A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1) (9 page)

That this unexpected wager had turned his meticulous, well-ordered life on its ear still rubbed him raw. He had worked so hard to avoid being at the mercy of chance, and yet despite all his careful planning, his future was to be decided by something just as serendipitous as the turn of a card. His mouth quirked at the bitter irony of it. The odds of emerging a winner certainly seemed stacked against him. Perhaps it would have been better had the match with Hertford been scheduled right away rather than in several weeks. That way, he thought with a tightening of his jaw, his defeat would have been mercifully swift, instead of having to endure this tortuous round of small humiliations. Why, even this afternoon, a mere lad had shown him to be hardly more than a fool, and an arrogant one at that—

“Lord Marquand?”

His head jerked around from the gilt frame.

“I fear the mere mention of winged targets makes our host fly into a description of the joys of hunting in the Highlands which even a devoted marksman might find trying.” A tall, rather gaunt gentleman whose receding silver hair only accentuated his long, narrow face and beaked nose peered at the Viscount through a pair of

silver-rimmed spectacles with a faintly bemused expression. “I hope he has not left you feeling too neglected?” Marquand managed a civil reply.

The other man stole a glance at the engravings that the Viscount had been studying. “Have you an interest in botany, my lord?”

He merely shrugged.

The fellow did not seem undeterred by the lack of an answer. “I am Mr. Walter Kildare, professor of literature at the University and a cousin of our host. Since he is occupied in regaling your friend with yet another hunting story, perhaps you would permit me to introduce you to some of our other guests?”

“Of course.” Marquand turned away from the pictures and tried to look as if it were not he who was feeling like a stalked creature.

Several other faculty members were brought forward, along with the rector of United College. Kildare’s dark hazel eyes then took on a decided twinkle on reaching for the hand of the next person “Ah, in case you were beginning to think us a sadly misogynous group, please allow me to present Mrs. Edwards, widow of one of our esteemed colleagues and a lady whose tireless efforts on behalf of those in the local orphanage are much admired by all of us.”

The Viscount expected someone of ascetic mien, without an extra ounce of good humor or joviality to her thin frame, so his eyes betrayed a flicker of surprise on being presented. The older lady’s graying hair and modest attire could not dull the fact that she had been a rare beauty in her day. Even now, her porcelain skin and generous curves would have drawn a glance of admiration from many a gentleman—and from the stealthy looks cast by her surrounding company, it still did.

“Lord Marquand.” She gave a playful smile as she dipped a graceful curtsy. “Let me add my voice to that of Mr. Kildare in assuring you that not all Scots are quite as bloodthirsty as our host.”

Ha! Her words brought to mind his combative caddie, who had looked ready to knock his head off with a baffing spoon only hours earlier. Still, the obvious dry humor in her tone caused his own lips to twitch upward for the first time that evening. “I shall take your word for it ma’am, though from what I have witnessed on your local links, I would have to say your countrymen are not without a certain taste for blood.”

“Ah, but that is golf, sir!” she replied with a twinkle. “A game, I have heard on numerous occasions from my late husband, that may drive even the mildest of men to contemplate murder.”

An appreciative chuckle escaped from Marquand. “My limited experience has done nothing to gainsay such sage observation.”

Mr. Kildare looked rather pleased at having finally chased the scowl from the English lord’s face. Emboldened by his success, he sought to continue with his introductions. “Lord Marquand, I don’t believe you have met Mrs. Edwards’ niece.” As he spoke, his spindly fingers reached behind a squat potted palm and reappeared wrapped firmly around the elbow of a young lady, who looked none-too happy at being dragged away from whatever it was she had been doing. “I have the honor of presenting Miss Derrien Edwards.”

The Viscount saw a marked family resemblance, though the niece was shorter and more willowy than her aunt, and her cornflower blue eyes a shade lighter—but perhaps that was because they were at the moment warmed with a distinct look of displeasure. He gave a slight incline of his head. “Miss Edwards.”

The candlelight glinted off the coppery highlights in her blond hair, giving her a decidedly Mars-like aura that matched the grim expression that had spread over her delicate features. Marquand stifled a wry grin at seeing a mood that so closely matched his own, wondering at the same time what could have caused such an unusual show of emotion in a girl barely out of the schoolroom. It was rare to see anything but a carefully schooled mask of bland cheerfulness on the face of a young miss, much less any hint of irritation.

“Lord Marquand.” The young lady barely dropped a curtsy and withdrew her fingers from his with what seemed to be obvious haste. He could swear she would have turned and retreated back behind the fronds of the tree had not the professor kept a tight grasp on her arm.

Puzzled by such behavior, his eyes lingered on her person as if to discover something of its source. Like her aunt, Miss Edwards was not attired in anything resembling what passed for fashion in London, yet the dark, serviceable garments could not altogether disguise what looked to be a graceful neck and lovely set of shoulders. He found himself almost wishing that the neckline of her gown was a good deal more up to date so that he might see if her skin was as creamy as . . .

He jerked his thoughts away from such ridiculous mus-ings. It was a testament to how out of kilter his mind had become that he was taking any notice of an ill-mannered country chit. And one with a feisty attitude, a lightly tanned face, and a dusting of freckles to boot! Why, the little minx was probably hoyden enough to run around outside without a bonnet on. That gave him pause for a moment, as a vision of the sun playing over the masses of golden curls popped into his head.

His lip curled in a self-mocking grimace. One would think he had been imbibing that strong stuff the Scots seemed so fond of by the crazy meandering of his thoughts! After all, she was not in the least the type of female he was attracted to. He preferred a proper sort of lady who was cool, composed, and most of all, biddable—

A loud announcement by the butler caused the Viscount’s gaze to shift abruptly and all improper reveries concerning Miss Derrien Edwards were immediately chased away by the booming words. Other heads swiveled as well, silence reigning as the local gentry took in the silky splendor of the trio ascending the stairs. The gentleman stepped forward after his eyes had completed a brief sweep of the assembled guests and gave a tug at the lapel of his claret-colored swallow-tailed evening coat.

“Well, Marquand. You have chosen a deucedly strange place in which to rusticate for a time.”

Arrogant coxcomb! fumed Derrien as the Viscount walked away with only the most cursory of excuses to her aunt and Mr. Kildare.

The nerve of the odious man to rake his eyes over her person as if she were no more than a cut of lamb set out for his supper and then to walk away as if what he had seen quite robbed him of his appetite! She had not missed the slight curl of his well-chiseled lips nor his haste to quit her presence as soon as his English acquaintances had arrived. Not that she cared one whit what he thought of her, but his haughty reserve, broken only by fits of ill temper, was even more abrasive here in the drawing room than on the links. It was clear he had no desire to be mingling with the local gentry. He had been wearing an expression as black as the set of elegant evening clothes molded to his muscular frame since the moment he had mounted the stairs, and even his friend had had enough manners to demand a better face.

Did the insufferable Viscount hold all Scots to be beneath an Englishman’s notice? Or was he merely a stiff-rumped prig in general? Derrien ventured a peek at the tall, flaxen-haired beauty whose hand he was bringing to his lips. The young lady was dressed in an elegant gown of pale gray watered silk, cut to accentuate the svelte curves of her feminine form. The candles danced over the shimmering material, and with her pale coloring, frozen features, and the knot of pearls at her throat she looked to Derrien’s eyes exactly like an icicle—a vision of cold, sharp perfection.

Derrien couldn’t repress a smirk. What a couple! The lady was undeniably beautiful, and despite her instinctive dislike for the Viscount, she could not deny that he was an extremely attractive man, with his dark curling hair, piercing gray-green eyes, and sculpted features as classic as any wrought by the Greeks. That was just it—the two of them appeared to have no more heart or soul than the works chiseled by the ancient masters from inanimate marble.

She brushed an errant curl back from her freckled cheek. The Viscount’s exterior might be flawless, but she knew the faults that lay beneath the surface. He was a reprobate, a gamester, and no doubt worse. Of the young lady’s shortcomings Derrien could only imagine. But judging from the beauty’s rigid features, she was like all other ladies of the English ton, puffed up with a sense of her own consequence and concerned with naught but money and social position. Yes, the two of them were eminently suited to each other, with their polished appearance and stiff-rumped demeanor. With one last disdainful look in their direction, Derrien slipped back into the tiny alcove hidden by the leafy palm and picked up the book on gardening that she had been eagerly perusing before the professor’s unwelcome interruption.

It was a work with which she was unfamiliar, and the diagrams were most intriguing, so at least the evening was not going to be a complete waste of time.

“I thought I might play along with you on your round this afternoon.” Ellington speared another piece of kippered herring and poured both of them another tankard of drink. “That is, if my presence won’t distract you from your lesson with Mr. Philp. I know that you have little time to spend with him these days.”

Marquand looked up from the piece of paper on which he was busy scrawling some diagrams. “Er, no, you are welcome to see how I am faring.” His attention immediately returned to his jottings.

His friend craned his neck to peer over the pitcher of cider. “Notes on strategy?”

“Ahhhh.” The sheet was folded and hastily stuffed in his pocket. “Actually, some notes on a garden I passed this morning,” he admitted with a sheepish grin. “The arrangement of rhododendrons and Norfolk pine was most interesting and I wished to remember how they were placed.”

Ellington smiled in return, taking in the dark circles under the Viscount’s eyes. “Knowing you, half the night was spent filling your notebooks with such scribblings as well. Lord, you can still think of your work, even under these circumstances?”

“I hardly think of it as work, Tony. For me it is . . .” He paused, struggling to put his feelings into words.

“A passion?” suggested his friend.

“That seems a bit melodramatic. I’m not a very passionate fellow. It’s just that when I pick up my sketchbook or look at a patch of dirt and begin to envision a plan, I can forget all else. My imagination can soar as high as the clouds—” His voice cut off, a look of slight embarrassment stealing over his features.

“Not passionate? Why, you’ve become a poet as well as an artist.” Ellington gave a low chuckle. “Lord, there’s hope for you yet, Adrian.”

A faint tinge of color rose to the Viscount’s cheeks. Ellington took a long draft of his cider. “And what does your intended bride think of this . . . work of yours?”

“I told you, she isn’t aware of it—yet.”

His friend’s brow shot up.

“I shall tell her, of course,” he added defensively. “Not that it will make any difference to our . . . arrangement.” “No, of course not,” murmured Ellington softly. “It should not matter a whit to Miss Dunster or her family that the future Earl of Chittenden is engaged in trade.” The Viscount didn’t answer. Groping in his pocket for a handful of coins, he stood up abruptly and tossed them on the table to pay for their meal. “Come on, we must not be late for our game with Mr. Philp.”

The master and caddie were waiting at the first hole, Philp tamping a pinch of fragrant tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, while Derrien swung one of the tapered hickory clubs in some impatience, neatly trimming a large tuft of grass down to a mere stubble with several swipes. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of the tall English lord and his friend approaching. He wore the same grim expression she had come to expect, but today, there was also a look of fatigue etched around his eyes. Out gaming all night, she thought, repressing a snort of disgust. Or indulging in one of those other activities that rakes and wastrels did.

“I hope you do not mind if I play along?” asked Ellington. “I should like to try out the new long spoon I purchased from you.”

Philp gave a friendly wave of his hand. “You’re more than welcome to join in, sir. Shall I send up to the shop for the rest of your clubs and another caddie?”

“Nay, no need for that. I’ll make use of the Viscount’s new sticks.” He gave an appreciative glance at the finely tapered heads and neatly corded wrappings. “A lovely set they look to be.”

“Let’s get on with it,” muttered Derrien under her breath as she readied a club. A sharp look from Philp pricked her conscience, reminding her she was here for a reason other than to antagonize their pupil. “Your club . . . sir,” she said in a louder voice, striving for a less hostile tone.

Marquand took the proferred long spoon without so much as a look at her and waited for her to finish building the small pile of sand on which his ball was placed. Aware of three pairs of eyes on his back, he took an extra few moments in his setup. His arms finally drew back a bit stiffly, then swung forward at a rapid clip. However the timing was a touch off. The clubface lagged behind his hands, making contact with the ball at an odd angle. The leather-covered sphere sliced low through the breeze, drifted right, then came to rest in the middle of a patch of tall grass, not more than fifty yards from where it had been struck.