close as they were, Ferguson knew nothing of her real background, and his words had unwittingly struck closer to the truth than Derrien cared to admit. “Very well, Charlie, I shall try.” The carriage rolled to a halt and Ferguson assisted the ladies in dismounting. Up ahead, the three other vehicles that made up the excursion were emptying of their passengers. In all there were ten men and nine ladies, the wife of Mr. Strathyeum having taken ill with a bad cough at the last minute. Ferguson quickly slipped his arm around Derrien’s elbow and drew her to one side as the rest of the party began to pair off for the stroll out to the ruins of the abbey.

  “I have a great favor to ask of you,” he murmured in her ear after they had fallen in toward the back of the group.

  “You know you may count on me for anything.”

  He cleared his throat while checking that no one else was close enough to overhear. “I should be eternally grateful if you would contrive to engage Lord Marquand’s attention for some reason—any reason—so that he might be obliged to walk with you for a bit.” Another short cough. “And so I might be paired with Miss Dunster.”

  It was only with great difficulty that Derrien kept from mouthing a most unladylike word. “Oh, Charlie, not you too! Don’t tell me you are going to make a cake of yourself by swooning around the lovely lady like some lovesick mooncalf! Only look up ahead at how every man, even those half blind with age, is ogling—”

  A warning look from Ferguson caused her words to cut off abruptly. But as soon as the approaching couple passed them she fixed him with a black scowl. “Besides, have you forgotten she is engaged to Lord Marquand? Do you wish to end up facing a pistol at twenty paces?” His hand tightened on her arm. “Forget it then, I shall find another way—”

  “You will not,” she snapped. “Of course I shall do it, but that doesn’t mean I shall like it.” On seeing how pale his sensitive face had become, her brow furrowed in sudden concern. “What’s going on there?” she demanded in a near whisper. “I know you well enough to know this is no mere—”

  “Please.” His expression took on a haunted look. “Don’t ask. I shall explain . . . when I can.”

  She bit her lip. “Very well.”

  Several other couples caught up to them, forestalling any further conversation on the matter. Derrien managed to make the requisite small talk, but her mind was really on her friend and his strange request. What possible reason could Ferguson have for wanting to spend some time alone with the rigid Miss Dunster? Even if he had been suddenly smitten by an unaccountable infatuation with the icy young lady, he could not be so much of a fool as to think she would pay him the least attention. If anything, he would only end up embarrassing himself—and perhaps worse. She was well-enough acquainted with the Viscount’s physical prowess to imagine he would be a crack shot.

  Her chin took on the stubborn tilt that her intimate friends would have recognized all too well as a sign that her mind had set upon a certain course. She was simply going to have to keep a close eye on her friend to see he didn’t get himself into real trouble.

  The weathered stone remains of the abbey were set on a high promontory overlooking the sea. The view from the crumbling walls was magnificent now that the early morning clouds had blown through, leaving the sky a crisp cerulean blue whose rich color was also reflected in the gentle waves breaking upon the rocky shore. It was warm enough that even the most delicate of the ladies had no objection to exploring the grounds before partaking of the repast, and with such an impressive array of scholars among them, there was no risk of anyone being left unenlightened as to the abbey’s significance in Scottish history.

  Even now, Derrien could make out the tall form of the Viscount, standing beside his intended bride, head bent slightly as if spellbound by Professor Kildare’s detailed account of some minor skirmish from the sixteenth century. Though the words were barely audible at that distance, he appeared to be speaking with some relish of the punishments exacted by the victors—which apparently included a goodly number of severed limbs and grotesque tortures. She jerked on Ferguson’s arm, drawing their steps in the direction of the trio, and as they got closer, she had to repress a grin at the look in Marquand’s eyes. He looked ready to cut off Kildare’s tongue, along with any other appendage within reach, if a broadsword had been handy. Derrien could almost feel a dash of sympathy for Miss Dunster, whose face had taken on a more deathly pallor than usual at the graphic descriptions.

  Ferguson tried to detour around one of the massive arches, but she held firm. “We must stay close to them,” she whispered. “Once Walter has finished, I have no doubt that his lordship will want to slip off for a private stroll with his lady. Then we can follow and—”

  “P—perhaps we should wait until after the picnic,” he stammered. His own visage had turned nearly as pale as Miss Dunster’s and he appeared more nervous than Derrien had ever seen him.

  “No,” she said firmly. “Buck up your courage, Charlie. If you insist on doing this, best get it over with.”

  He swallowed hard but let himself be led on.

  Sure enough, the moment Kildare wound up his narrative, Marquand left no room for another long-winded story to begin. With a civil but unmistakable indication that the history lesson was at an end, he drew both himself and Miss Dunster away from the professor and headed toward some of the smaller outbuildings, whose position on the crest of a small rise afforded a clear view out over the bay to the distant spires of St. Andrews. Derrien had to all but drag Ferguson in the other couple’s wake, but in a matter of minutes they came abreast of them behind the oldest section of the original church.

  Taking note of her friend’s locked jaw, Derrien realized there was no choice but to take matters into her own hands.

  Chapter Ten

  "Good day, Lord Marquand,” she said with a forced brightness. Having never been formally introduced to the Viscount’s companion, Derrien knew he would be obliged to stop and fulfill the required social niceties.

  He turned slowly and she thought she noted a flicker of some emotion in his gray-green eyes, though what it was she couldn’t really make out. Most likely it was annoyance, if not real anger, she thought with an inward grimace. She could hardly blame him if her countenance wasn’t exactly a welcome one, but for the sake of her friend she plunged ahead. “A delightful day for a stroll, is it not?” Without waiting for a reply, she held out her hand. “I don’t believe I have had the pleasure of being introduced to your charming companion, sir—not formally, that is.”

  Whatever previous emotion had flashed across Mar-quand’s features was now replaced by an expression of faint amusement. “Then allow me,” he replied with exaggerated politeness. “Honoria, may I present Miss Edwards.” There was a fraction of a pause. “Miss Edwards, Lady Honoria Dunster.”

  Honoria’s glove grazed against Derrien’s. “Delighted, Miss Edwards,” she murmured.

  “I believe you have met my companion, Mr. Ferguson?” That the lady’s eyes studiously avoided any contact with those of Ferguson as she managed a quick nod was not lost on Derrien, though she also noted that the Viscount seemed not to notice anything amiss.

  There was some deep mystery here, she was sure of

  it, and the thought of her good friend falling into some abyss from which he could not extricate himself caused her throat to constrict with concern. Yet she had given her promise to help, and until Ferguson had a chance to explain, she felt she had no choice but to proceed as planned.

  “And you, Lord Marquand,” she continued in the same overbrittle voice, “have the two of you gentlemen—”

  “No, we have not.” The Viscount interrupted her speech by inclining a slight bow in Ferguson’s
direction. “Marquand.”

  “Charles Ferguson, my lord.”

  Derrien was glad to note that his voice was firm, and that his return bow was no more pronounced than that of the English lord.”

  Having performed the necessary chore of introductions, Marquand looked impatient to be on his way, but Derrien sidled forward to effectively block his path. “I was wondering, my lord, if I might a brief word with you . . .”

  His brows arched up in mild surprise.

  “Ah, Charles, I’m sure Miss Dunster has not seen the view of the sea from the walkway in front of the transept,” she added quickly, shooting him a pointed glance. “You know it is considered the best vantage point for, er, spotting the rare white kestrel that, er, nests in the nearby cliffs.”

  “Yes, the white kestrel,” he repeated faintly. “Er, quite right. I should be delighted, that is, if the lady would care to accompany me, and his lordship has no objection.” He cleared his throat and offered his arm to Honoria.

  If possible, her color became even paler, but she placed her hand on his sleeve without a perceptible hesitation.

  Marquand raised no objection. He stepped aside, and with a slight gesture of his hand, indicated that the couple should pass. Once they had disappeared around the corner of the ancient church, he turned back to Derrien and, with some nonchalance, folded his arms across his chest and fixed her with a penetrating stare.

  “Well, Miss Edwards? I must admit, I am waiting with bated breath to hear whatever it is you wish to tell me. It must be of great importance, indeed, for you to seek out my company of your own accord.”

  Ferguson made no attempt to speak until they were well away from the others, and even then, he had to clear his throat several times before any words would come out.

  “You have grown even more beautiful over the years, Nora.” His mouth quirked into a tentative smile. “I think of you . . . often. More often than I care to admit, as I’m sure that you hardly remember a poor tutor who—” Her eyes flew up to meet his, alight with a spark of emotion that the Viscount would not have recognized. Although her answering words came out in barely more than a whisper, they were no less intense. “How can you think that I have forgotten you, even for a day!” Glancing around to make sure they were unobserved, Ferguson pulled her into the shadows of an archway and brought his lips down upon hers in a passionate embrace. Honoria returned his kisses with equal ardor, until finally, regaining some measure of discretion, she pushed away gently from his chest. “Ch—Charles, we must not allow this to happen—”

  “The devil we mustn’t!” He tipped her chin up so that she could not hide her face from him beneath the cover of her bonnet. “Just tell me one thing—do you love him?”

  The answer was more than evident in her expression of longing. “You need ask?” she asked, the comers of her mouth trembling. After a moment she added, “But my feelings have nothing to do with it. You know I have precious little choice in the matter.” An edge of bitter cynicism cut into her tone. “My father expects a handsome return on his investment of raising a daughter—I am expected to do my duty and procure a prominent title in return for his blunt, no matter that I am . . . d— damaged goods.”

  Ferguson’s hands tightened on her shoulders.

  “Lord Marquand is ... a decent man,” she continued in a near whisper. “It ... it could be much worse.”

  A savage oath exploded from his lips. “I’m not a callow youth anymore, Nora! When your maid gave away our plans to elope and your father caught up with us on the Great Northern Road, I should never have let him convince me that I was too raw, too poor to ever make you happy. I realize now what a fool I was to slink away and let you go without a fight.” His fingers came up to caress her cheek. “Now that chance has brought us together again, I don’t intend to make the same mistake.” He hesitated, a hint of doubt creeping into his voice. “That is, if you would still have me. I cannot offer you a fortune or a title, but neither am I a penniless tutor anymore. I have a good position at the University and have some prospects for further advancement. There would be no endless rounds of balls nor closets full of expensive gowns nor a houseful of servants, but we would have a comfortable life together.”

  She made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a sob. “None of those things matter a whit to me! All I wish is to be with you, Charles! But what can we do? My engagement to the Viscount was announced before we left London, and Mama has already picked out a date.”

  “When?”

  “The fourth of December.”

  His mouth compressed in a grim line. “That is quite a long way off—much may happen to change things.”

  “B—but we are supposed to leave here to return to London in little more than a week.”

  “Don’t worry, my love, I shall come up with something by then.” He essayed a tight smile. “After all, this time we are already in Scotland.”

  Honoria answered him with her own brave imitation of his expression.

  The faint echo of footsteps warned them that others were approaching. “I had best take you back.” He straightened his cravat and placed her hand back on his sleeve, not before giving it a quick squeeze. “You must try to act as though nothing is amiss. I shall contrive to be included in all the entertainments to which you are invited over the next little while, and we shall manage to steal a few moments to speak privately and decide on a plan. Do you think you can do that, Nora?”

  They had begun to walk at a leisurely pace back toward the other path, taking great care to appear as no more than two casual acquaintances making polite conversation. Honoria’s chin came up and when she turned her head slightly to glance at the young professor, all trace of emotion had been wiped from her face. “Of course I can pretend as if nothing is wrong, Charles. After all, I have been doing it for the last four years, so another little while will hardly signify.”

  “Brave girl,” he murmured. “My only fear is that your parents might recognize my face, despite—”

  “Father is off at a friend’s shooting box and Mama— I don’t think Mama ever bothered to take a proper look at her son’s tutor.”

  He gave a mirthless chuckle. “Quite right. Well then, our little secret should be safe enough for a while.” He drew in a deep breath as they came to the crest of the hill. “Keep that lovely chin up, my dear. I promise you I will find some way out of this bumblebroth.”

  “Well, as to that, sir . . .” Derrien bit her lip, frantically searching for some plausible reason as to why she had interrupted the Viscount’s stroll with his intended bride. Now that he stood there in front of her, foot tapping in some impatience, she felt totally foolish. To her mortification, her cheeks began to bum as hot as a flame, and the thought of how silly she must look caused her jaw to clench. “I . . . wish to apologize for my rudeness of the other day. I have an unfortunate knack for letting my tongue run away with me.”

  For an instant he looked surprised, then his expression quickly changed into one of amusement. “Somehow, Miss Edwards, such contrition is not overly convincing.” “Why—”

  A quirk of a smile appeared on his Ups. “Because you are scowling as though that tongue of yours would rather run all the way to China than be forced to give an apology to me.”

  “T—that’s not true. Not entirely.” Her head ducked. “I am sorry for what I said. I am aware that I have no right to comment on your . . . personal affairs.”

  “No, you do not. Especially when you don’t understand that of which you speak,” he said softly.

  Derrien was taken aback by the raw emotion in his voice, so at odds with his cool demeanor. “But you have admitted you are here in St. Andrews because of a wager. If I am wrong in what I said, I should like to . . . to understand why.”

  “Understand, Miss Edwards?” He turned his head to stare out over the sea, where a rising breeze had kicked up a froth of whitecaps, and his expression twisted into one of weary cynicism. “Understand what—that my father is a wastrel and has risk
ed the family estate on the turn of a card, leaving me with the task of salvaging the whole sordid affair? I doubt a young miss like you, raised in a warm and loving family, would understand that sort of obsession, just as you wouldn’t have any idea what it is like to live with the uncertainty of whether there was enough blunt for food or whether your father was going to beat you while in a drunken stupor. Or your mother abandon you for months on end in a cold, drafty house with naught but an elderly—” He caught himself and a dull flush spread over his cheeks. His eyes pressed closed for a moment, accentuating the fine line of worry etched at their comers, before he spoke again. “Now it is I who have let my tongue run where it should not,” he said quietly. One hand came up to rub at his temple and he went on in a near whisper, as if speaking only to himself. “I don’t know what has come over me of late—I am not usually prone to behaving as if I were an hysterical schoolgirl. I’ve never spoken to anyone but Tony about such things.”

  For the second time in as many days, Derrien was forced to hang her head in shame. If the Viscount’s revelations had even a grain of truth to them, she was guilty of a gross injustice in judging him so harshly. Not that she doubted any of it—she had seen a glimpse of his inner pain in the depth of those gray-green eyes before he regained his usual icy composure. She opened her mouth to speak but words seemed to elude her. No explanation seemed adequate to express the tangle of her confused emotions.

  He slowly forced his gaze back to meet hers. “I pray you will do me the favor of forgetting this little scene. Your apology, though unnecessary, is accepted.” He reached out his arm. “Shall I escort you back to your friend—”

  His gesture caused her to step forward and lay a hand on his arm. “I—I always imagined a titled gentleman would have a ... a perfect life.”

  Marquand gave a grimace of self-mockery. “No, Miss Edwards. More likely it is you who have had the perfect upbringing, with doting mother and father, and now an aunt who—”