A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1) (18 page)

“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 risked 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—”

“I never knew my father,” she blurted out, not quite sure why she was moved to make such an intimate revelation to him, of all people, when she had never been able to discuss such painful truths with even her closest friends.

“I’m sorry.” There was a slight hesitation. “I take it he passed away when you were very young?”

She shook her head. “No, that’s not what I meant, sir. I . . . never knew who he was. Other than that he was a titled English gentleman, an officer posted for a short time in Edinburgh.” The toe of her half boot scuffed at the ground. “And one who felt free to indulge in the sorts of amusements that men of his rank and fortune feel they are entitled to . . .” She paused to control the tremor in her voice.

“Like gambling, carousing, and seducing innocent young ladies.” There was a flicker of sympathy in the Viscount’s eyes. “I see.”

Derrien somehow knew that he did.

“Well, that certainly explains your aversion to my person.”

“No!” Her glove tightened on the sleeve of his fine melton wool coat. “That is, I admit I wanted to feel that way at first. But the more I have come to know you, sir, the more I see it is not always right to make such sweeping assumptions—”

He interrupted with a short chuckle. “That’s quite generous of you, Miss Edwards, but I would hardly say that you have come to know me all that well. After all, we have not spent very much time in each other’s company.” Ha, she thought with an inward grimace. More than you imagine! However, she kept that particular revelation to herself.

“I’m afraid you would soon discover I have more than my share of faults,” he continued. “I can be all the things you dislike—arrogant, short-tempered, moody—”

“Oh, I’m well are of that.”

His brows drew together in question.

“I—I mean, all of us have the sort of faults you speak of.” She swallowed hard, then went on in a halting voice. “But in truth, it is I who deserve your scorn, not the other way around.” Her chin rose just a bit. “After all, you now know my dirty little secret. One born on the wrong side of the blanket is hardly fit to pass judgment on anyone else.”

“We all have our dirty little secrets, Miss Edwards.” He tucked her hand under his arm and started their steps toward the high granite walls of the old church. “Rest assured that yours is quite safe with me. And you may also be sure I think no less of you for it. I have come to realize over the years that the only people deserving of scorn are the individuals who, through their own selfishness, have caused pain and suffering for others.” He drew in a deep breath. “Though perhaps what they really deserve is pity.”

They walked for a bit without speaking, but it was more a thoughtful silence than an awkward one. As they approached the first of the crumbling arches, Derrien finally ventured to break it. “Lord Marquand?”

“Yes, Miss Edwards?”

“Do you think we might . . . continue to converse about gardens?”

He smiled. “Ah, gardens. There is something very magical about them, isn’t there? They are all about life and growth. Cold and drought may cause them to lie fallow for a time, but there is always a rebirth of beauty, of color, of vibrancy. Such constant renewal in the face of the elements gives one cause for hope, I suppose. In any case, they rather lift the spirits.” His free hand stole into his coat pocket. “Yes, I should like to continue our discussions.” He withdrew the slim volume of essays and held it out to her. “Perhaps next time we meet, you would care to give me your opinion on these latest ideas from Payne Knight.”

“Oh!” Her jaw dropped open in amazement that not only had he remembered his promise but that he felt obligated to keep it, despite her nasty accusations. Her confusion was made even worse by his obvious sensitivity and eloquence. As she now knew it was not he who was the inveterate gambler, it also struck her that perhaps neither was he a dissolute rake.

But just what was he?

The book was still in his outstretched hand. “Have you decided that Knight is not to your taste after all?” “Oh no! It’s just that—I—I don’t know what to say . . .”

He gave a low chuckle. “Something that does not occur very often, I imagine. Why not say ‘thank you’ and put it away in your reticule.”

She did, though her fingers seemed to move with disconcerting awkwardness. He appeared to ignore her fum-blings and began a pithy commentary on how well the surrounding ruins would suit the tastes of a certain landscape designer currently much in vogue. By the time they met up with the other couple, Derrien had forgotten her embarrassment in the spirited exchange of opinions. It was with a pinch of disappointment—and perhaps some other emotion—that she relinquished the Viscount’s arm to his intended bride. On stealing another glance at the cool, composed face of the young lady, her polished features unmarred by any crease or dimple of emotion, Derrien couldn’t help but puzzle on what Ferguson could possibly have wanted to discuss with the regal English beauty, and why it had demanded such urgency.