A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1)

by Andrea Pickens

  “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.”

  Chapter Twelve

  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 hairpi
ns, 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.”

  “Hmmph.”

  They located his ball hard by a cart rut, resting on a patch of gravel with a large stone less than a foot behind it. The Viscount stared at it for several moments, his lips pursed in consternation.

  “What are you going to try?” demanded Derrien.

  His eyes went from the ball to the fairway, then back again. “Well, it’s possible that with the long spoon I could knock it over that bunker and end up in a good position on the fairway, with a chance to make par.” “It’s possible—that is, if you managed to avoid breaking your wrist on that rock and then were able to hit the best shot of your life off the graveled lie. What do you think the odds are of that?”

  He kicked at a loose stone. “Ahhh, not great, I suppose.” “Aye, not great. The more likely result would be that you would need a seagull to retrieve your ball from the Bay or that it would be buried so deeply in that tall grass up ahead that you would need a scythe to extract it. In either case, it would result in a wasted stroke and a penalty, and your troubles would still not be over.” She put one hand on her hip. “Come now, sir. Imagine that we are playing for real. What is the best decision?” Marquand studied the lie of his ball once more, then heaved a sigh. “I suppose I should take a lofted iron and knock it sideways rather than trying to advance it straight ahead. That way, I should avoid the chance of injury, as well as of ending up in the water or the tangle of rough, and be certain of regaining the fairway.”

  With a brisk nod of approval, Derrien thrust the bespoke club into his hands and signaled for him to hit away. The results were as anticipated, eliciting another nod, this one betraying just the tiniest bit of smugness. “There, you see! At most you have lost one stroke and if you hit a good third shot you might still make par. There was no need to take a risky gamble, especially on the third hole.”

  The Viscount’s jaw set. “Ah, but you are forgetting that I’m said to be a reckless fellow.”

  Though it was said half in jest, she didn’t fail to note the rough edge to his voice and couldn’t help but wonder again what thoughts were causing such an odd mood. Rather than reply with her customary bite, she gave a ghost of a smile. “That’s why you have me here. For a hardened gambler, you seem uncommonly willing to listen to advice.”

  Her comment finally caused some of the grimness to ebb from his face and he gave a reluctant chuckle. “Usually it should work the other way around—the recklessness of youth tempered by the wisdom of age.”

  “It may not make much sense, but somehow we seem to make a good team, sir.”

  “Yes,” he said rather thoughtfully. “We do at that.” For some reason, Derrien felt an unaccountable flutter inside her chest.

  He stepped up, and after waiting for a moment for a gust of wind to die down, hit his next shot. It landed a bit short of the flag, but even Derrien had to admit that it was not a bad effort. And though his putt did not find the hole, he finished up, as she had predicted, with only a bogey rather than the disastrous score that might have resulted from his errant shot.

  As though in charity with his efforts, the weather began to clear a bit during the short stroll to where Marquand was to hit his next drive. The blustery wind died down to a gentle breeze and the thick clouds thinned enough to allow a faint wash of sunlight to wink over the rain-soaked grass. The ball sailed straight through the rising mist, coming to earth in the middle of the fairway, a fair distance from where it had been struck.

  It appeared the Viscount’s thoughts were finally focused on the task at hand, so they played the next few holes with little conversation other than an occasional exchange over distance and choice of clubs. The lengthy silences had none of the overt tension of their previous outings but were of a much more companionable sort, the result of a certain hard-won comraderie winning out over the initial combativeness. Her experience as a caddie told Derrien to do nothing to break such a mood, but as they turned to play the inward nine she couldn’t help but blurt out a question that had been dogging her thoughts for longer than she cared to admit. “It’s, er, said you are engaged to a . . . beautiful lady, sir. You must be—well, you must like
her very much.”

  Marquand’s head came up with a jerk, and he nearly stumbled over a twist of ragwort that spilled out over the edge of the fairway. For an instant he appeared taken aback, then his expression changed into one of unholy amusement. “So, lad,” he said with a slow smile, “you have an interest in the opposite sex after all? I was beginning to fear that your thoughts never strayed beyond the links.”

  Derrien felt her cheeks go very crimson.

  “No need to look embarrassed, Master Derry. At your age, it would be most unnatural of you not to show a healthy curiosity. Is there something specific you wish to ask?”

  The sound she made came out as a strangled squeak. He chuckled. “I imagine that a well-favored lad like you has no need for explanations as to what takes place between a man and a woman who have a certain attraction for each other?” He paused in his steps, his brow raising slightly. “Or are you Scots really as impervious to normal desires as your flinty hills are to the elements?” She was most grateful that he didn’t demand a translation of her initial confused mumblings, but his look made it clear he expected something more to follow.

  “N—no. That is, I imagine we are no different than most in that regard. What I was wondering was .. . what it is like to be in . . . 1—love.”

  It was the Viscount’s turn to stutter. “Er, well as to that . . .” He cleared his throat, but it was several more moments before he made a reply. “Marriage is a good deal more complex than mere emotion, Master Derry. Especially for one in my position.”

  Her mouth went a bit dry at the carefully worded answer. Suddenly it was very important for her to know the truth as to his feelings for Miss Dunster. “But surely you must feel some sort of . . . regard for the lady, to think of tying yourself to her for the rest of your life?” His lips twisted in a strange sort of smile. “Of course I feel a regard for Miss Dunster. She is possessed of beauty, intelligence, poise, and charm. All the qualities that a man could wish for in a wife.”