He frowned slightly. Bloodless. That was what the little minx had called her, and on stealing another surreptitious look at his intended bride’s pale face, it was hard to argue with the rather harsh assessment. His lips twitched for an instant. Miss Edwards. Now there was a young lady who could hardly be described as bloodless— bloodthirsty, maybe, given the sharpness of her claws when she was angry. He found himself wondering why she seemed bothered by his very presence—
. . will take place in another week?” Hylton’s voice once again cut through the air as surely as his knife through the rare meat.
Marquand’s mouth tightened in a grim line. “Ten days to be exact,” he answered curtly. “Until then, at least, Woolsey Hall is safe.” His expression curled into a faintly mocking smile. “I’m touched by your concern, sir.”
“Harrumph.” Sensing he had perhaps pressed too far, the Baron took a long swallow of claret and changed the subject. “Well, then, I think I may pay a short visit to Preston’s hunting box. He’s assured me that his moors are particularly rich with grouse this year and I should like to avail myself of such a fine shooting opportunity.” He motioned for his glass to be filled. “The ladies will naturally want to stay here in a more civilized setting— that is, as civilized as any Scottish place may be.”
His wife grimaced. “I shall be well pleased when we may quit this savage land.”
The Viscount couldn’t refrain from shooting her a stony look. “Do you truly think it so, Lady Hylton? For my part, I have found the local folk to be most hospitable. What of you, Honoria?”
The Baron’s wife looked too nonplussed to answer while her daughter stared at her plate and murmured something inaudible.
“More wine, Marquand?” inquired Hylton, seeking to break the awkward silence that descended over the meal. He waved away the decanter. “I must go on to the
links, where it is imperative to keep a clear head.” Making a show of consulting the clock on the sideboard, he placed the damask napkin on the table and pushed his chair back from the table. “In fact, if you will excuse me, I must take my leave now, else be late for the appointed meeting with my caddie.” He cleared his throat. “And that august personage is, I assure you, not someone whose ire I wish to incur.”
The Baron gave a knowing nod. “Quite right. A good, seasoned man can be a queer fellow, as temperamental as the worst French chef. Why, I had a ghilly on our trout stream . . .” He began a long-winded story which Marquand interrupted by getting to his feet.
“Good day, sir.” He inclined a frosty bow in Lady Hylton’s direction. “And to you, too, Honoria,” he murmured. “I believe you are also invited to dine at Sir Humphrey’s tonight?”
“Yes.” She finally looked up, but her expression was so shuttered Marquand was hard-pressed to make out exactly what she was thinking. “And apparently there is an outing arranged for the day after tomorrow in order to view the ruins of an abbey up the coast, and a picnic as well. I ... I trust you and Lord Ellington will be able to come along, even though it may conflict with your lessons.”
“I imagine I can spare an afternoon. And I’m sure Tony will be delighted to be part of the group.”
She made an appropriate response and he took his leave.
The gusty salt breeze was like a breath of fresh air, and despite its damp edge, it felt decidedly less chilly than the atmosphere of the Baron’s dining room. Marquand quickened his steps, as if wanting to distance himself from the imposing gray granite edifice. His hand came up to tug at his cravat. Lord, was he in danger of putting a noose round his neck as well as a ring on his finger? What had, just a short time ago, appeared as a desirable match now seemed . . .
All of that didn’t matter, he reminded himself with a slight clenching of his jaw. The proposal had been made and that was that. He would simply have to learn to live with it. After all, he had learned to survive a good deal worse than mere shallowness.
It was fortunate that his caddie’s thoughts also appeared to be elsewhere throughout the afternoon, for Marquand had a difficult time concentrating on the task at hand. After a number of desultory drives, in which he at least contrived to keep the ball in the vicinity of the fairway, if not advancing it any great distance, they moved on to a bunker in order to practice getting the ball out of the heavy sand. After a few pointers from the lad, he spent a good part of an hour whacking at the small leather orb, sending up a spray of sand—and occasionally the ball—with each swing. However unsuccessful many of the flailing attempts were, Marquand found it a most satisfactory way to vent his pent-up frustrations. Even Master Derry, with an uncharacteristic show of restraint, refrained from more than one or two barbed criticisms and allowed him to hack away in undisturbed silence.
By the time a spitting rain caused them to curtail their efforts for the day, he found his spirits had revived enough that not even the prospect of another meal with Honoria and her parents could dampen his mood. It was not until he turned up the collar of his coat and started to make his way over the slick cobblestones, that he realized with a start that his thoughts had not been dwelling on the coming evening at all. Rather they had strayed to the engagement of the following morning.
His brow furrowed.
How was it that the idea of squabbling in the dirt with a sharp-tongued little hellion was what brought a smile to his lips?
“I see you are punctual, my lord.”
Marquand turned from his perusal of the wrought-iron gate’s intricate design and gave a slight bow. “I wish to exhibit some redeeming qualities, Miss Edwards,” he murmured, offering her his arm. “After all, I have been made all too aware of my numerous shortcomings.”
There was a fraction of a pause before Derrien accepted it. “You are teasing me, my lord.”
“Just a little,” he admitted. His mouth crooked into a slight smile as his free hand slipped into his coat pocket. “But perhaps we might cease our brangling long enough for you to have a glance at this?” He withdrew a slim leather-bound volume and held it out to her.
Her gaze flew to the gold-tooled title. “Chatsworth’s plans for the Duke of Devonshire!” she cried. “I thought they hadn’t—”
“Just published,” he murmured. “I thought you might be interested in taking a look at them.” His lips twitched. “Perhaps not quite as unorthodox as Chitley, but fascinating nonetheless.”
“Oh, how very kind of you, sir!” She lifted her eyes to meet his and the Viscount was surprised by what the sight of such an intense color of blue did to his pulse. Ha! bloodless, indeed, he thought, feeling it course through his veins with a rising heat. “I—I can’t thank you enough. I have been looking forward to seeing these particular drawings for an age.” She took the proffered book and ran a gloved finger along its spine with something akin to reverence. “I promise I shall return it quickly.”
The wistful note in her voice was not lost on the Viscount. “You may keep it. I have another copy.”
“I—that is, you—”
“Is this the place?” He interrupted her stammerings by drawing them to a halt by an imposing set of oak doors set in a stone arch.
“Er yes, but—”
Marquand smiled at how her expression so clearly betrayed the warring of pride versus longing. “Put the book in your reticule, Miss Edwards. I give you permission to continue to cut up at me with that sharp tongue of yours without having to feel any guilt, if that is what’s worrying you.”
Her mouth opened, but before she could speak, he took a step toward the gate. “Might we enter now? I’m afraid I have a limited amount of time and you’ve quite piqued my curiosity. I wouldn’t want to miss anything.” Without further argument, Derrien slipped the book into her bag and put her shoulder to the weathered wood. The doors swung open, revealing a large expanse of clipped grass, in the center of which sat a massive pagoda, towering nearly ninety feet in the air. Marquand stared at it in mute amazement for several moments, then his eyes strayed off to one side where a strange cons
truction of wooden posts, rods, and thick hemp ropes appeared to be spinning in a slow concentric circle within a small pond.
“A water-driven . . . contrivance,” she explained.
He merely nodded, then glanced in the other direction, where several large statues dominated a formal bed of multi-colored roses. Suddenly, his shoulders began to shake, and a low rumble sounded in his throat. In another moment, he could contain his laughter no longer. Its rich baritone sound echoed loudly off the weathered stone of the massive retaining wall. “Good Lord,” he said when he finally managed to speak. “It’s truly, truly . .
“Hideous?” she suggested, unable to suppress a grin. “I am in awe.” They stepped inside and pulled the gate shut. “Had I not seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed such a creation possible.” Derrien giggled. “Actually, sir, there are some sections which are rather nice.”
His brows shot up. “Lead the way.”
As they strolled along the winding path, their conversation quite naturally turned to a discussion on the principles of garden design. Marquand knew she had some acquaintance with the subject from their brief encounter of the day before, but still, he was surprised by the breadth of her knowledge and the keenness of her insight. Why, even with a number of males who accorded themselves to be experts in the field, he hadn’t enjoyed such a stimulating exchange of ideas. Not only did the young lady grasp a number of complex concepts but she appeared to have a distinct vision of her own as to what made a good design. He found himself wondering what she would think of his preliminary plans for his new commission. It was deucedly frustrating at times, for he was not able to show them to his peers for fear of revealing his secret. Tony was supportive, but hadn’t a clue as far as aesthetics were concerned. And Honoria didn’t know a dahlia from a begonia—
“. . . the perspective created by the row of espaliered pear trees, don’t you think?”
“Er—”
Derrien laughed, though not unkindly. “Just as I suspected, sir. You haven’t heard a word I have been saying, have you?”
“Sorry. I fear my mind wandered for a moment.”
She cocked her head. “Somewhere interesting, judging by your expression.” Her inflection made it more of a question than a statement.
He stopped to inspect an unusual type of geranium. “Tell me,” he said while bent over the variegated leaves. “What do you think of that latest essay from Knight?” A sigh escaped Derrien’s lips. “I’m afraid it has not yet made its way north, though I have read in the journals that it has stirred up a good deal of debate.”
“I happen to have that particular work in my possession as well. Are you one of the party making up the excursion to the ruins on the morrow?”
She nodded slowly.
“Then I shall bring it along and let you decide on its merits. However I must warn you it is merely a loan since I haven’t yet finished it myself.”
Another sigh sounded. “You are fortunate to have access to such marvelous things. At times I feel so . . . isolated up here. Why, I don’t even know whether Chitley has published any writings.” She slanted a hopeful look at him. “Has he? I would so like to read anything he has to say.”
“Well, er, no. But I believe a volume is planned for the end of the year.”
“Then I suppose I shall have to be content with waiting for that.”
Marquand knew he should keep his mouth shut, but he simply couldn’t resist the expression of longing on her face. “I shall make sure he sends you a copy as soon as it is printed. He, is, er, an acquaintance.”
Derrien’s eyes widened. “You actually know Chitley? But it is said that for some strange reason he chooses to be an utter recluse—no one has met him.”
“Oh, he has a few friends.”
“What is he like?” she demanded eagerly.
“Well, he is about my height—” As he spoke, Marquand was aware he was treading on treacherous ground and should stop before going too far.
“And?” she prompted.
“And . . .” He stopped as if to consider the question. “And I’m not sure you would like him very much.”
“Oh fie on you, sir! You are teasing me again!” Marquand chuckled but realized he should steer the conversation back to safer footing. “I’m not, I swear it. It’s Price you would find yourself swooning over. He is tall, with the sort of artfully tousled golden curls and sensitive mien that cause females to fall at his feet in droves.”
She gave a snort. “But his ideas are not nearly as interesting . . .”
Just as the Viscount hoped, the talk turned to concepts and another lively discussion ensued.
Derrien was only listening with half an ear to the Viscount’s pithy comments, for try as she might, she couldn’t help but be distracted by the closeness of his person. They had taken a seat on one of the benches overlooking the lake and the light pressure from his thigh was palpable even through the heavy folds of her gown. She ventured a quick glance at his profile, then jerked her gaze back to the geese drifting across the rippled surface of the water. Lord, she thought, had the man any idea how attractive he looked when his eyes twinkled with such humor and when his lips quirked upward into such a devastating smile?
Of course he did, she chided herself. He probably had it down to a fine art. His current smile—or smirk—was no doubt prompted in part by how easy the game of charming a country miss must be appearing to him. Perhaps in the next minute he would think he could lower his head and capture her mouth in a long embrace without so much as a squeak of protest.
Her jaw clenched in anger, but it was directed just as much at herself as at him, for she couldn’t deny that for the last little while she had been wondering just what it would feel like to have those chiseled lips pressed hard against hers.
“. . . I’d be willing to wager a monkey that’s what he means.”
“Yes, I’m sure you would,” she said in a tight voice, her eyes darkening to a stormy slate color with the same quixotic abruptness as the weather out on the links. “Wager on it, that is.” One hand yanked the skirts of her gown away from his knee while the other searched for her reticule. “Good day, sir. I must be going—I am expected home.”
All the humor drained from Marquand’s face, replaced by a look of puzzled surprise. “Have I said something wrong, Miss Edwards?”
“Not at all. You have merely reminded me that you are a profligate gamester, and no doubt a . . . rake as well, sir, and not a person I care to spend time with.” His mouth compressed in a grim line. “I suppose it is not to be wondered at that in a small town such as this, the arrival of any stranger will prompt a number of scurrilous rumors to make the rounds.”
“Do not deny that you are in St. Andrews as the result of some wager! Hugh Philp says—” She colored slightly. “That is, Mr. Philp is a friend of my aunt’s, and it is from him that I heard you must play golf against Lord Hertford because of some large loss at the gaming table.” “Yes, it’s true that I am bound to compete against the Marquess, but—oh, the devil take it, why bother trying to explain! It appears you are just as willfully opinionated as that hot-tempered brat of a caddie I have been saddled with by Mr. Philp. Both of you think that, with the arrogance of untried youth, you understand everything at first blush.” He rose brusquely and held out his hand. “Come, let me see you home.”
Derrien stared at him in shock, rendered speechless by the raw hurt in his voice rather than the anger. When she made no move to get to her feet, his expression hardened into a stony mask and his arm dropped to his side. “As a gentleman, I am beholden to offer my company, but as it is clear you consider me no such thing, I will assume you are capable of making your own way out.” He fumbled in his pocket to withdraw a gold watch and took a quick glance at the enameled dial. “Besides, I must be off if I am not to be late for a noon engagement.” His lips curled in a mocking smile. “And then, of course, I must head to the links to practice my gaming skills. Perhaps after that, I might consider
deflowering a virgin or two before supper.” With a curt bow, he turned on his heel and stalked off.
She watched his tall form quickly disappear around a bend in the path, then dropped her eyes to her lap, suddenly aware that the strings of her reticule were knotted so tightly around her fingers that they were in danger of cutting off all circulation. The pain, however, was not nearly as sharp as the stab in her chest as she tried to draw a breath. Her accusations had been justified, she assured herself. Why, he had admitted as much! And as to explanations—what possible explanation could there be for such behavior?
Her reticule shifted in the folds of her skirts, and the corner of the slim book inside caught against her leg. Yet how could a dissolute wastrel also possess, of all things, such a keen understanding of gardens? There was no denying his extensive knowledge of both their history and theory. Nor was it possible to question his obvious sensitivity and insight. A lump formed in her throat as her hand move to touch the leather spine. She imagined that the principles of garden design was hardly a subject that would interest most rakes and scoundrels.
It made no sense!
To her dismay, a single tear spilled down her cheek.
With an angry brush of her sleeve, she blotted it away, then forced herself to take out her own sketchbook and pencil. She had work to do, she reminded herself. Her plans for the laird’s garden were much more important than dwelling on the complexities of a certain English lord. Yet somehow, as she flipped through the pages, it took her more than a few moments to turn past the quick rendering of a certain profile that was most definitely not that of a begonia or tulip.
Chapter Nine
A Diamond in the Rough Page 12
