A Diamond in the Rough Read online

  Viscount Marquand does not love Miss Dunster, she repeated to herself.

  Why was it that the words flowed as sweet as wild heather honey over her tongue?

  She swallowed hard, trying to find some rational explanation for the sudden pounding in her chest. She was simply relieved, she told herself, because she didn’t wish to see him hurt. Yes, that was it. She had come to see him as a sensitive, caring individual rather than a cold, unfeeling aristocrat—in short, she had come to see him as a friend.

  A slight cough interrupted her thoughts. “Does that answer your question, Master Derry?”

  She didn’t dare look at him. “Yes, sir. I think I understand what you mean.” She fumbled with the hickory shafts resting on her shoulders. “Uh, it’s the baffing spoon you’ll be wanting next, sir. See that steep bunker you must clear? Well, it is wider than it appears and behind it . .

  Marquand did not look at all unhappy to be leaving the questions of his personal affairs behind. With a tad more eagerness than usual, he took the club and executed the shot she suggested. “Now, I imagine I should take my heavy iron and chip the ball toward that crest on the right. The slope of the green will then cause it to roll close to the hole.”

  Derrien nodded.

  He finished his play and made a note of his score with the pencil and paper he kept tucked in his pocket. “Not bad,” he murmured.

  “Don’t start thinking of your score, sir,” she cautioned. “There is plenty of time to tally up the strokes once we are finished. It’s best to keep your mind well away from such thoughts while still out on the course.”

  She was soon ruing such sage words of advice when, after knocking a decent drive at the start of the sixteenth hole, he handed back the long spoon and started to follow her down the fairway. “So, Master Derry,” he began, “you’ve asked of my lady. What of you? Have you someone who has set your heart aflutter?” He grinned. “Someone whose sweet lips you dream of tasting?”

  She nearly choked. “I . . . No!”

  “No?” His grin widened. “Come now, don’t be shy, lad. Surely you Scots are as wont to discuss the ladies among yourselves as we Englishmen. And as I have a bit more experience in that field than I do at golf, I might even be able to offer you some advice on how to coax a kiss from the object of your affection.” He reached out and took playful hold of her chin, tilting her head up toward him. “Though I would think, lad, you would have no trouble stealing whatever you wanted from the opposite sex. Have you yet enjoyed a grope or a tumble in the hay?”

  She twisted out of his grasp. “Sir!” Her voice very nearly slipped into a squeak. “This was not exactly the sort of topic I had in mind when I said to think of something other than the score.”

  Marquand let his arm fall to his side. “Since such teasing appears to make you uncomfortable, Master Derry, I shall—” His words cut off abruptly as Derrien’s hand came up to rub at her chin and his gray-green eyes suddenly focused on her lips with an intensity that caused her to take a step back.

  “W—what is it?”

  It was a moment before he spoke. “Nothing,” he muttered, letting out a harried sigh. “It’s just that at times, you remind me of someone, but I can’t for the life of me figure out who.” Then he shrugged. “Well, it’s of no importance, I suppose.”

  They had come up to his ball and Derrien was grateful for the excuse to look away into the distance. “Take the middle spoon, and aim for the church spire.”

  He did as he was told and the shot landed on a slight rise, just left of the sloping bunker on the left.

  “Excellent placement, Lord Marquand!” came a voice from behind a thicket of tall gorse.

  Both of them started as Philp stepped out from the flickering shadows. “I thought I might come out and check on what sort of progress you have been making, sir,” he continued after taking several puffs on his briar pipe. It might have been Derrien’s imagination, but it seemed the older man’s gaze lingered first on the Viscount and then on herself for a touch longer than necessary. “But I see there is nothing to worry about. You are making great headway.”

  “Due in no small part to my caddie.”

  Derrien felt her face growing quite warm at the Viscount’s praise. Good Lord, she must be more careful! The man was beginning to have entirely too much effect on her person, that a few simple words could cause her blood to heat.

  “I have to admit that your Master Derry has taught me a thing or two,” continued Marquand. “Though honesty compels me to confess that when we started, I would not have thought it possible. The lad has turned out to be quite a diamond in the rough.”

  A decided twinkle came to Philp’s eyes. “Yes, Derry has quite a number of hidden facets.”

  She restrained the urge to kick him in the shins. “We had best start play if we are to finish the eighteenth hole before the rain returns.”

  “Yes, it was, shall we say, a rather amusing performance.” Hertford tapped the ash from his cigar and a smug smile formed on his lips. “Perhaps, as Lord Marquand appears to have a fondness for sand, he should consider taking himself off to Jamaica, where the beaches are said to be quite extensive.” As he paused to take another glass of champagne from a passing waiter, a harsh chuckle bubbled up from the depths of his throat. “And after I add Woolsey Hall to what I’ve won from his father, the poor fellow may have no choice but to seek his fortune in the New World, for there will be precious little of the Linsley inheritance that will not be in my possession.”

  Derrien couldn’t help but overhear the last of the marquess’s words as her steps brought her close to the far end of the terrace, where a group of gentlemen had gathered to blow a cloud without disturbing the ladies. She came to a halt in the shadows of the pergola spanning the graveled path and drew in a sharp breath to keep from making an angry retort. Several of Hertford’s cronies who had come up with him from London laughed at the barbed quip, but the locals, having no fondness for their English neighbor, remained silent.

  The unseemly bragging appeared to set particularly ill with Sir Twining, who gave a grunt and raised his shaggy brows a fraction. “You seem quite sure of victory, my lord.”

  A trail of smoke rings drifted out toward a row of esplaniered pear trees, followed by a mocking chuckle. “As you said yourself, golf takes years to master.” “Indeed.” The Baronet exhaled slowly. “But Lord Marquand does not have to master the game, merely acquire enough skill to be able to post a credible score for one round. From what I have heard, his efforts are beginning to add up.”

  The number that he mentioned caused the Marquess to choke on a lungful of smoke.

  “Not bad for a neophyte,” continued Twining with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. “Not bad at all. It seems that this contest may prove to be more interesting than anyone imagined.” He paused to quaff a bit of his ale. “But naturally, as a keen sportsman, you must welcome the challenge of meeting an opponent who can test your skills.”

  More than one flinty smile appeared among the Scotsmen.

  Derrien, too, found her scowl replaced by a look of grim satisfaction as she watched Hertford drop the stub of his cigar and grind it out under his heel with a show of unconcern.

  “Any beginner may manage to put together a few lucky shots in practice,” he drawled. “It would take a player of far greater expertise than the Viscount to give me cause to doubt the outcome of the real match.” The smirk, however, had disappeared from his face, replaced by a certain tautness around the mouth. With an exaggerated shrug, he turned abruptly and stalked off down the steps leading to the gardens.

  Trapped by his sudden approach, Derrien had no choice but to shrink farther into the shadows and hope that he might pass without noticing her presence. His gaze, however, seemed to catch on the gently swaying climbing roses entwined around the weathered wood. To her dismay, he halted, then drew closer to the fragrant blooms.

  “Why, Miss Edwards, out for a stroll by yourself? Your interest in gardens must be great
indeed.” He lounged up against one of the thick posts and raked his eyes over her rigid features. “I, too, am fond of pretty blossoms, especially ones that have a show of color to them. They are far more interesting than some bland, fragile thing that loses its life the moment it is picked.” She gave a low snort of disgust. “I told you, sir, your likes and dislikes are of no earthly interest to me.” “No?” His brow rose in mock surprise. “But I was so looking forward to cultivating an acquaintance. Of all the local flora, you are quite the most intriguing.”

  “And of all the local fauna, you are quite the most despicable.” Derrien made a move to go around him, but he shifted to block her path.

  “A prickly little thing, aren’t you,” he continued in a low voice. “But I have a great deal of experience and skill at plucking—”

  “Surely you would not be thinking of disturbing even a petal in Playfair’s garden? I don’t imagine he would look kindly on that sort of thing.”

  Hertford spun around. “Marquand, you are becoming

  a—”

  “Thorn in your side?” suggested the Viscount. “No doubt I am proving a good deal more troublesome than the drunken fools you are used to fleecing.”

  “Just what are you implying?” snarled the other man. “Why, only that this time, the cards you have dealt to yourself may not prove as lucky as usual.” He stepped around to the other side of the pergola and offered his arm to Derrien. “Miss Edwards, perhaps I might escort you to a part of the garden that would be more to your liking?”

  She flashed him a grateful smile. “Yes, I find this spot is not at all to my taste.”

  Eyes narrowed in anger, the marquess watched them walk away. “Ha! You haven’t a prayer’s chance in hell of coming up aces,” he muttered to himself. But the unconscious furrowing of his brow showed that a seed of doubt had been planted.

  “Are you quite sure, Nora?” Ferguson’s eyes flooded with worry. “If he tells your mother, there is no telling what extreme measures she might take in order to keep you away from me.”

  “Oh, I have no doubts that she would be well capable of ordering me trussed up and carted back to London in a locked carriage if it would do any good, but like you, Charles, I am no longer a green adolescent, afraid to stand up for myself. I am of age and I cannot be forced into wedlock, no matter what my parents may desire. This time I shall inform them in no uncertain terms that my mind is made up—that is, if it comes to that.” She drew in a deep breath. “But I believe Lord Marquand is too much of a gentleman to betray us.”

  Ferguson looked unconvinced. “A lover scorned is not going to be inclined to be overly magnanimous, my dear. Especially as he is losing not only a lovely bride, but a rather large dowry. And word has it that he could well use the blunt.”

  “I ... I hadn’t thought of that.” She bit her lip, “Still,

  I have made up my mind, Charles. For the sake of my own honor, I cannot leave in such a cowardly fashion, without telling him to his face.”

  He sighed. “You must do what your conscience dictates, Nora, but—” The rest of his words turned into a warning cough as another couple approached near to where the young professor was ostensibly explaining the history of the Roman sculpture on display on the outdoor terrace to the English visitor.

  “A splendid evening, is it not, Ferguson?” Indeed, the unsettled weather had been blown out to sea, leaving in its wake a certain clarity to the fresh air and slanting light that most of the other guests were taking full advantage of by enjoying a stroll in their host’s extensive garden.

  “Yes. Splendid.”

  “And you, Miss Dunster. You are enjoying your visit to Scotland?”

  She fixed the local magistrate and his wife with a brilliant smile. “I couldn’t be more pleased with how things have turned out.” Her lips twitched slightly as she stole a glance at Ferguson. “Not at all what I expected.” “Yes.” The man looked a trifle confused by her words but gave a knowing nod. “Of course. Scotland is, er, like that.”

  Ferguson coughed again, this time to hide a smile. “I believe I have kept you away from Lord Marquand far too long, Miss Dunster.” He began to scan the graveled walkways for some sign of the Viscount. “Shall we look for him . . .”

  “Oh, as to that, I saw his lordship not five minutes ago, sitting by Cupid’s fountain with Miss Edwards.” “Ah, thank you.” Ferguson offered his arm to Honoria and led her toward a path bordered by a low hedge of clipped yews. As soon as they were out of earshot, he added, “I see I owe my friend Miss Edwards a debt of gratitude. Though I asked her help just that once at the picnic, she has since taken it upon herself to keep Marquand occupied, even though she cannot abide the fellow, so that I might have an easier time finding some private moments with you.” Before Honoria could answer, they turned a corner and the circular marble fountain, topped by a statue of the impish archer, came into view. “Here is your opportunity, my dear. I hope you are not making a terrible mistake.”

  Her hand tightened on his sleeve. “So do I, Charles,” she whispered. “But it must be done.”

  The Viscount was so intent on showing the sketches to Derrien that he was unmindful of the crunch of gravel until it was nearly upon him. He shot to his feet on seeing his intended bride and the young professor standing close by, spilling the papers in his lap onto the ground in the process. An audible oath nearly slipped from his Ups as well. Hell’s teeth, he growled to himself, surprised at the stab of disappointment that cut through him on realizing that his private chat with the young lady was at an end. Why, he was not nearly finished with pointing out all the nuances of the plan. Still, he carefully masked his feelings with a tight smile as he bent to retrieve the papers. “Ah, there you are, Honoria.”

  “I was wondering where you had gone off to, sir,” she said softly. Her eyes went from Derrien’s barely disguised scowl to the drawings in his hands before turning back to Marquand’s rigid face. “But perhaps I am interrupting—”

  Ferguson kept her from retreating a step.

  “No, no. That is, I was merely showing Miss Edwards an ... an idea or two. For a garden.” He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another, then gave himself a mental kick for behaving like a guilty schoolboy. “Forgive me, my dear,” he went on, though his eyes unaccountably strayed to one of the golden ringlets that had escaped the silk ribbon binding Derrien’s curls. “I must have lost track of the time.”

  “Adrian . . .”

  His head jerked up.

  “Might Miss Edwards allow me to steal you away for a moment?”

  Derrien reached up and plucked the plans from his fingers. “Of course. Lord Marquand had already been more than kind in taking the time to scribble a few pointers for me.”

  The Viscount had to restrain the urge to tuck the errant wisp of hair behind her ear. “Ahhh . . .”

  “Derrien, perhaps you would care to walk down to the lake before it becomes too dark,” offered Ferguson quickly. “The marble folly is particularly pretty at this time of the evening.”

  She stuffed the sketches into her reticule and got to her feet. “By all means, Charlie.”

  Charlie, thought Marquand with some irritation. Were they on such easy terms that she always called him Charlie? And who had given the impertinent fellow the right to use her given name? Or take her arm in such an intimate way, he added to himself, on seeing the other man’s hand tuck around her elbow as they strolled away. It was a moment or two before he remembered he was not alone. “Er, would you care to be taken inside, my dear? The breeze appears to be freshening.”

  “No. Actually I prefer to stay here, my lo—Adrian. There is a matter of some importance that I wish to discuss with you.”

  He forced his eyes away from the receding figures. “Why, of course,” he said, trying to sound as if she had his full attention.

  She hesitated.

  “Yes?” he encouraged.

  “This ... is very difficult, my lord.”

  He couldn’t help but
notice how her eyes were shuttered, and sought to avoid his own, unlike those of another young lady, which made no attempt to hide their feelings behind a heavy screen of proper manners. Good Lord, had he really wished for such a bride, he thought with a surge of regret, one who was so wooden that she couldn’t unbend enough to say his given name. His jaw tightened as he recalled that Miss Edwards called her friend Charlie.

  His intended bride’s head was bent, her blond tresses knotted in an artful arrangement that called to mind a comment by Ellington. Not a hair out of place—that was what Tony had said. Suddenly, all he could picture was an unruly wheaten curl, dancing free of any hairpin or other constraint, and all his simmering frustrations finally boiled over. “Oh, for God’s sake, Honoria, tell me what’s wrong! We used to be able to talk to each other with a modicum of honesty, at least, even if there was little . . . passion between us.”

  The young lady’s eyes flew up. “But Mama has always said that gentlemen do not want—”

  “The devil take it! Your mama has no clue as to what a man might want from a lady! She is a bitter, withered stick, with not an ounce of sap left in her. Don’t let her drain the life from you as well. Now out with it!” He tried to temper the heat of his words with a grim smile. “After all, how bad can it be?”

  She tried to smile as well, though her lips were quivering. “Actually, I doubt it can be any worse.” It took several moments for her to go on. “I feel you have a right to be told to your face, for you are an honorable, n—nice man, your—Adrian.” A tear spilled down her cheek, however her chin held firm. “But I ... I don’t love you. I love Ch—Charles Ferguson. We are going to elope tomorrow and be married by nightfall. I should like to ask that you don’t alert my mother as to our plans, but even if you do, I shall contrive to break away.” “Ferguson?” Stunned, he could only stare at her in blank disbelief. Of all the possible reasons for the subtle changes in her behavior, this was certainly not one that had ever crossed his mind. He supposed he ought to be experiencing some sense of outrage or betrayal, but instead he found himself wondering whether Miss Edwards knew, and whether she would be . . . disappointed in her friend Charlie’s sudden change of heart.