A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1)

by Andrea Pickens

  He reached out his hand. “The scraper, if you please.” Derrien gave it over without a word.

  Marquand took his stance over the ball, taking care to set his feet at the proper distance. He gave the club a waggle or two, then let go with a prodigious swing, powerful, yet controlled. The ball shot off, as if fired from a cannon, and ripped through the fog to land a scant five yards past the flag. Without so much as a look at Derrien’s face, he flipped the club in her direction, then stalked off toward the green.

  “Well, well. So his lordship has some competitive fire beneath that icy exterior.” TTie fine lines around Philp’s eyes crinkled in humor as he gave a low chuckle. “Derry, my dear, I think our man might just have a chance.”

  “How did the lesson go today?”

  Marquand tossed his jacket over the arm of the sofa and sat down with a sigh. “Philp seems to think I am making some progress. And it does appear that the ball is beginning to go in the vague direction that I am aiming.” His lips pursed. “Though it is still up in the air as to whether I shall be able to refrain from throttling that irritating little caddie before the match with Hertford.” After a moment’s reflection, he gave a rueful grimace. “However, I suppose I had better keep my hands wrapped around the club, for despite his egregious manners, the damn brat does seem to know a good deal about the game.”

  Ellington laughed. “Well, you did imply at one time that you thought the game would be child’s play.” He tossed a thick vellum card onto the Viscount’s lap on his way to pour himself a glass of Madeira. “Do not forget, we are invited to an evening musicale at Sir Twining’s residence tonight. It is to be our introduction to local Society, so I’ll not hear of you trying to cry off,” he added, on seeing the look of incipient mutiny that crossed the Viscount’s features. “Jamie has gone to a good deal of trouble to arrange our welcome here, and it would be most rag-mannered of us to ignore such efforts.” He took a sip from his glass. “Did you not notice there was also a note on the tray downstairs for you? It arrived only an hour or two ago.”

  Marquand pulled a face. “I cannot imagine who it might be from. I have no acquaintance with anyone in town.”

  “Well, that may no longer be the case, Adrian. I saw a traveling coach pass down Market Street when I was out earlier, and if I am not mistaking the crest upon the door, it appears the lovely Miss Dunster and her parents have arrived in St. Andrews.”

  A muttered oath slipped from the Viscount’s lips. Now what the devil was Lady Honoria and her family doing here, he wondered? A sudden vision of Lord Hylton’s corpulent face came to mind, and how the man’s greedy eyes had blinked in rapid succession on hearing the request for his daughter’s hand, as if they were the beads of an abacus adding up the possible assets of such an alliance. His mouth tightened in a grim line. Whatever was in the note that awaited his perusal, he could already read between the lines. It was clear he was not the only one with an interest in the fate of Woolsey Hall.

  It shouldn’t be of any great surprise, he told himself. After all, hadn’t he also voiced the opinion that a match should be based on a purely rational assessment of the benefits? Still, he found himself feeling rather like a stud being led out at Tattersall’s, to be watched intently by the prospective buyers as he was put through his paces. And he found himself chafing at the bit.

  “I would have expected a slightly more, er, joyous reaction on learning that your bride-to-be and her family have journeyed such a great distance to lend support to your endeavor.” Ellington toyed with the silver stopper of the decanter, his gaze ostensibly averted from Marquand’s stony countenance.

  “If Hylton is to lend anything, you may be sure he expects a handsome return on his investment.” The words were barely audible but they caused his friend’s fingers to pause on the polished top. Rising abruptly, Marquand took up his jacket, still heavy with the salt air. “If you will excuse me, Tony, I have a number of things to attend to before we must make our appearance tonight.”

  Chapter Five

  Ellington could see that the last few hours had done little to improve his friend’s disposition. The Viscount had sat in gloomy silence during the short carriage ride to North Street, and his expression as they mounted the stairs to the Baronet’s drawing room might charitably be described as “mulish.” Several less flattering adjectives came to Ellington’s mind, and as their host stepped forward to greet them, he was forced to whisper a harsh rebuke in Marquand’s ear.

  “Ah, gentlemen! So nice to make your acquaintance.” Sir Twining pumped each of their hands in turn. “Bowmont has written that we are to take good care of you, though I fear that after the sort of things you are used to in London, our small town and its entertainments will seem sadly flat to you.”

  “Not at all,” demurred Ellington. “Especially seeing as we plan to take advantage of the marvelous sporting opportunities afforded here in Scotland during our stay. Isn’t that right, Adrian?”

  “Yes. Of course,” said Marquand, the reply nudged out of him by a discreet poke to the ribs.

  “Well, if you have come for golf, you have come to the right place, indeed!” With a smile, the Baron slipped his pudgy hand around Ellington’s elbow. “Do you shoot as well, sir?” The affirmative nod caused the fellow to look even more pleased. “Then you must meet Sir Strathbume, whose grouse moor is unrivaled . . .” Marquand couldn’t make out the rest of the words as his friend was hauled off toward a trio of stout gentlemen near the stone fireplace. Reluctant to be drawn into what promised to be a long conversation regarding birds, as well as the relative merits of guns made by Manton versus the new upstart, James Purdey, he remained where he was, doing his best not to glower as if he were nursing a backside full of buckshot. His friend was right. It would be unforgivably rude to spurn this generous show of hospitality by the local gentry, but as his gaze swept over the assembled guests, he found both his manners and his patience close to deserting him. Spotting several large botanical prints that promised to be of more interest than any of the people present, he made his way over to the quiet nook where they hung. Though the plants were a rather obscure native variety with which he was unfamiliar, and the quality of the line and colors unusually fine, they failed to lift his spirits for more than a brief moment before his mind strayed back to what had him in such an unsettled mood.

  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 hunt
ing 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 b
e 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.”