A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1) (23 page)

“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.

Honoria’s shoulders had stiffened, as if in expectation of an onslaught of anger. When he said nothing more, she relaxed slightly and ventured a nod.

“Ferguson,” he repeated softly. “Well, I see I have been quite a fool about a number of things—most especially in thinking that there was little passion burning inside that lovely bosom of yours, my dear.” His mouth pursed in a grimace of self-mockery. “I must admit, the man looks to be a rather ordinary fellow, but to have captured your heart in so short a time—”

“My heart has been his since I was sixteen,” she whispered.

Marquand fell silent, his brow knitting in some confusion. “But—”

“You have a right to hear the whole story, sir. After all, you were very nearly sold damaged goods.” She swallowed hard. “Charles was engaged as my brother’s tutor after his studies were finished at Cambridge . . .”

A lengthy explanation followed, including all the unvarnished details of the first, failed flight to the north. “So you see, since you made your formal declaration I have been tom with guilt. I felt you had to be told the truth, and yet my father and mother had drummed it into to me that it was my duty to bring you up to scratch—especially as my earlier transgression had threatened to leave them with nothing to show for the effort and expense of grooming me to attract a lofty title.”

He looked at her with real sympathy. “I know all too well what it is like to be at the mercy of your parents. I only wonder that your father didn’t hold out for a Marquess or even a Duke?”

She choked back a sob. “He would have liked to, but I had already refused to consider several proposals and I suppose he was getting rather desperate to have me safely wed. You may think me naught but a scheming mercenary, yet I saw no choice but to obey my family’s wishes.” Her voice steadied. “I had at least vowed that I would never accept anyone for whom I could not feel a real regard. I thought with that as a basis, I could be a . . . good wife to you.” She started to twist the end of her gown’s sash between her fingers. “But then we came to Scotland. When I saw . . . Charles, whom I never thought to lay eyes on again, I realized that none of the things I had been taught to hold dear—money, fancy gowns, lavish balls, imposing homes, and armies of servants—were half so important as spending my life with someone I truly love.”

Marquand continued to stare at her nervous fumblings for several seconds, then his lips began to quirk upward. “Bravo!”

“Y—you are not angry?” She looked up in some amazement. “I had thought that you might feel a blow to your pride, even though I sensed there would be no blow to your heart.”

“No! I’m delighted for you.” Indeed, he suddenly felt nearly giddy with emotion, though in all honesty, he had to admit to himself, it was more from relief than any nobler sentiment. “Truly I am. Lord, you have more courage and bottom than most men! You deserve to be happy. Really happy. I wish you all the best.”

Honoria threw her arms around his neck. “Oh, Adrian, you are truly the most wonderful of men.” She sobbed, the tears now flowing with abandon.

He gave a low chuckle. “Better have a care, my dear. I might lose my heart yet.”

She smiled, dabbing at her cheek with the silk handkerchief he had thrust into her fingers. “You know, you might consider simply crying off,” he continued. “Ladies are allowed to, you know. Perhaps I could help you convince your parents to accept Ferguson’s suit, and you would be able to have a proper wedding, if that is what you would like.”

Honoria shook her head resolutely. “It is most thoughtful of you, Adrian, but Father would never agree. No, Charles and I have no choice but to carry on with our plan. I am so sorry, for I know that it will cause you no little embarrassment.” She lifted her tearstained face. “B—but I should like to think that we might remain friends.”

Friend rather than bride—Marquand suddenly realized that was exactly how he would prefer to think of Miss Honoria Dunster. He gave her a quick hug, ending with a light kiss to her cheek. “You may count on it, my dear. Besides, after all the peccadilloes of my own parents, a touch more scandal attached to the Linsley name will hardly signify.” He squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry, I shall survive. I shall also have a little talk with your parents and convince them that a scandal will hardly reflect well on them in London. Together we should be able to scotch the worst of the rumors, so that you and Ferguson do not suffer unduly from your decision. You’ll see—it will all work out for the best.”