A Diamond in the Rough (Dangerous Liaisons #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

T orchlight glimmered off the young lady’s artfully arranged wheaten curls, setting them aglow with sparks of burnished gold.

"You look lovely beyond words, my dear," said the gentleman by her side.

A whisper of evening breeze loosened one of the strands just enough for it to fall across her cheek. As she reached up to brush it back in place, he caught her hand.

"No, leave it exactly as it is," he added. "Have you any idea how many hours one of the Tulips of the ton spends in front of the looking glass trying to achieve such casual perfection?"

Lady Honoria Dunster permitted herself a ghost of a smile. "Indeed, milord, I am not sure whether I have just been complimented or castigated. I should hope I’m not as vain as one of those insufferable gentlemen who sport canary yellow waistcoats and insist on spouting that shocking Lord Byron's poetry in a lady's ear."

Adrian Linsley, Viscount Marquand and heir to the Chittenden earldom, gave a dry chuckle. "I’m greatly relieved to hear that you haven’t succumbed to Byron’s wildly emotional notions of romance. Please tell me that means 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 he guided her around a leafy bush heavy with tuber roses. The music drifting out from the open french doors grew fainter with each step along the graveled path and, after one more turn, he drew her to a halt 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, milord?"

"Er, nothing." Adrian wrenched his eyes back to the perfectly proportioned porcelain beauty at his side and cleared his throat. “As I was saying, I would hope that you know exactly which sentiment I intended," he continued, his voice taking on a husky intensity.

Lady Honoria blushed.

"I would also hope that you will begin to call me ‘Adrian’ rather than ‘milord’, given the reason I have asked you to accompany me on this stroll in the garden."

The tinge of color on her cheeks deepened.

Adrian watched her turn slightly, her long lashes dropping in demure response to his words. A faint smile played on his lips as their flutter betrayed a hint of maidenly nerves.

It was exactly the reaction to be expected from a paragon of propriety, 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." Her 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 corners of Adrian's lips twitched upward. "Is that a yes?"

There was enough of a hesitation to cause the trace of humor to disappear. "You must forgive me if such a declaration is unwelcome to you. I had thought?—"

"No!" She looked up, though her eyes did not quite meet his. "T-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 drew in a measured breath. "Assure yourself that I’m not prone to drinking myself into a stupor each night? Or likely to squander your dowry in one night of reckless gambling? Or flaunt one scandalous affair after another before the entire ton ?"

Her face was now scarlet. "Oh sir—A-Adrian?—"

"No, no, you’re quite right to ask. Given my family's scandalous reputation, you’ve every reason to be concerned.” His jaw tightened. “But as I’ve told your father, I’m not cut from the same cloth as my parents. You need not fear any excess of emotions from me. I will be an exemplary husband—I swear on my honor."

"I do not doubt it." A flicker of embarrassment—or perhaps some deeper emotion—lit in Lady Honoria's sapphire eyes as they finally locked with his gaze. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by the usual cool hue of blue. "I -I just wanted to hear from your own lips an assurance that our marriage will be all that it should be."

"Well, you have it. A paragon of perfection deserves no less." He raised her hand and brushed a kiss to the delicate kidskin glove covering her wrist. "So, will you be my wife, Honoria?"

"Y-Yes. Of course."

Adrian felt a frisson of... satisfaction.

As he drew his betrothed a fraction closer, it occurred to him that perhaps he should feel more than mere satisfaction. But he quickly shoved such silly thoughts away. On the contrary, this was exactly the sort of match he wanted, one that was based on a rational thought rather than raw need.

Honoria was, in a word, perfect for him—a lady whose cool composure and polished behavior were as flawless as her striking looks. A pattern card of propriety. It was unthinkable that even the slightest whisper of gossip would ever sully her name.

Passion between two people be damned.

He had seen quite enough of what havoc raw emotion could wreak between two people. The truth was, 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—a fleeting touch of their lips—was over in a matter of seconds.

"I feel very fortunate, my dear."

It wasn’t a lie. He was happy that his chosen bride showed none of the giddy romantic notions that plagued a great many young ladies. To his relief, she didn’t seem to expect that burning love was a requisite basis for marriage. In truth, she seemed to prefer rational discourse to flowery sentiment. Indeed, her cool demeanor was a perfect match for his own carefully controlled emotions.

What more could he possibly wish for?

"I... I shall do my best to please you, Adrian."

"You need not worry on that. We are well matched."

She essayed an answering smile, lowering her lashes so that her eyes were 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. Besides, I believe a glass of champagne is in order so that we may raise a toast to our future happiness.” A pause. “For we will both be very happy, I promise you that."

His lips slack with shock, the Earl of Chittenden downed a swallow of brandy and then raised an unsteady hand to wipe away the beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

"The devil take it, Hertford! I was sure that I had you this time," he croaked, before taking another hurried gulp. His gaze darted back down to the cards fanned across the green felt of the gaming table. "How is it that you have managed to seduce even so fickle a harlot 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 over Lord Hertford’s shoulder. "Because His Lordship is so very irresistible," she answered in a throaty murmur. She traced a finger 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."

Hertford sought to unglue her curves from the front of his elegant coat, his hand lingering for a moment on the swell of one nearly bare breast before traveling down to deposit several gold guineas in the décolleté 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 camaraderie "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 corners of his mouth. "There is still Woolsey Hall, is there not? I understand it’s unentailed, so it’s yours to dispose of as you wish."

"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 female 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 chooses you to fondle on this next hand."

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 brandy.

The glass came up once again to his lips and returned to the table empty.

Without a word, Hertford refilled it. 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?" He pressed his shaking fingers to 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 his starched cuff. "After all, it's your choice. You are the earl."

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 from close by 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.

The earl covered his face with his hands as if the gesture itself could afford some measure of defense against 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 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 is."

The earl looked away and gulped down the entire contents of his glass. A murmur ran through the cluster of onlookers 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 boasting '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 would rather not..."

He shrugged and reached for the pile of vowels.

"Wait!"

Hertford's hand hovered in mid air.

"W-what do you have in mind?"

"A match of sporting skills."

The earl bit his lip.

"Why are you hesitating, Chittenden?" cajoled a drunken gentleman at his elbow. "The viscount is the best damn shot at Manton's, he drives like a banshee and he ain't been knocked down yet at Gentleman Jackson's. You've windmills in yer head if ye don't have the bollocks to accept."

The sweat on the earl's forehead was now trickling down to his twisted collar. More seconds passed, and with mutterings of disgust, several of the onlookers 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 question. "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, or trade left jabs.” A pause. “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 gaming hell glass.

"So, she has accepted your suit." Rafael de Villafranca Greeley regarded his friend from over the rim of his champagne flute. There was a hint of hesitation before he forced a smile. "I wish you happy." His tone, however, lacked 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?" Adrian drank as well, then set his glass down and stretched his long legs out toward the roaring fire. His 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 grey-green hue akin to the sea in winter, were equally unfathomable, though the look of keen intelligence lurking in their depth could not be completely drowned by the show of studied aloofness.

Rafael squirmed in the face of such sang froid . "Of course, of course," he muttered. "Once again, my best wishes."

A faint smile finally cracked through. "Go ahead and spit it out, Rafe. Much as it’s 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’ve known each other too long for you to keep your true thoughts submerged."

The two men had met at Oxford, and though Greeley, the son of an aristocratic expatriate English wine purveyor and a Spanish contessa, had spent only a term there, the two men had bonded over an interest in botany and had remained close friends despite Rafael's infrequent trips to England.

Rafael's mouth opened and closed several times. "I, er, that is..."

"Out with it, my friend."

"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."

Adrian raised a dark brow in question.

"Lady Honoria is beautiful, charming, and accomplished in all things a proper young lady should be. In a word, she’s perfect."

His brow rose a fraction higher.

"That's the damn trouble, Adrian!” blurted out Rafael. “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’s not a loose thread among all the finery."

Adrian shifted in his chair, throwing his face into shadow. "I've had quite enough of loose threads—and loose screws—in my life. Believe me, I shall welcome the sort of order and predictability that you just described. Furthermore, it shall be a pleasure to become part of a family that is a patterncard of propriety."

"Hylton is a pompous ass!” retorted his friend. “If he’s a stickler for propriety, it is not out of principle. It’s because he lacks the imagination to act in any other way."

"Trust me, Rafe, the last thing I desire in my future family is imagination or uniqueness."

His friend muttered something unintelligible under his breath. He, too, gazed moodily into the flames for a bit before tossing back the contents of his glass. "I know how difficult it’s been for you. Your father and mother possess a certain, er, exuberant charm, but?—"

"Charm is not exactly the adjective that comes to mind," said Adrian, a note of bitterness shading his voice. "Oh, of course they could be charming. And witty. But as a child, I did not find it charming in the least when my parents would fly into one of their raging fits of temper, hurling the Staffordshire figurines at each other—or at me. Nor was it charming when the fires could not be lit and every bloody room was as cold as the devil’s heart because Father had gambled away all his money."

He paused for a moment to get a grip on his emotions. "I was no doubt one of the few boys who found life at Eton a respite from home. Whatever the hardships and rigors, at least one knew what to expect there."

"I know," said Rafael softly. His cousin had been fast friends with Adrian since childhood. "Jack told me about the time you returned for Michaelmas term with your arm in a sling and twelve stitches in your brow. It is a wonder you ever bothered to go back to the Hall after that."

"I didn't hate my father. I knew he didn't mean it. The drinking actually stopped for quite some time after that unfortunate accident." The viscount shrugged, as if the memory didn’t cause his insides to twist into a tight knot. "Besides, my parents might have destroyed each other, but they didn't destroy my love for Woolsey Hall. I love every stone and bit of mortar, every creak in its floors, every layer of beeswax and lemon oil on the patinaed woodwork, every quirky mark left by generations of Linsleys.

A sigh. “And most of all, I love the lands, the undulations of the meadows, the stately trees lining the drive, the woods thick with oak and elm. Long ago, I made a promise to myself that I would restore it to the glory it deserves. And I mean to keep that promise."

Rafael blinked at the sudden show of passion in the viscount's voice. He shifted in his chair and took another sip of his champagne. "Do you love Lady Honoria as well?" he asked abruptly.

The viscount's expression turned stony. "What has that to do with it?"

"Quite a bit, I should think. If you wish to avoid the pyrotechnics of your father and mother's match, perhaps you should choose someone for whom you can have a real regard, someone who might share your same... interests."

There was a short, mirthless laugh. "Good Lord, don't tell me you are turning into a blathering romantic! One would almost think you've been stealing a peek at those ridiculous books all the ladies buy from Minerva Press. "

Rafael flushed slightly, but refused to back off. "You haven't answered my question."

Adrian settled deeper into the leather armchair and watched the myriad tiny bubbles in his champagne rise to the surface in a fizz of tiny explosions. Finally, he set the glass aside without a taste.

"We both know that marriage is a practical alliance, one that can work quite well if the parties involved act with discretion and abide by the rules. Lady Honoria and I shall each get what we desire. She shall be a countess, gaining one of the oldest and most respected titles in the land, while I shall have a polished wife of impeccable breeding and flawless manners, one who will never give cause for any scandal to attach itself to the Linsley name." He drew in a deep breath. "Indeed, the two of us agree—we are an ideal match."

"How admirable, Adrian." A tinge of sarcasm colored his friend's words. "I can see that you have given perhaps the most important decision in your life the sort of rational, dispassionate consideration it deserves."

He paused to reach for the bottle and refill his glass. "Remind me to take you with me next time I need to choose a new style of coat at Weston's or purchase a hunter at Tattersall's."

A slight tightening of his jaw was the only reaction from the viscount.

"Sorry," mumbled Rafael after a moment. "That was uncalled for. It's just that although you choose to appear as cool and immovable as one of those Greek statues you place in your garden designs, I know that beneath the facade you present to the rest of the world beats a real heart—one that feels flesh and blood emotion. One has only to look at your professional work to see that."

He let out a huff of exasperation. "Hell's teeth, Adrian, you deserve more than a block of stone for a wife, no matter how flawless the exterior appears. I cannot believe you will be happy with such a spiritless match."

"Flesh and blood emotion?" A mocking smile touched the viscount's lips. "Oh, I have seen just what that can result in. The Linsley coffers are nigh empty, the lands—what are left of them—have been stripped bare and my estimable parents vie with each other as to who can engage in the most scandalous affairs. You would have me risk my own future on something as ephemeral as love?"

If anything, his tone became even more sardonic. "Believing in love is equally as dangerous as trusting in luck. I have seen quite enough to know that both those ladies are nothing but fickle temptresses, waiting to destroy any man who thinks he can win at their game."

"Both involve taking a chance, if that’s what you mean,” replied Raphael. “But perhaps you must be willing to hazard some risks in life to reap the rewards."

"That sounds just like one of my father's platitudes! However, when it comes to my life, I don't intend to leave anything to chance." There was a brief ripple of emotion in Adrian's eyes before a flat calm returned. "You see, despite all that my father has frittered away, I have made him swear that no matter how pressed, he would never stake Woolsey Hall on the turn of a card or roll of dice."

He twisted at the gold signet ring on his pinkie and flashed a smile of grim satisfaction. "And such precaution on my part is about to pay off. In spades. Not because of luck, but because of meticulous planning and disciplined perseverance."

After taking up his glass, he spun it slowly between his palms.. "Actually, I have another reason to raise a toast. You know that for the past six months I have been working devilishly hard on securing a certain job—well, I've just found out that my proposal has been chosen over all the others."

For the first time that evening, Rafael's eyes lit with real enthusiasm. "By Jove, that's wonderful news! Such an important commission will almost certainly guarantee a successful future in the field. Why, with the Duke of Devonhill's backing, you may even be able, in due time, to let the truth come out."

"Let us not celebrate too soon—I must still come up with the actual plan for the designs of his gardens," warned Adrian, but he couldn’t hide the note of satisfaction in his voice. "But if all goes as designed, the Hall will soon belong to me outright, for I have a proposal for my father as well. And when it does, I mean for it to have the countess it deserves."

His gaze once again strayed to the crackling fire. "So you see, you have no need to feel concern for my happiness, Rafe. Believe me, I have considered everything very carefully and have taken into account all contingencies. I am well satisfied with my plans for the future."

"And your intended? I take it she is aware of what you do and has no objection to it? After all she will be allying herself with a husband whose activities can hardly be deemed... conventional."

For the first time, the viscount betrayed a crack in his composure. A hint of color rose to his cheeks and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Er, well, not yet. I shall, of course, make everything known to her in good time. But I assure you, it will not be an issue. I’ve taken a good deal of care to ensure that nobody in the beau monde knows that I work for a living.” A grim smile. “Indeed, I give true meaning to the term ‘dirtying my hands in trade.”

He shook his head. “There is truly no reason to think that the ton will ever learn the truth unless I choose to reveal it."

"Hmmph." His friend looked at him askance. "Subterfuge and secrets between the two of you? Hardly an auspicious beginning to a lifetime together."

Adrian's color deepened. "I assure you, I am keeping nothing meaningful from Lady Honoria. And as for her—" He gave a short laugh. "Why, you can’t seriously think that she’s harboring any dark secrets."

There was a long silence before Rafael raised his glass in slow salute. "Well then, let us cry friends and say no more on the subject. You know that as your good friend I only wish the best for you, Adrian, but it seems you have everything worked out, down to the last nail..."

A sigh, eloquent in its skepticism, sounded, followed by a further mutter. "I just hope it isn't sealing your own coffin." He swirled what remained of his champagne, then downed it in one gulp. "I shall not say that I wish you luck, knowing your sentiments on that subject, and merely repeat that I wish you happy."

Under his breath, he couldn't help but add, "However, to achieve that, I fear that you are going to need more of luck's help than you think."