A Diamond in the Rough

by Andrea Pickens

  “Aye,” she muttered. “He’s not half bad. If he continues to improve as he has been, we should have a sporting chance at besting Hertford.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” He looked up for a moment, his gaze sharper than she would have liked. “And you are sure the task is not proving too odious?”

  Derrien couldn’t help but think of the chiseled strength of the broad shoulders as they whipped through a golf swing, and the rather dazzling smile those finely molded lips were capable of when the ball was well struck. She swallowed hard, hoping Philp would not notice the faint stain of color creeping to her cheeks. “It doesn’t matter what I feel. I told you, I mean to see it through.”

  “So you did.” He reached for his pipe and a flint. “Well, then you had best fetch Lord Marquand’s baffing spoon and rewrap the underlisting. I noticed that the grip has shifted somewhat. Oh, and take some of the new cord in back and replace the whipping of his putter.” “Yes, sir.”

  “The next time you two go out, you had best begin work on his short game.” A puff of smoke drifted up among the racks of unfinished clubs. “Word has it that Lord Hertford arrived in town last night.”

  Chapter Eight

  Marquand swore under his breath, something he found he was doing with increasing frequency these days. The sketch failed to capture the exact perspective he was looking for, and so he tucked it away in the back of the small leather portfolio at his side and withdrew a fresh sheet of paper. This time his pencil moved over the surface with a surer hand, the crisp lines and delicate shading rendering a picture much more to his liking. Brow furrowed in concentration, he started to fill in the details. It was only when the clock in the nearby church tower began to chime the hour that his head shot up in consternation.

  “The devil take it,” he muttered with some force. He was promised for a nuncheon with Honoria and her parents. Given his egregious lack of manners in not making an appearance at the last evening’s musicale, it would be unforgivable to let this engagement slip his mind as well. And he was already in danger of being late.

  Several more choice words slipped out as he quickly gathered the rest of his papers that were strewn over the weathered bench and crammed the pile inside the stiff Moroccan covers. With a last, lingering look of regret at the unusual gazebo and circular plantings behind it, he forced himself to his feet. He would simply have to ask Mr. Davies if he might return another morning to finish making his sketches. Why, he hadn’t even had time to take more than a cursory look at the formal herb garden set off to the right of the main house.

  The sound of the bells faded away, giving further warning that he must make haste. Tucking his work under his arm, he set off down the path at a rapid clip. He had nearly reached the wrought-iron gate that led out to the quiet side street when the graveled walk took a sharp bend around a high hedge of clipped boxwood. His own hurried steps had masked the sound of anyone else approaching, and so as he rushed through the turn, his momentum made it impossible to avoid colliding with the figure who was approaching from the opposite direction.

  Marquand managed to keep the other person from being knocked to the ground, but his portfolio went flying, the papers scattering across the neatly trimmed grass.

  “Hell and damnation,” he exclaimed, unable to contain his dismay at seeing all his precious work and reference drawings in danger of being ruined. He took an involuntary step toward the fluttering sheets before realizing he still had hold of the other person’s arm. “I beg your pardon”—his irritation only increased at seeing it was a young lady he had in his grip—“Miss Edwards. For both my unseemly haste and language.” His gaze remained locked on the sketches rather than on her face. Of all the deuced luck, he couldn’t help but fume, to make a cake of himself by bumping into this particular young lady. “I’m afraid I was in a bit of a hurry.”

  “So it would seem,” answered Derrien rather coldly, wrenching her elbow from the Viscount’s fingers. “I should have been more on guard if I had any notion that another person would be prowling around in Mr. Davies’s gardens at this hour—especially you, my lord, though it does seem you are partial to strolls in gardens. However, I would not have expected that a fine London gentleman rose before noon.”

  Marquand was already on his knees, regardless of the effect the damp earth was having on his immaculate dove gray breeches, and starting to gather up his work. “I imagine there is a great deal that you wouldn’t expect about me,” he muttered, his ill humor further piqued by her barbs as well as his uncharacteristic clumsiness.

  Her own gaze strayed to the papers on the ground and she could not help but notice that they were drawings.

  “What are those?” she added, after a moment, curiosity winning out over reserve.

  When he didn’t answer, she bent down as well and began to pick up some of the sheets that were threatening to fly off into the row of rosebushes. “Why, this is a sketch of one of the temples at Stourhead!” she blurted out, on regarding the first image to come to hand. She looked at the ones beneath it. “And this is from Payne Knight’s design for Downton Castle. And this . . .” Her freckled nose crinkled in thought. “It looks to be the work of Chitley, but I don’t recognize the commission.” Marquand’s hands had frozen in their task at her first words, then his head came up with a jerk, “Y—you are familiar with garden designs and their creators?” he exclaimed in undisguised amazement.

  “Yes,” she replied with some defensiveness. “Does that strike you as so . . . odd?”

  “It’s not that. It’s just, well, I suppose it’s just that I wouldn’t have expected such extensive knowledge from a . . .” His words trailed off as he grabbed at another piece of paper about to be carried off by a gust of wind.

  “A female, and a mere provincial, uneducated one at that,” she finished quickly. Her chin came up a fraction. “Well, sir, there is no doubt a great deal you don’t expect about me either.”

  His brow furrowed slightly. What he didn’t expect was to find himself thinking that her pert nose looked rather pretty, if unconventional, with its lightly tanned coloring and dusting of freckles. And that her rosy lips, slightly parted as they were at the moment, looked eminently kissable.

  She captured several other sketches and ran a quick eye over them. “One of Robert Adam’s picturesque castles and a plan by Repton,” she announced. “And rendered very nicely at that. The question is, sir, what are you doing with such a collection of drawings?”

  “Er, a hobby,” he mumbled. He held out his hand for the papers she had collected. “And you—you certainly seem familiar with the names you have just mentioned,” he went on, in order to deflect further questions. However he couldn’t resist tossing out one of his own. “Whose work do you prefer?”

  He noted the lively gleam of humor that came to her eyes, and wondered why he hadn’t noticed before what an unusual shade of blue they were—somewhere between a smoky cerulean and sky at twilight.

  “Ah, sir, that is like asking which sweetmeat does one prefer. They have all designed works that make one positively drool with delight.” She paused as if to consider the question further. “But I suppose that I must say I favor the less well-known Chitley.”

  Marquand suppressed a strangled cough. “Why is that?”

  “His imagination,” she replied without hesitation. “I think he has done the best job of synthesizing the core ideas espoused in Archibald Alison and Payne Knight’s essays into a coherent design philosophy, don’t you think?”

  He made a strange sound in the back of his throat and sat back on his haunches.

  “I find his attitude on formality, color, and texture most intriguing,” she went on, ignoring the lack of a reply.

  “Indeed,” he managed to sputter. “Well, I imagine he has been influenced by Uvedale Price as well. After all, it is Price who proposed that the Picturesque rank as an aesthetic category along with the Sublime and the Beautiful.”

  Derrien regarded him intently. “Now that might be
a matter of debate, sir, on how similar their views are on—”

  “Ha! No debate at all,” he said under his breath.

  “What was that?”

  “Er, nothing. What I meant was, I should like to hear more of your opinions on the subject.”

  “Well, as I said, I find Chitley perhaps a bit more unorthodox than his predecessors.” There was a slight pause. “But I am sure he is not to your taste.”

  “No?”

  Her eyes took on a martial gleam. “You do not strike me as having a great deal of imagination.” She plucked up another sketch from the grass.

  “Ah, yes. Bloodless, aren’t I? Well, perhaps that is why my passing interest in gardens is not to be wondered at.” He snatched the paper from her fingers. “They, too, are bloodless so we suit each other—though of course they do have a life to them which I obviously do not.” Derrien ducked her head. “I’m sorry—my comment of the other evening was quite uncalled for,” she muttered. “I have a bad habit of letting my tongue run away with me.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” he said dryly.

  She made a lunge for the last piece of paper floating in the wind. “If you truly have an interest in gardens, I imagine you have already heard of Sir Hugh Playfair’s creation,” she said in a conciliatory tone. “Of all the private designs here in St. Andrews, it would, of course, be the one that shouldn’t be missed.”

  He shook his head. “Playfair? I believe I was introduced to the gentleman at some point, but have not heard mention of his garden.”

  “No? But you must see it.” Her mouth crooked in a tentative smile. “If only to remark on what happens when imagination runs amuck.”

  A faint grin tweaked at the molded curves of his lips. “With such an interesting recommendation, I shall have to be sure to wangle an invitation.”

  “Sir Hugh has invited me to make use of the grounds whenever I care to. I had planned to make a visit tomorrow morning at this time, if’—the last words came out in a rush, before she quite realized what she was saying— “if you would care to go along.”

  It was a moment before an answer came. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I should like that.” He reached out to take the last sketch from her hand and his glove brushed against hers, sending a frisson of heat through his blood. Good Lord, he thought with some consternation, what was he thinking, to let the merest physical brush with a prickly country miss affect him like that? After all, he was engaged to a beauty, and one whose manners—

  Honoria!

  Hell’s teeth, he had forgotten all about the nuncheon! He was going to be frightfully late. He scrambled to his feet, clumps of mud and bits of grass clinging to his knees. “Egad, Honoria and her parents will no doubt be furious with me,” he muttered under his breath. In a louder voice, he added, “Forgive me, Miss Edwards, but I must be off.” His fingers were fumbling awkwardly, trying to give her a hand up at the same time as attempting to stuff the sketches into his portfolio. “If you will give me your address, I shall bring my carriage around—”

  “No, no, that’s hardly necessary. Just be here by this gate at ten. It’s only a short distance and I . . . like to walk.” She reached out to tuck an errant comer of paper back within the leather case and couldn’t resist adding, “I should think an engagement with your future bride would not bring such a scowl to your face, Lord Marquand.”

  He finally finished tying the ribbons. “You must be mistaking my expression, Miss Edwards,” he said softly. “We bloodless fellows have none to speak of, remember? Now, if you will excuse me, I really must hurry, for even people without a pulse can be roused to anger in the face of deliberate rudeness.”

  Derrien felt her face grow rather hot as she watched him hurry toward the gate. It was outside of enough that in some strange moment of delusion she had actually invited the English lord to accompany her to Sir Hugh’s garden. But even worse was that he remembered, to the letter, her childish remarks of the other night. She might not like either the gentleman or his intended bride, but it had been horribly rude of her to snap out such nasty comments simply because she had been embarrassed herself—as the Viscount’s retorts had not failed to point out. The elegant lady must think her a veritable hoyden, and no doubt Lord Marquand did as well. Certainly, her additional gibe concerning his imagination hadn’t helped her cause. She bit her lip. Loath as she was to admit it, even to herself, she found she didn’t like the idea of him thinking of her as, well, an ill-mannered brat.

  She let out a harried sigh and then continued on to the bench facing the painted gazebo. Taking a seat, she withdrew a small sketchbook and pencil from her reticule, but on opening its pages she found her hand strangely reluctant to begin its work. Instead her gaze lifted to survey the formal row of shrubs in the foreground, which turned at right angles and led the eye back to a more natural and irregular display of foliage and flowering plants. The contrast created a certain tension, making for a more interesting scene whose complexities drew one back again and again. It was a concept the notable designers she had mentioned earlier understood intuitively, and now, as she sat and studied the view before her, she slowly realized it applied to people as well.

  Lord Marquand was nothing if not a study in contrasts, and despite her firm resolve to dislike the man, she found that with each new glimpse, he was becoming increasingly . . . intriguing. Yes, he could be impossibly stiff-rumped and formal at times, yet his reaction to such an appearance was quite at odds with the raw athleticism and vibrant masculinity he displayed on the golf links. His bearing bespoke of an icy hauteur, and yet his reaction to her harsh comments had shown him to be vulnerable, to have feelings that could hurt. And while his own words could seem stilted in the extreme, the exuberant skill of his hand at rendering the subtlest of nuances could not be hidden—though most of the works had been copies, several of the scattered sketches had been his own, depicting the exact gazebo she was now gazing upon.

  Her eyes dropped down to the blank sheet of paper. And that he possessed an expertise in gardens, of all things! She bit her lip. Why, oh why, had she let her cursed, impetuous tongue run so loose as to not only insult him, but then to render that crazy invitation? She was spending quite enough time with the gentleman without cultivating any additional contact. That she was coming to respect his determination and fighting spirit was bad enough. She wasn’t sure she wanted to discover that he, too, was interested in the same subject she longed to discuss with another knowledgeable person. Or that he might actually listen to her and solicit her opinion. It was simply too . . . hazardous.

  She might have made up her mind to tolerate him, but she wasn’t about to start liking him as well.

  Her rueful grimace twisted into a mocking smile as she recalled yet another facet of his character. How could she forget, even for an instant? He was also a hardened gamester, she reminded herself. One who apparently ran with the likes of Lord Hertford and thought nothing of risking a fortune on the turn of a card. While she didn’t know the particulars of his wager, it must have been quite high indeed to have necessitated an arduous journey from London to Scotland. And it was only natural that a gentleman like that was also a practiced rake. She swallowed hard. That would account for the ease with which he had caused her defenses to bend, as if they were no more substantial than the fragile wildflowers that were clustered around the distant stone fountain.

  No!

  Derrien’s hand drew the pencil over the paper, leaving a firm dark line. Then she relaxed slightly, knowing she was in no danger of succumbing to his charm, now that there had been a moment to reflect on his baser nature. In the future she’d not forget what sort of man he really was. Another few shadings were scratched on the page. That being the case, she mused, it couldn’t hurt to talk about gardens with him. She was dying to know what Nash’s latest essays, just recently published in London, had to say on the subject of aesthetics, just as she was curious to know more about the fellow Chitley. It appeared the bold new talent was somewhat of a recluse,
and little more was known about him other than the wonderful sketches that had made their way past the northern border. She was most curious as to what sort of fellow he was, and whether any of his writings had yet been published. With the bold creativity and ingenious way of thinking that was revealed by his plans, she couldn’t imagine that he was an older man, but—

  A glance down at her book caused a sharp intake of breath. Rather than a quick rendering of the gazebo, her hand had somehow of its own accord sketched a rugged profile, with straight nose, lean jaw, and longish curling locks falling in boyish disarray. She snapped the pages closed with some muttered words that would have brought an instant rebuke from Philp and stood up.

  Men! They seemed to be plaguing her thoughts this morning.

  The dull chimes of the clock served as a reminder that she, too, had best be off to seek sustenance for the coming afternoon. As she draped the strings of her reticule around her wrist, an impish grin slowly spread to her lips. Men, indeed! Well, if she couldn’t beat them, she might as well join them.

  “I said, have you made any progress in this golfing endeavor, Marquand?” Baron Hylton had stopped chewing long enough to repeat his question in an even louder tone than before.

  “What—er, that is, were you speaking to me, sir?”

  “I’m not speaking to the deuced epergne though it seems I might as well be,” he growled under his breath, cutting off another thick slab from his lamb chop.

  “Language, Fitzwilliam!” warned his wife with a whispered rebuke.

  “Father, I’m sure his lordship is preoccupied with his upcoming lessons. Just as I am sure he will do his best when the time comes,” murmured Honoria, not quite able to look the Viscount’s way as she offered some measure of support.

  Marquand squirmed in his chair. Why was it that she couldn’t seem to get comfortable speaking his name? he wondered with some irritation. A glance around the table only served to increase his ill humor. Everything seemed to be rubbing him the wrong way this afternoon, from the Baron’s thinly veiled questions as to the future of Woolsey Hall, to the perpetually sour expression on Lady Hylton’s thin face to Honoria’s perplexing lack of vitality. It was as if all the charm and wit he knew she possessed had been drained from her veins.