A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1) (17 page)

It was odd, thought Marquand, but the picture that came to mind was of a pair of flashing blue eyes and a pert, freckled nose rather than the pale visage of his intended. He made some noncommittal sound in his throat in answer to the other man before polishing off the rest of his brandy in one gulp. Somehow he doubted that any outing which included the feisty Miss Edwards was going to be very helpful in improving his state of mind, especially after this morning.

So why did he find himself looking forward to it?

His eyes fell on the slim volume of essays he had already dug out of his trunk of books. Along with a sharp tongue and prickly personality, she possessed an admirable intellect, all the more so because of the censure and ridicule she must have faced in developing it. He knew all too well what it was like to persevere in the teeth of adversity, so despite her opinion of him he meant to see she received the promised writings. He knew she would respond to the ideas with the passion and intensity that they deserved.

He wondered what else might stir such feelings in her. Would her eyes flare with heat if his lips pressed down upon—

“. . . indulge in such dreaming?”

His head jerked up in some embarrassment and a hot flush rose to his cheeks. “Er, what was that?”

“I said, how long are you going to stay up trying to dream up some new design for a Greek Temple or whatever else you are envisioning for the Duke’s gardens?” Ellington eyed the sheepish expression and schoolgirl blush for a moment then his brows stole up. “If I were you, I should get some sleep, Adrian. You are acting deucedly strange.”

“I shall be along shortly,” he mumbled.

Strange? That didn’t begin to explain the half of what he was feeling.

Derrien tugged at the ribbons of her bonnet, thinking not for the first time how much she preferred men’s clothing to the constraining garb required of females.

“That’s a most attractive color on you, my dear,” said Mrs. Kildare, smiling at her from the facing seat of the Baronet’s carriage. “It brings out the blue of your eyes, does it not, Mr. Ferguson?”

The young professor regarded her scowling face with a show of great deliberation. “Indeed.” He gave a sly wink that only she could see. “Though right now I believe I see a hint of some other, warmer hue in them.” She restrained the urge to stick her tongue out at him.

The older lady fell back into conversation with the portly gentleman at her other elbow, a fellow colleague of her husband’s in the Classics, giving Ferguson a chance to pursue a more private talk with Derrien. “What has put the proverbial bee in that lovely bonnet?” he inquired with a smile.

“Oh, do give off, Charlie,” she muttered. She squirmed yet again against the squabs. “Whoever invented these horrid things must have a great dislike of females. As if we don’t wish to see what’s around us! Why, I can hardly look out the window without forever bumping the cursed brim against the glass.”

He chuckled. “Nevertheless, you look enchanting.” “Ha!” She brushed impatiently at an errant ringlet on her cheek. “More likely I look ready to bite someone’s head off at being forced by my aunt to be a part of this little excursion.”

“Not mine, I hope!” He gave a mock sigh. “Alas, I should have thought the prospect of my scintillating wit and charming company would have sparked a greater enthusiasm in your breast.”

She grinned in spite of her sour mood. Over the past several years, the two of them had become good friends through their mutual acquaintances at the University. He was one of the few men who actually seemed interested in the opinion of a mere female, encouraging her to speak her mind. As it happened, they agreed on more than a few things, and those on which they differed gave rise to any number of lively discussions. A closeness had developed between them, but one akin to the camaraderie of siblings rather than one of any romantic overtones. Each had seemed comfortable with that, and indeed, Derrien thought of him more in the light of an older brother than anything else.

“If it were just you and the rest of our friends, I should find it a most pleasant diversion,” she replied to his light teasing. “But the presence of the visitors from London ...” Her voice trailed off as she attempted to turn her eyes to the passing countryside. However a corner of the chipped straw caught on the gathered curtain, drawing some further expression, whispered under her breath.

Ferguson stifled a laugh. “Derry, my dear, have a care or our English guests will think that we are the wild heathens they have been taught to expect.”

“I don’t give a fig what they think,” she muttered.

An odd look flashed over his face, then his brow rose in mild surprise. “Have you truly taken such a dislike to them?”

The brim of her bonnet hid her face. “Surely you have to admit there is precious little to like—Miss Dunster appears as cold and haughty as she is beautiful, while Lord Marquand ... is said to be a drunken gamester.” Her voice took on a brittle edge. “But what else would you expect from titled English aristocrats? No doubt they will spend the afternoon peering down their noses at us country bumpkins. Given my druthers, the outing is one I would avoid like the plague, if not for Aunt Claire.”

It was Ferguson’s turn to stare out the window. Though his features were not shaded by any poke of straw, his expression was equally unreadable, though she was surprised to catch a flare of emotion in his eye she had never seen before. “Perhaps you are being a bit unfair in making such a harsh judgment, Derry? You cannot have exchanged more than a few words with either of them.”

She colored slightly and began to finger the book in her lap. “Perhaps.” Under her breath she added, “But I doubt it.”

“From you, at least, I should expect a more open mind,” he continued. “Not one colored by mere prejudice or hearsay.”

Her cheeks burned a bit hotter. Close as they were, Ferguson knew nothing of her real background, and his words had unwittingly struck closer to the truth than Derrien cared to admit. “Very well, Charlie, I shall try.” The carriage rolled to a halt and Ferguson assisted the ladies in dismounting. Up ahead, the three other vehicles that made up the excursion were emptying of their passengers. In all there were ten men and nine ladies, the wife of Mr. Strathyeum having taken ill with a bad cough at the last minute. Ferguson quickly slipped his arm around Derrien’s elbow and drew her to one side as the rest of the party began to pair off for the stroll out to the ruins of the abbey.

“I have a great favor to ask of you,” he murmured in her ear after they had fallen in toward the back of the group.

“You know you may count on me for anything.”

He cleared his throat while checking that no one else was close enough to overhear. “I should be eternally grateful if you would contrive to engage Lord Marquand’s attention for some reason—any reason—so that he might be obliged to walk with you for a bit.” Another short cough. “And so I might be paired with Miss Dunster.”

It was only with great difficulty that Derrien kept from mouthing a most unladylike word. “Oh, Charlie, not you too! Don’t tell me you are going to make a cake of yourself by swooning around the lovely lady like some lovesick mooncalf! Only look up ahead at how every man, even those half blind with age, is ogling—”

A warning look from Ferguson caused her words to cut off abruptly. But as soon as the approaching couple passed them she fixed him with a black scowl. “Besides, have you forgotten she is engaged to Lord Marquand? Do you wish to end up facing a pistol at twenty paces?” His hand tightened on her arm. “Forget it then, I shall find another way—”

“You will not,” she snapped. “Of course I shall do it, but that doesn’t mean I shall like it.” On seeing how pale his sensitive face had become, her brow furrowed in sudden concern. “What’s going on there?” she demanded in a near whisper. “I know you well enough to know this is no mere—”

“Please.” His expression took on a haunted look. “Don’t ask. I shall explain . . . when I can.”

She bit her lip. “Very well.”

Several other couples caught up to them, forestalling any further conversation on the matter. Derrien managed to make the requisite small talk, but her mind was really on her friend and his strange request. What possible reason could Ferguson have for wanting to spend some time alone with the rigid Miss Dunster? Even if he had been suddenly smitten by an unaccountable infatuation with the icy young lady, he could not be so much of a fool as to think she would pay him the least attention. If anything, he would only end up embarrassing himself—and perhaps worse. She was well-enough acquainted with the Viscount’s physical prowess to imagine he would be a crack shot.

Her chin took on the stubborn tilt that her intimate friends would have recognized all too well as a sign that her mind had set upon a certain course. She was simply going to have to keep a close eye on her friend to see he didn’t get himself into real trouble.

The weathered stone remains of the abbey were set on a high promontory overlooking the sea. The view from the crumbling walls was magnificent now that the early morning clouds had blown through, leaving the sky a crisp cerulean blue whose rich color was also reflected in the gentle waves breaking upon the rocky shore. It was warm enough that even the most delicate of the ladies had no objection to exploring the grounds before partaking of the repast, and with such an impressive array of scholars among them, there was no risk of anyone being left unenlightened as to the abbey’s significance in Scottish history.

Even now, Derrien could make out the tall form of the Viscount, standing beside his intended bride, head bent slightly as if spellbound by Professor Kildare’s detailed account of some minor skirmish from the sixteenth century. Though the words were barely audible at that distance, he appeared to be speaking with some relish of the punishments exacted by the victors—which apparently included a goodly number of severed limbs and grotesque tortures. She jerked on Ferguson’s arm, drawing their steps in the direction of the trio, and as they got closer, she had to repress a grin at the look in Marquand’s eyes. He looked ready to cut off Kildare’s tongue, along with any other appendage within reach, if a broadsword had been handy. Derrien could almost feel a dash of sympathy for Miss Dunster, whose face had taken on a more deathly pallor than usual at the graphic descriptions.

Ferguson tried to detour around one of the massive arches, but she held firm. “We must stay close to them,” she whispered. “Once Walter has finished, I have no doubt that his lordship will want to slip off for a private stroll with his lady. Then we can follow and—”

“P—perhaps we should wait until after the picnic,” he stammered. His own visage had turned nearly as pale as Miss Dunster’s and he appeared more nervous than Derrien had ever seen him.

“No,” she said firmly. “Buck up your courage, Charlie. If you insist on doing this, best get it over with.”

He swallowed hard but let himself be led on.

Sure enough, the moment Kildare wound up his narrative, Marquand left no room for another long-winded story to begin. With a civil but unmistakable indication that the history lesson was at an end, he drew both himself and Miss Dunster away from the professor and headed toward some of the smaller outbuildings, whose position on the crest of a small rise afforded a clear view out over the bay to the distant spires of St. Andrews. Derrien had to all but drag Ferguson in the other couple’s wake, but in a matter of minutes they came abreast of them behind the oldest section of the original church.

Taking note of her friend’s locked jaw, Derrien realized there was no choice but to take matters into her own hands.

"Good day, Lord Marquand,” she said with a forced brightness. Having never been formally introduced to the Viscount’s companion, Derrien knew he would be obliged to stop and fulfill the required social niceties.

He turned slowly and she thought she noted a flicker of some emotion in his gray-green eyes, though what it was she couldn’t really make out. Most likely it was annoyance, if not real anger, she thought with an inward grimace. She could hardly blame him if her countenance wasn’t exactly a welcome one, but for the sake of her friend she plunged ahead. “A delightful day for a stroll, is it not?” Without waiting for a reply, she held out her hand. “I don’t believe I have had the pleasure of being introduced to your charming companion, sir—not formally, that is.”

Whatever previous emotion had flashed across Mar-quand’s features was now replaced by an expression of faint amusement. “Then allow me,” he replied with exaggerated politeness. “Honoria, may I present Miss Edwards.” There was a fraction of a pause. “Miss Edwards, Lady Honoria Dunster.”

Honoria’s glove grazed against Derrien’s. “Delighted, Miss Edwards,” she murmured.

“I believe you have met my companion, Mr. Ferguson?” That the lady’s eyes studiously avoided any contact with those of Ferguson as she managed a quick nod was not lost on Derrien, though she also noted that the Viscount seemed not to notice anything amiss.

There was some deep mystery here, she was sure of

it, and the thought of her good friend falling into some abyss from which he could not extricate himself caused her throat to constrict with concern. Yet she had given her promise to help, and until Ferguson had a chance to explain, she felt she had no choice but to proceed as planned.

“And you, Lord Marquand,” she continued in the same overbrittle voice, “have the two of you gentlemen—”

“No, we have not.” The Viscount interrupted her speech by inclining a slight bow in Ferguson’s direction. “Marquand.”

“Charles Ferguson, my lord.”

Derrien was glad to note that his voice was firm, and that his return bow was no more pronounced than that of the English lord.”

Having performed the necessary chore of introductions, Marquand looked impatient to be on his way, but Derrien sidled forward to effectively block his path. “I was wondering, my lord, if I might a brief word with you . . .”

His brows arched up in mild surprise.

“Ah, Charles, I’m sure Miss Dunster has not seen the view of the sea from the walkway in front of the transept,” she added quickly, shooting him a pointed glance. “You know it is considered the best vantage point for, er, spotting the rare white kestrel that, er, nests in the nearby cliffs.”