A
Diamond in the Rough
Andrea Pickens
Chapter One
Torchlight glimmered off the artfully arranged wheaten curls, setting them alight with the glow of burnished gold.
“You look a veritable treasure, my dear,” murmured a deep baritone voice.
A whisper of evening breeze had disturbed one of them just enough so that it fell across the young lady’s alabaster cheek. Before she could reach up to brush it back in place, a gloved hand stayed her slender fingers.
“No, leave it,” continued the gentleman close by her side. “Have you any idea how many hours one of the Tulips of the Ton would spend before the mirror, trying to achieve such casual perfection?”
She permitted herself a ghost of a smile. “Indeed, sir, I am not sure whether I have just been complimented or castigated. I should hope I am not as vain or shallow as one of those insufferable gentlemen who sport canary yellow waistcoats and insist on spouting that awful Lord Byron’s poetry in a lady’s ear.”
Her companion gave a dry chuckle. “I am greatly relieved to hear that you have not succumbed to the fellow’s idiotic notions of romance and that I shall not be expected to memorize such drivel in order to win your regard.”
“I should hope I have more sense than that.”
“Much, much more. And as to the nature of my comment ...” His words trailed off as his hand touched lightly at the small of her back to guide her around a jutting branch heavy with tuber roses. The music drifting from the open French doors grew fainter with each step along the graveled path and after one more turn he drew them to a stop beside a large fountain decorated with two marble nymphs astride a dolphin. For a moment his attention remained riveted on the polished sculpture. “All wrong,” he muttered to himself. “The style is much too formal, the scale too big—”
“What was that, my lord?”
“Er, nothing.” The gentleman wrenched his eyes back to the perfectly proportioned porcelain beauty at his side and cleared his throat. “Er, as I was saying, I would hope you know exactly which sentiment I intended,” he continued, his voice taking on a husky intensity.
The lady blushed very prettily.
“I would also hope that you will begin to call me Adrian rather than sir, my dear, given the reason I have asked you to accompany me on this stroll in the garden.”
The tinge of color on her cheeks deepened to a most becoming shade of rose.
Adrian Linsley, Viscount Marquand, watched her head turn slightly and her long lashes drop in demure response to his words, a flutter or two betraying just the barest hint of maidenly nerves. A faint smile played on his lips. It was exactly the sort of reaction to be expected from a properly schooled young lady and he was gratified that he had not been mistaken in his choice. “Honoria, I have already spoken to your father and received his permission to pay my addresses to you.”
“Yes, he told me.” Lady Honoria Dunster’s reply was hardly more than a whisper.
“I trust that such a proposal meets with your approval as well?”
“You do me a great honor, sir—Adrian, that is. To be singled out as the future Countess of Chittenden is beyond all expectation.” She drew a deep breath. “Father is delighted, of course.”
The comers of Marquand’s lips twitched upward. “Is that a yes?”
There was enough of a hesitation to cause the trace of humor to disappear from his countenance and the chiseled mouth to draw into a tight line. “You must forgive me if such a declaration is unwelcome to you. I had thought—”
“No!” Her head jerked up, though her eyes did not quite make contact with his. “Th—that is, I do not . . . I mean, I only wish to assure myself that you . . .” Her words trailed off in a whisper of confusion.
The Viscount’s face remained impassive. “Assure yourself that I am not prone to drinking myself into a stupor each night? Or likely to squander your dowry in one night of deep play? Or flaunt one scandalous affair after another before the entire ton?’
Her face was now scarlet. “Oh, sir—A—Adrian—” “No, no, you are quite right to ask. Given my family’s rackety reputation, you have every reason to be concerned. But as I have told your father, I am of quite a different breed from my parents. You need not fear any excess of emotions from me. I will be nothing but an exemplary husband.”
“I did not doubt it.” A flicker of embarrassment and perhaps some deeper emotion lit in Lady Dunster’s sapphire eyes as they finally locked with his gaze, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by their usual cool hue. “I— I just wanted to hear from your own lips an assurance that our marriage will be all it should be.”
“Well, you have it. A paragon of perfection deserves no less.” He raised her hand and those same lips grazed over the delicate kidskin covering her wrist. “So will you be my wife, Honoria?”
“Y—yes. Of course.”
Marquand felt a frisson of . . . satisfaction. As he drew his betrothed a fraction closer, it occurred to him that perhaps he should feel more than just that, but he quickly pushed such silly thoughts away. No, this was exactly the sort of match he wanted, one that was based on a rational approach to the matter rather than raw need. And Honoria was exactly the sort of lady who suited his plans—one whose cool composure and polished behavior were as flawless as her striking looks. One whose good breeding and strict adherence to every propriety made it unthinkable that even the slightest whisper of gossip would ever sully her name.
Passion between two people be damned.
He’d seen quite enough of what havoc raw emotion could wreak between two people. No, he had room for only one passion in his life and it most certainly did not have anything to do with a wife.
The kiss was over in a matter of seconds. Her mouth remained firm, unyielding to the pressure of his embrace. The rigid set of her shoulders had not relaxed enough to allow his body to touch hers. He straightened, a faint smile returning to his face. Though several years past her comeout from the schoolroom, Miss Dunster was obviously still untutored in any sort of intimacies with a gentleman. Her stilted reaction was perfectly correct. After all, what more could be expected from a gently bred young lady who had never experienced any physical contact with a member of the opposite sex other than the occasional waltz?
A voice in the back of his head answered back that it might be nice if, in time, she might learn to unbend enough to make the begetting of an heir a more pleasurable chore than the other duties required of him. But he drowned out such mutinous whispers with a firm voice. “I feel very fortunate, my dear.”
And it was not a lie. He was happy that his chosen bride showed no inclination to the sort of girlish romantic notions that made a young lady imagine that burning love was a requisite basis for marriage. In truth, she seemed to prefer rational discourse over flowery sentiment, which suited him just as well—her cool demeanor only mirrored his own carefully controlled emotions. And that was merely a part of her attraction. Her intellect was sharp enough not to bore him, her poise was all that one could wish for in a future Countess, and her beauty had made him the envy of half the young bucks about Town. What more could he want?
“I ... I shall do my best to please you, Adrian.” “You need not worry on that. We are an excellent match.”
She essayed an answering smile, lowering her lashes so that the flicker of unhappiness was well hidden. “Yes, so we are.”
He tucked her hand back under his arm and started to retrace their steps. “Let us return to the ballroom lest our prolonged absence set the tabbies to wagging their tongues, despite the forthcoming announcement. Besides, I believe a glass of champagne is in order for us both so that we may raise a toast to our future happiness. For
we will both be very happy, I promise you that.”
One of the gentleman’s unsteady hands raised a glass of brandy to lips slack with shock while the other sought to wipe away the beads of sweat forming on his pale forehead. “The devil take it, Hertford! I was sure I had you this time,” croaked the Earl of Chittenden before taking a hurried gulp. His eyes couldn’t help but dart back down to the cards fanned across the green baize. “How is it you have managed to seduce even so fickle a tart as Lady Luck herself tonight?”
With a toss of her raven tresses, the buxom lady across the table gave a trill of laughter and draped herself suggestively over the other gentleman’s shoulder. “Because his lordship is so very irresistible,” she answered in a throaty murmur. A slender finger drew along the line of his jaw, turning his head ever so slightly so she could nuzzle at his ear. “And so very, very good at what he does.”
His hand sought to unglue her curves from the front of his elegant jacket of black superfine, lingering for a moment on the swell of one nearly bare breast before traveling down to deposit several gold guineas in the decollete of her gown. “Later, ma cherie,” he growled, without so much as a glance at her pouting face. “Now, go fetch another bottle for the earl.”
“No!” It was more of a cry than a statement. “I’m done for it.”
Hertford’s ice blue eyes narrowed for an instant before lightening in a show of contrived comraderie “Oh come now, Chit, show a little more bottom than a schoolroom miss. Let’s have one more hand.”
The earl wet his lips with what was left of the amber spirits. “You’ve won all I have to wager,” he said in a hoarse whisper, as he stared at the pile of scribbled vowels lying in front of the other man.
“Not all,” replied Hertford after a moment. A ghost of a smile played at the comers of his mouth. “There is still Woolsey Hall, is there not?”
“I ... I cannot!” Chittenden tugged at the already disheveled cravat around his neck as if it were tight as a hangman’s noose. “Promised ’im wouldn’t ever risk that,” he mumbled.
Hertford said nothing but waited for his companion to return with the brandy. He splashed a goodly amount in the other man’s glass, then refilled his own. “You know as well as I that Lady Luck is notoriously fickle,” he said smoothly. “It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if she soon chooses you to cozen up to.”
Hope swam to the surface of Chittenden’s watery eyes. “Yer right, it’s about bloody time the bitch embraced me for a change.”
Hertford shuffled the deck.
“But I cannot,” continued the Earl, trying to remain deaf to the siren song of the crackling cards. “I cannot, I cannot . . .” He repeated the words with increasing desperation as desire struggled against what little common sense had not been drowned by the amber spirits. The glass came once again to his lips and returned to the table empty.
Without a word, Hertford filled it near to the brim. After adding a bit to his own drink, he looked up. “What say you to the chance to win everything back in one fell swoop?”
Chittenden’s jaw went slack. “How?”
“Woolsey Hall against everything else.” He gestured at the mound of crumpled paper before him. “The lands in Northumbria, the matched team of bays, the yacht, the . . .”
“Stop,” groaned the Earl. “All of that? Hell’s teeth.
have I really lost all of that tonight?” His palms came up to press at his temples. “May Lucifer be buggered! He’ll have my guts for garters.”
“Really?” murmured Hertford with a show of sympathy. “Wouldn’t have thought a fine fellow like yourself would allow himself to be harried by his family.” He paused to toy with the gold stud at his starched cuff. “After all, it’s yours to do with as you see fit. You are the Earl.” Another pause. “And as every real gamester knows, Lady Luck always returns to toss up her skirts and give you a ride.”
Chittenden’s jaw jutted out. “S’right.” He stared longingly at the lithe fingers tapping the cards into a neat stack. “I . . .”
The rest of the words seemed to stick in his throat as a cry of dismay pierced the smoky air. A gentleman at one of the other tables buried his head in his arms as the small crowd gathered around gasped at the pile of papers changing hands. Glasses clinked, punctuating the rattle of dice over scarred pine. Someone staggered into the shadows and retched. From the recesses of another corner came the sounds of muffled laughter and a female squeak. Guttering candles, dripping with the rancid smell of cheap tallow, cast vague shadows on the crumpled clothing and drunken thrustings. A low moan spewed forth.
The Earl covered his face with his hands as if the gesture itself could afford some measure of defense against the rampant temptation. “I cannot!” he said again, this time with a bit more conviction. “Not on the turn of a card.”
Hertford’s lips tightened at the unexpected resistance to his plan. He took a moment to think, then the blue of his eyes took on an even icier coldness. “Yes, perhaps you are right not to trust to chance,” he said slowly, knocking the deck askew with a nonchalant flick of his fingers. “A shame. It seems I am to go home with a goodly amount of your worldly possessions in my pocket.”
The Earl stifled a groan.
“That is, unless you might care to engage in a game of skill rather than luck, in order to win it all back?”
Chittenden raised the brandy once again to his trembling lips. “W—w—what do you mean? I am no match for a younger man such as you ...”
“No, but your son would be.”
The Earl’s hand shook as he swallowed the entire contents of his glass. A murmur ran through the cluster of figures gathered behind Hertford’s chair. Word of an interesting wager quickly spread, like blood from a fresh wound, and a number of scavengers hurried over, scenting a kill.
“S’true,” slurred a voice. “Yer always bragging ’bout how yer only spawn’s a bloody Corinthian.”
“A fair bet!” encouraged someone else.
“Woolsey Hall against everything else,” repeated Hertford. “I’m merely trying to be gentlemanly and offer you a fair chance to recoup your considerable losses, but if you’d rather not . . .” He shrugged and reached for the pile of vowels.
“Wait!”
Hertford’s hand hovered in midair.
“W—what do you have in mind?”
“Oh, a match of sporting skills.”
The Earl bit his lip.
“What are you hesitating for, Chittenden?” cajoled a drunken gentleman at his elbow. “The Viscount’s the best damn shot at Manton’s, drives like a banshee, and ain’t been downed yet at Gentleman Jackson’s. You’ve windmills in yer head if ye don’t have the bollocks to accept.”
A number of voices seconded the sentiment, and a few jeers from the crowd questioned his manhood along with his nerve if he backed away from such a generous offer.
The sweat on the Earl’s forehead was now trickling down to his twisted collar. More seconds passed, and with mutterings of disgust, several figures drifted away in search of better entertainment. Hertford let out a sigh and made to rake in his winnings.
“Done!” croaked Chittenden.
The other man’s mouth quirked up ever so slightly. “Ah, it appears we have a wager, gentlemen,” he announced to the remaining crowd. “The Earl of Chittenden pledges Woolsey Hall against my winnings here”— he gestured at the stack of promissory notes—“in a match of sporting skills between myself and his son, Viscount Marquand. Agreed?”
The Earl’s head jerked in assent. After a moment he managed a hoarse whisper. “Shooting? Handling the ribbons? Riding? Boxing? What sort of match do you have in mind?”
Hertford’s smile became more pronounced. “Oh, nothing so banal as those common pursuits,” he answered. Reaching out for the bottle, he poured another stiff drink for the other man and clinked glasses. “No, my dear Chittenden, in order to decide the fate of Woolsey Hall, the Viscount and I are not going to culp wafers, race curricles, take fences, or tra
de left jabs. We are going to play a round of golf.”
Another two glasses came together, these with the clear ring of crystal rather than the dull chink of ordinary stuff.
“So, she has accepted your suit.” Anthony Ellington regarded his friend from over the rim of his champagne flute. There was a hint of hesitation before he forced a smile to his lips. “I wish you happy.” His tone, however, lacked any of the effervescence of the wine he brought to his lips. “You must be in alt.”
“What man wouldn’t be, on becoming engaged to the Season’s Incomparable?” Marquand drank as well, then set his glass down and stretched his long legs out toward the roaring fire. The chiseled features, smooth and pale as marble, gave little hint of any emotion, joy or otherwise, as he contemplated the dancing flames. His eyes, a gray-green akin to the sea in winter, were equally unfathomable, though the look of keen intelligence lurking in their depths could not be completely drowned by the show of studied aloofness.
Ellington squirmed in the face of such sangfroid. “Of course, of course,” he muttered. “Once again, my best wishes.”
A faint smile finally cracked through. “Go ahead and spit it out, Tony. Much as it is amusing to see you wiggling around like a trout with a hook in its mouth, I’d rather cut line and have you say what you really mean. We have known each other far too long for you to keep your true thoughts submerged.”
Ellington’s mouth opened and closed several times, looking for the moment exactly like a fish out of water— and every bit as uncomfortable. “I, er, that is . . .” “Spit it out, man.”
“It’s no joking matter—this is deucedly hard,” he grumbled. “I do wish you happy, Adrian . . .”
“Yes?”
“It’s just that ... I fear you won’t be.”
One of Marquand’s dark brows rose in question. “Miss Dunster is beautiful, charming, accomplished in all things a proper young lady should be and, well, altogether perfect.”
The brow rose a fraction higher.
“That’s the damn trouble, Adrian! There’s not a hair out of place, if you take my meaning. Everything about her is buttoned up and stitched down tight—I fear there is not a loose thread among all the finery.”
A Diamond in the Rough Page 1
