A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1) (21 page)

She stared at him in disbelief. “That is awful—” Her hand clapped over her mouth. “Oh dear,” she mumbled through closed fingers. “There I go again, about to spout off on something that is none of my business.”

“No, indeed it is not,” he replied, but there was no real sting to his words. “Perhaps it would be best if—”

For the second time, their conversation was interrupted by the appearance of others seeking a bit of respite from the music and dancing. It was Charles Ferguson who stepped into the room, Honoria close by his side. A rosy color had replaced the usual marble whiteness of her cheeks and a soft laugh sounded from her lips at something that the young professor had just whispered in her ear. Marquand blinked several times, but before he could speak, Derrien shot to her feet.

“Charles!” she squeaked in warning, afraid that her friend and his companion might fail to notice that the room was not deserted.

Ferguson’s head jerked around and his face took on a deathly pallor. “Er, Derry—” he began, but Honoria’s rather brittle voice overrode his own meek attempt to speak.

“Adrian! I had been wondering where I might find you, and then M—Mr. Ferguson suggested I might try the library and offered to show me the way.”

The Viscount got to his feet as well, feeling a sudden stab of disappointment that his tete-a-tete with Miss Edwards was at an end. He drew in a deep breath. Lord, it made no sense! The lovely lady before him had all the attributes he could ever wish for in a wife—beauty, wealth, rank, and impeccable manners. Yet the prospect of escorting her back to the lilting music left him feeling decidedly flat. He gave a mental shake of his head, trying to banish such disquieting thoughts. It was the dratted wager that had his mind in a whirl, he assured himself. Once it was over, everything would return to normal.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” he said, forcing a smile to his lips. “I hadn’t realized I had been gone so long. Miss Edwards was, er, showing me Mr. Cheape’s botanical prints.”

“Yes,” chirped in Derrien.

“Ah,” murmured Ferguson.

“Mmmm.” Honoria’s eyes did not quite meet those of the Viscount.

The four of them shuffled and glanced rather awkwardly at each other for a moment before Marquand forced his steps forward and offered his arm to his intended. “I hope you have saved a place on your dance card for me?”

“Y—yes, of course.” She moved away from Ferguson’s side and placed her hand on Marquand’s sleeve. He was surprised to find it felt cold as ice.

“My thanks, Ferguson, for escorting Miss Dunster to my side,” he added, with a slight nod in the professor’s direction. “Now, if you will excuse us . . .” He turned to Derrien as well and sketched a quick bow.

“Of course,” chorused both of them at once. With another brief exchange of pleasantries, the Viscount and his intended bride left the room.

Ferguson made to follow, but Derrien’s hand snaked out and grabbed his elbow. “Not so fast, Charlie. I want a word with you.”

“Ahhhh . . .”

“No ‘ahhhs’ about it. Something very smoky is going on here and you’re going to tell me what it is.”

“I can’t.” He tried once again to move toward the door but she slid around to block his way.

“Er, maybe later.”

She crossed her arms and her expression made it clear she wasn’t going to be fobbed off quite so easily.

A harried sigh escaped his lips. “Can you keep a secret?”

“As if I would even dignify that question with an answer!”

Ferguson slumped onto the sofa and ran his hands through his ginger hair. “Lord, what a horrible tangle.”

“What is?” Derrien sat down beside him. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me you’ve developed a hopeless tendre for Miss Dunster.”

He looked up, a bleak expression in his eyes. “Worse than that. I’m in love with her. Completely, irrevocably in love with her. But thankfully, her sentiments are much the same. We are going to elope as soon as I can make all the arrangements.”

There was a heavy silence as she stared at him in disbelief. “You are foxed,” she finally said.

His mouth twisted in a wry grimace. “I wish I were.” “Then you are mad.”

“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “But all I know is that I shall truly go out of my mind if I let her slip away again.”

“I think you had better start from the beginning.” Ferguson sighed and leaned back against the plump down cushions. “When I finished my studies at Cambridge, I had little money and few real prospects for employment. When an offer was presented to me to tutor the young son of an English lord, I had little choice but to accept. Besides, it afforded me the chance to live in London for a time, something that I, as a raw youth, thought would be . . . exciting.” He brushed at a wrinkle on his sleeve. “The position was decent enough. The lad was a trifle spoiled, but at least he was not a total dullard. My employer was not unkind, but as a penniless tutor, I was hardly important enough to engage his attention. As you can imagine, I saw very little of the family—that is, except for the daughter.” His eyes pressed closed. “Nora—Honoria—was as starved for intelligent conversation as I was, I suppose. We began to exchange books, then to meet in the library to discuss our ideas. She had a sharp mind and was eager to learn . . .” Another sigh followed. “Well, you can image what developed between a lovely sixteen-year-old schoolgirl and a callow tutor of twenty-two.”

It didn’t require much imagination.

“Right out of the covers of a Minerva Press novel, isn’t it?” he continued with a self-deprecating laugh. “Naturally, it was impossible for me to make an offer, given my rank and purse. So we decided, with the rashness of youth, to elope. However, her lady’s maid raised the alarm not more than an hour after we had stolen away.” His lips twitched in a near wince. “Her father caught up with us before we had gone too far—before we had .. . passed a night together on the road. I allowed myself to be convinced that a union with me would utterly ruin Nora’s life. So I promised to keep silent about the whole affair, as well as to quit England. A position was arranged for me in Ireland.” There was a slight pause as his hand came up to rub at his temple. “Just to be sure I understood the terms of the bargain, I was beaten to within an inch of my life before being tossed on board the ship in Liverpool.”

“Oh, Charlie.” Derrien’s hand came to rest on his arm. She opened her mouth to say more, but held up. Mere words seemed woefully inadequate.

He smiled. “Don’t look so stricken. In some ways, it was very good for me—it forced me to develop a certain strength of character if I wished to survive. After a year or two, I found I had been left a tidy inheritance by a distant uncle, so I returned to Scotland, determined to establish myself at a university. Well, you know much of the rest.” He tugged at the end of his cravat. “Though not a day passed that I didn’t think of Nora, I would never have thought to contact her. I naturally assumed she had long ago forgotten her rash, youthful infatuation and was happily married to some man of her own rank. But then she arrived in St. Andrews, a proof that the bones of our town’s patron saint do indeed work miracles.” A beatific smile spread across his face. “I’ll not give her up this time.”

Derrien swallowed hard. “But, Charlie, she is engaged to Lord Marquand.”

He looked rather uncomfortable. “Would you have her marry a man she does not love?”

No, she realized with a sudden start. She did not care in the least for the notion of Miss Dunster marrying the Viscount.

Now why was that? Her fingers twisted the strings of her reticule into a series of knots. Perhaps because he deserved someone who would appreciate his magnificent talents, someone who would share his interests. She tried to push such thoughts from her mind, along with the less noble sentiment that if Miss Dunster were not around, Marquand would have that much more time to spend discussing gardens with her. After all, it was, as Marquand had clearly pointed out, none of her business.

“No,” she answered out loud. “Of course I should not wish for anyone to be forced to marry where there is no love. But what of Lord Marquand’s feelings? Won’t he be terribly hurt and humiliated by such a public jilting?” Ferguson’s expression was a mixture of guilt and defiance. “We both wish there were some way to avoid it, but . . .” He seemed to be searching for some excuse. “Nora is not even sure how strongly his feelings are attached,” he added lamely.

“And what of the consequences to you, Charlie? Have you given a thought to how such a scandal will affect your standing at the University? Despite a certain aura of intellectual give and take, the people here—including your colleagues—are extremely straitlaced when it comes to matters of morality.”

“I know that, Derry.” His jaw set. “But I am willing to accept the consequences, no matter what they are.” Derrien heaved a sigh. “Oh dear,” she said under her breath. “It is going to take some very skillful play to get out of this rough.”

Marquand finished the sketch and put it aside, along with several others. That should give Miss Edwards a number of possibilities to consider, he thought with some satisfaction. This last one he particularly liked, what with the way he had worked in the addition of several discreet groupings of rhododendrons in subtle salute to the laird’s preferences.

He tapped his pencil in some impatience against the polished oak of his desk. If only there had been a chance the previous evening to arrange a rendezvous with the young lady for this morning, he would have been able to show her his ideas without delay. Instead, he would simply have to hope she would make an appearance at Playfair’s musicale so that they would be able to set up a meeting to discuss the plans. Or perhaps he would simply bring them along and try to steal some time alone with her.

As his eyes strayed to the clock on the mantel, he even toyed with the idea of taking a stroll. A stroll that might take him past the Edwards residence, so that he might—

The pencil paused in midair.

Something inside him warned that this was not exactly a direction in which he ought to allow his thoughts to stray. And yet, the prospect of another encounter with the outspoken Miss Edwards, of watching the passion of ideas set fire to her expressive eyes, of seeing the way the sunlight danced across the errant ringlets that always seemed to escape from the confining hairpins, made his pulse quicken. Not only that, it made the blood pool in his groin.

He tossed the pencil down and pushed away from his desk. Good Lord, this was madness! He was the envy of half the men in London, what with his engagement to a reigning Diamond of the First Water. Reason said that he should be thanking the Fates for his good fortune, rather than allowing himself to dwell on the image of a feisty country miss, no matter how intriguing the face. Yes, it was totally unreasonable that he should be sitting here wondering what it might be like to press his lips upon the alluring curves of her mouth.

With a muttered oath, he rose and stalked to the mul-lioned window, feeling distinctly uncomfortable, and not merely because of his physical state. Outside, the gusting winds and scudding storm clouds looked as unsettled as his own emotions. It promised to be a wet time out on the links, but perhaps a good dousing would help dampen the strange heat coursing through him.

This wouldn’t do, he admonished himself, putting aside all thoughts of an early visit to the young lady in question. Through his own choice, he was bound to Miss Dunster and his honor as a gentleman demanded that he not stray from his commitment. Not even in thought. It was too late for regrets, if that was what he was feeling, and so he must simply cease thinking of Miss Edwards as aught but a talented designer of gardens. He would allow himself to look at her sketches, but he must not let his eyes—or imagination—stray to her pert nose or sensuous lips. . . .

His brow suddenly furrowed. Those lips. Something about them was nagging at the back of his mind. There was a familiarity about them, as if he had seen those exact curves somewhere else. Yet that was, of course, impossible. It was simply another sign of how addled his brain had become since leaving London. He let out a harried sigh and went off in search of an extra muffler.

If the squall didn’t blow through, it was going to be a stormy afternoon on the golf course.

“Come now, you can do better than that, sir,” said Derrien sharply as she slanted another quick glance at the Viscount and wondered what was prompting such a look of preoccupation on his lean face. If it was worry over the coming match, he would do well to pay more attention to the matter at hand, she thought. But perhaps it was concern over other, more personal things that had his mind wandering. . . . She tugged the large tweed cap down a bit more firmly over her curls and ordered her own thoughts to keep from straying too far afield. “Try to concentrate! A lapse like that against Lord Hertford and you shall find yourself in a deep hole before the match has really begun.”

Marquand tried to make out through the spitting rain just where his ball had landed. “I don’t think it ended up too far to the right.”

She gave a snort of impatience. “On this hole, anything to the right of the fairway is grave trouble, remember?” “Right.”

“Those are the sorts of things you must keep in your head, sir,” she went on as they started to walk toward the edge of the strand.

“Along with keeping my head down, my shoulders pointed at the target, my arms relaxed, my knees flexed, and the clubface square on contact,” he muttered under his breath.

She tried to repress a grin. “Aye, those things as well— although sometimes it’s best not to think of anything at all when you go to hit the ball.”

Marquand shot her a dark look before ducking his head to avoid another shower of raindrops. “Ah, that’s really quite helpful, Master Derry,” he replied with undisguised sarcasm. “Any other words of wisdom you have been holding back, seeing as the match is only four days away?”

So perhaps it was, after all, merely tension over the approaching wager that had him looking rather distracted. She sought to help him relax. “I’m not entirely joking. It’s all very well to think between shots, but when you step up to the ball, it is better to clear your thoughts of anything specific. Just . . . well, just trust yourself and swing.”