A Diamond in the Rough Page 9

  Were her words really as stilted as they sounded to his ears? He drew in a sharp breath, but quickly brushed aside any momentary irritation and compressed his Ups in what he hoped was a semblance of a smile. “Worthy? Why there is nothing to be nervous about. You are the very model of perfection.” Now it was his own phrases that sounded hopelessly contrived. At least she appeared not to notice.

  “How kind of you . . . Adrian. I shall try not to give you any cause for further comment. Mama says that gentlemen dislike above all things being distracted by a fidgeting female.”

  His brows drew together. “I should hope you would always feel free to discuss with me anything that was bothering you.”

  “Yes. Of course.” She bit at her lip and turned to examine the carving along the rim of the garden ornament. “Actually, sir, there is a matter that I should— Eeeeek!” A shriek interrupted her halting words as she suddenly tripped over a figure crouched among the cascading ivy. “Good heavens! There is someone hiding here in the bushes!”

  Marquand rushed to steady Honoria’s trembling form. “There is no need for alarm, my dear.” His gaze had already raked over Derrien’s slightly disheveled gown and the bits of broken leaves that had twined themselves in among her golden curls. “It is only one of the other guests.”

  Honoria’s hand flew to her alabaster throat on taking a second look at the figure still half hidden in the shadows of the swaying boughs. “It is hard to believe that the local young ladies have no more concept of proper behavior than to be sneaking around in the dark, spying—”

  “I was not spying,” retorted Derrien, rising to her feet and brushing a stray lock from her cheek. “As it happens, I was here first.”

  A faint gasp sounded. “But what were you doing out here if not skulking after his lordship and myself?” Derrien’s hands came to her hips. “I was having a look at the Ananas bracteatus that Mr. Gregory has just received from the isle of Jamaica.”

  Marquand edged slightly closer to the bed of plantings and stole a quick glance. “And a most unusual specimen it is,” he murmured, itching to bend down as Derrien had been doing and subject the multi-colored striated leaves and cluster of spidery stamens to a more thorough examination.

  Honoria’s eyes widened in confusion. “What—?” “Ahh, most unusual,” he repeated gruffly. “For a lone female to be outside unaccompanied—”

  Derrien interrupted him with an unladylike snort. “What fustian your silly set of Town strictures are. I’m hardly in any danger of running into trouble among people I’ve known all my life—or of being a threat to any sensible person. It is only a martinet such as you who would kick up a dust.” She turned to Honoria, her eyes sending off more sparks than the garden torches flickering in the salty breeze. “And as for spying on you—if I was going to run the risk of being caught out in such an outrageous breech of manners, I would certainly pick a more interesting couple to eavesdrop on! I vow, the two of you appear to have ice water rather than blood running through your veins. I wish you happy with each other, for I can’t imagine any person with a real pulse wishing to cultivate an acquaintance with either one of you.” With a flounce of her unruly curls, she turned on her heel and stalked back toward the stone terrace.

  The Viscount’s lips twitched in some, amusement at the whole situation, but he quickly covered such transgression with a brief cough.

  Ashen-faced, Honoria drew in a sharp breath, and her hands clenched into tight fists by her side. “Everything about this odd country is quite . . . unexpected,” she whispered.

  “Pay the annoying little chit no mind. She’s obviously naught but a sharp-tongued little hoyden, with none of your ladylike polish,” said Marquand, his arm stealing around her rigid waist at the same time that his gaze couldn’t help but follow the defiant tilt of the other young lady’s slim shoulders and the lively swaying of her boyish hips.

  He forced his eyes back to Honoria’s pale face, which in the faint wash of light appeared as if it were carved from the same block of marble as the urn behind her. For an instant, he couldn’t help but recall the flashing blue eyes, flushed cheeks, and expressive mouth of the other young lady’s visage, and for some reason felt a tightening in his chest. He gave another cough, then tried to offer some additional soothing words to his intended, but they seemed to stick in his throat.

  “Please, sir.” Her eyes pressed closed. “Perhaps it would be best to go back inside, where we will not run the risk of any more . . . surprises.”

  He cast one more longing look at the plants, then swallowed hard and offered his arm. “Yes. Of course, my dear.” Yet for a moment he didn’t move. “Er, was there something you were going to tell me before we were interrupted?”

  Her gloved hand tightened on his sleeve. “It can wait,” she said softly.

  By the time they reentered the large drawing room Honoria had composed herself so that no trace of emotion marred her lovely features. Chin held high, a faint smile upon her finely shaped lips, she caused more than a few conversations to falter in midsentence as she passed by.

  “My dear Lord Marquand, you would not really be so heartless as to deprive the rest of us of the company of such a charming beauty as Lady Honoria for the entire evening,” called Sir Twining from where a small group of gentlemen had assembled near the fire.

  The Viscount gave an inward wince at the man’s choice of adjectives.

  “Especially since you are to enjoy countless more evenings of the lady’s company in the years to come,” he added with a jovial laugh. “We have just now learned that congratulations are in order, sir.” With a broad wink, his pudgy hand came out to take Honoria’s other arm. “So, my lord, I must insist that you relinquish your future bride for a bit to others less fortunate than you. I wish to introduce her to a group of our most learned professors.” He inclined his head a fraction “That is, of course, if you are not averse to mingling with us rough folk, Miss Dunster.”

  “Indeed not, sir.” She readily allowed herself to be drawn away from the Viscount’s side. “I should enjoy meeting all of the people who have been so hospitable to us strangers. And I am sure Lord Marquand will not mind being abandoned for a short while.”

  The Viscount’s eyes strayed back to the open set of French doors. “No, no, not at all. Do go on, Honoria. In fact, there is something I wish to discuss with Tony before it slips my mind.” After a brief bow, he turned and made his way toward the opening to the terrace with a purposeful stride, careful to avoid any eye contact with those he passed. He paused to take a glass of punch from a passing footman, then, after giving a furtive glance left and right, he slipped out into the cool night air. Putting the glass aside without so much as a taste, he hurried down the graveled path.

  It was nearly dark, but by removing the torch from its bracket and holding it carefully to one side, he was able to study the rare plants for some time. It was a shame, he thought with a silent oath, that his snug cutaway evening jacket did not allow for the addition of pencil and sketch paper to his pockets, for he would dearly have loved to make a drawing or two, and a notation on color—

  “I guessed you had stepped out here to blow a cloud and thought I’d join you.” Ellington stared down at his friend, who was half hidden in the drooping ivy. “But what the devil are you doing down there? Practicing how to line up your putts?”

  Marquand scrambled to his feet, brushing bits of dirt from his immaculate fawn trousers. “Er, looking at a plant. Several, in fact. They are quite rare in Britain, and I don’t often have occasion to look at one closely.”

  Ellington lit up two cheroots and handed one to the Viscount. “One might think you would have other things on your mind besides exotic plants, Adrian.” He grinned. “Did you and Miss Dunster enjoy a pleasant stroll out here alone?”

  The Viscount growled something unintelligible, then, dragonlike, let out a puff of smoke. It swirled in a lazy circle, then spiraled upward in the gentle breeze to disappear in the darkness. “Have you been in
troduced to a Miss Edwards?” he inquired abruptly after a moment of silence.

  His friend’s brows drew together as he sought to put a face to the name. “Ah, yes. The blond sprite who is niece to the charming widow. She has a pretty enough face. With a snip or two of the scissors and decent modiste she would be quite presentable, don’t you think?”

  Marquand grimaced. “Ha! She would need a good trimming of her tongue as well before her presence would be acceptable in Polite Society. The little hellion has the manners of a Highland savage.” At Ellington’s questioning look, he went on to explain his comments. “She was frightfully rude to Honoria earlier this evening.” He exhaled another wispy ring and watched it float away. “And on our first introduction, her whole demeanor was barely civil. I cannot help wonder why she has seen fit to act in such an odd way.”

  His friend shrugged. “Who can comprehend the inner working of any young lady’s mind? But I shouldn’t think overly about some rag-mannered country chit barely out of the schoolroom.”

  “Don’t worry. I shan’t.” But somehow he could not seem to banish the vision of flashing blue eyes, a pert nose, and an expressive—most expressive—mouth. Just as he could not help comparing that animated face to one displaying a good deal more composure and well-schooled control. He drew in a lungful of smoke. Control? Or, as the little minx suggested, mere lack of feeling? He threw down the cheroot and ground it out beneath the heel of his boot, angry with himself for letting yet another impudent little brat of a Scot get under his skin. “Come on, Tony. We had best return to the party before we offend our host.”

  As the two gentlemen made their way back toward the stone terrace and the faint trill of voices, Honoria smiled at yet another of the professors from the University, this one a burly fellow with a bristling red beard who was introduced as one of the leading experts in Reformation theology at St. Mary’s. However, it was impossible to judge whether or not the man was capable of rational thought, for he was unable to utter a single coherent word in her presence, merely stuttering and turning a shade matching his whiskers when she touched her glove to his.

  “I hope we are not trying your patience too much,” whispered the Baronet as he shooed the poor fellow away. “There is just one more member of our faculty that I should like to make known to you. And since he has spent several years in the environs of London, I trust he will show enough polish not to find himself tongue-tied in the presence of a lovely lady.”

  She touched his arm lightly. “Please do not apologize in the least, sir. Everyone here has gone to great lengths to make us feel welcome and I look forward to thanking as many of them as I can.”

  “You are as gracious as you are lovely, Lady Honoria. The Viscount is a lucky man, indeed,” murmured Twining, bringing a faint flush to her cheeks with the effusive compliment.”

  He steered them past the ample bulk of two dowagers grousing with each other over the shocking rise in the price of herring to where three men stood in a circle, engaged in an earnest discussion on the merits of Byron’s latest epic. Without waiting for a pause in the conversation, the Baronet tapped the shoulder of the man standing with his back to the rest of the room. “Charles, you have only arrived back from your trip to Glasgow this afternoon, so I don’t believe you have had the pleasure of meeting our charming visitor from the south.”

  The man slowly turned around.

  “Lady Honoria, may I present Mr. Charles Ferguson. Though he may appear a mere babe in years compared to the rest of us old coots, I assure you that he is one of our most respected scholars here at the University.” So intent was he on composing a proper introduction that he failed to note all of the color had suddenly drained from the young lady’s face and that her hand was clutching at his sleeve as if to keep herself upright.

  “Charles,” he continued in the same jovial tone, “I have the pleasure of presenting Miss Honoria Dunster . . .” Ferguson bowed. “Miss Dunster,” he murmured.

  “Mr. Ferguson,” she managed to whisper.

  Sir Twining smiled. “And, I might add, soon to be Lady Marquand and the future Countess of Chittenden.” It was the young man’s turn to go a deathly pale. Honoria attempted to move, but her knees buckled and she swayed against the Baron’s shoulder. “Good heavens! Are you feeling ill, Miss Dunster?” His arm

  came around her waist. Let me see you to the settee. Vinaigrette! Does someone have a bottle of vinaigrette?” “Please,” she murmured. “There is no need to make a fuss. I am merely feeling a bit . . . faint, that is all. If you would be kind enough to help me to that chair by the door, a breath of fresh air is all that I need.”

  He helped her sit down and the murmur of excitement that had raced through the assembled guests quickly died away as it became evident that nothing serious was amiss. Her mother hurried over and clapped her hands to her cheeks on taking in her daughter’s wan face. “Honoria!” she exclaimed with some alarm. “Oh dear, what has happened, child?”

  “My fault entirely,” said Twining with a baleful grimace. “She was much too polite to tell me the crush of strangers was simply too much to bear.” He turned to Honoria. “Can you ever forgive me for being such a nodcock?”

  “You mustn’t worry about it, sir. Really.” Her eyes remained locked on her lap, where her fingers were twined together in a tight knot. “I may have experienced a bout of lightheadedness for a moment, but I ... I am quite fine now, I assure you.”

  Her mother straightened. “Where is Hylton? And where is Marquand?”

  “I am here,” said the Viscount, stepping in through the open doors. “What is the matter?” His gaze traveled from Lady Dunster to Sir Twining to the face of his intended bride, still white as a sheet. “Good Lord, Honoria,” he said, hurrying to her side. “You look as if you have seen a ghost.”

  “Ghost!” Lord Hylton elbowed his way through the ring of people who had gathered near his daughter’s chair. “Don’t be absurd, man! Never heard of a ghost who dared make an appearance in a room full of flesh-and-blood people—”

  “I was merely indulging in a bit of hyperbole, sir,” murmured the Viscount.

  “Eh?” The other man eyed him with some suspicion. “Well, see that you don’t make a habit of the stuff,” he muttered. “I’ll not tolerate any show of dissolute behavior. Can’t have you turning out like the present Earl.” A frown puckered his jowly face as he turned his attention back to Honoria.

  “A grim fate indeed, to end up resembling one’s father.” Marquand spoke so softly that Hylton took no notice of his words, but Honoria cringed, her shoulders pressing hard against the back of the slatted chair.

  “Hear now, missy, what’s all this sprattle about ghosts and such?”

  “It’s nothing, Father. I’m feeling much better now.” She essayed a smile but managed only a wan twitch of her lips.

  “Hmmph! Not at all the thing, to have an evening of entertainment where a proper young lady is subject to such dashedly odd happenings,” he grumbled. “Your mother and I are taking you home without delay. I’ll not have your delicate constitution overset with farrididdles about apparitions and spirits.”

  “Yes, Father,” she said in a small voice. “But truly, it is just a case of the room being a trifle . . . crowded. You know very well I am not so much of a silly widgeon to be spooked by mere talk of specters from the past. Any sensible person knows there are no such things as ghosts.”

  Yet as she rose, her expression looked nothing short of haunted.

  Chapter Seven

  The lord and the lad regarded each other with thinly veiled mutual suspicion. Philp, his head bent low over his workbench, never once looked up from the delicate task of shaping the curve of the baffing spoon’s head. “I must have this set of clubs finished by tomorrow for Laird McAllister, else I risk losing an important patron. So the two of you will go out alone this afternoon. Now, Lord Marquand, I want you to work on your drives for an hour, concentrating on placing the ball in the fairway. Your distance is fine, but yo
u must try to correct your tendency to slice the ball—Derry will explain what I mean. Then on the morrow, I would have you start playing a few holes as you would in a match. You must get used to the notion of working together as a team.”

  Neither of them budged.

  “Well?” The master put down the file and pushed the spectacles back to the bridge of his nose. “His lordship’s set is stored in the same rack as usual, lad,” he murmured. “A box of new balls has arrived from Mr. Robertson’s shop. Grab a handful when you leave and see what you think of their performance on the course.”

  Derrien, the hint well taken, shuffled off to retrieve Marquand’s golf clubs.

  The Viscount’s jaw set. “Mr. Philp, I do not mean to question”—the man had already returned to scraping the edge of the fine-grained hawthorn wood—“your expertise, but—”

  “It’s getting late, my lord. Are you aware that if you arrive more than five minutes past your agreed-upon starting time in a match, you will be penalized?” The file moved back and forth in methodical fashion. “While you are walking toward your ball, you might ask Derry to go over the thirteen rules of the game. They were drawn up in 1744 by the Company of Gentlemen Golfers in Edinburgh and adopted here in St. Andrews ten years later. For a beginner they can be very confusing, but the lad understands their nuances quite well.” He paused to locate a small razor. “Was there anything else, my lord?”

  Marquand shoved his hands in his pocket and made for the door.

  A stiff breeze was blowing in from the strand as they approached the first hole and the sun dodged in and out of a low bank of clouds. Several players were visible up ahead on the third hole, but other than such distant play, the course was deserted, save for an elderly woman and two children walking along Granny Clark’s Wynd, the narrow path that cut along the eighteenth and first fairway. Derry took out the new balls and carefully inspected each one, discarding several in the process. These she placed in the left pocket of her oversized jacket while the others, save for the last, went into the right pocket. This one she tossed onto the stubbled grass, then handed the Viscount his long spoon. Not a word had passed between the two of them since leaving the shop, and as she stepped back and tucked the rest of the set under the crook of one arm, she showed no inclination for breaking the awkward silence.