A Diamond in the Rough (Dangerous Liaisons #1)

Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

R afael could see that the last few hours had done little to improve Adrian's mood. His friend had sat in gloomy silence during the short carriage ride to North Street, and his expression as they mounted the stairs to the baronet's drawing room might charitably be described as 'mulish.' As their host stepped forward to greet them, Rafael was forced to whisper a sharp rebuke in Adrian's ear.

"Ah, gentlemen! So nice to make your acquaintance." Sir Joseph pumped each of their hands in turn. "Bowmont has written that we are to take good care of you, though I fear that after the sort of things you are used to in London, our small town and its entertainments will seem sadly flat to you."

"Not at all," demurred Rafael. "Especially seeing as we plan to take advantage of the marvelous sporting opportunities afforded here in Scotland during our stay. Isn't that right, Adrian?"

"Yes. Of course," said Adrian, the reply nudged out of him by a discreet poke to the ribs.

"Well, if you have come for golf, you have come to the right place, indeed!" With a smile, the baronet slipped his pudgy hand around Rafael's elbow. "Do you shoot as well, sir?" The affirmative nod caused the fellow to look even more pleased. "Then you must meet Sir Geoffrey, whose grouse moor is unrivaled..."

Adrian couldn't make out the rest of the words as his friend was hauled off toward a trio of stout gentlemen near the stone fireplace. Reluctant to be drawn into what promised to be a long conversation regarding birds, he remained where he was, doing his best not to glower as if he was nursing a backside full of buckshot. His friend was right. It would be unforgivably rude to spurn this generous show of hospitality by the local gentry, but as his gaze swept over the assembled guests, he found both his manners and his patience close to deserting him.

Spotting several large botanical prints that promised to be of more interest than any of the people present, he made his way over to the quiet nook where they hung. Though the plants were a local species he didn't recognize, and the quality of the line and colors unusually fine, they failed to lift his spirits for more than a brief moment before his mind strayed back to what had him in such an unsettled mood.

That this unexpected wager had turned his meticulous, well-ordered life on its ear still rubbed him raw. He had worked so hard to avoid being at the mercy of chance, and yet, despite all his careful planning, his future was to be decided by something just as serendipitous as the turn of a card. He couldn’t suppress a grimace at the bitter irony of it. The odds of emerging a winner certainly seemed stacked against him. Perhaps it would have been better had the match with Hertford been scheduled right away rather than in several weeks. That way, he thought, his defeat would have been mercifully swift, instead of having to endure this tortuous round of small humiliations?—

"Lord Marquand?"

He looked around from the gilt frame.

"I fear the mere mention of birds makes our host fly into a description of the joys of hunting in the Highlands, which even a devoted marksman might find trying." A tall, reedy gentleman whose receding silver hair accentuated his long face and beaked nose peered at the viscount through a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles with a faintly bemused expression. "I hope he has not left you feeling too neglected?"

Adrian managed a civil reply.

The other man stole a glance at the engravings that the viscount had been studying. "Have you an interest in botany, milord?"

He merely shrugged.

The fellow did not seemed undeterred by the lack of an answer. "I am Mr. Walter Kildare, professor of literature at the University and a cousin of our host. Since he is occupied in regaling your friend with yet another hunting story, perhaps you would permit me to introduce you to some of our other guests?"

"Of course." Repressing an inward sigh, Adrian turned away from the pictures.

Several other faculty members were brought forward, along with the rector of United College. Kildare's dark hazel eyes then took on a decided twinkle on reaching for the hand of the next person "Ah, in case you were beginning to think us a sadly misogynous group, please allow me to present Mrs. McDare, widow of one of our esteemed colleagues and a lady whose tireless efforts on behalf of those in the local orphanage are much admired by all of us."

The viscount expected to meet a stern, stiff-rumped prig, so his eyes nearly betrayed a flicker of surprise on being presented. The older lady's graying hair and modest attire could not dull the fact that she had been a rare beauty in her day. Even now, her porcelain skin and generous curves would have drawn a glance of admiration from many a gentleman— and from the stealthy looks cast by her surrounding company, it still did.

"Lord Marquand." She gave a playful smile as she dipped a graceful curtsy. "Let me add my voice to that of Mr. Kildare in assuring you that not all Scots are quite as bloodthirsty as our host."

Ha! Her words brought to mind his combative caddie, who had looked ready to knock his head off with a baffing spoon only hours earlier. Still, the obvious dry humor in her tone caused his own lips to twitch upward for the first time that evening.

"I shall take your word for it ma'am, though from what I have witnessed on your local links, I would have to say your countrymen are not without a certain taste for blood."

"Ah, but that is golf, sir!" she replied with a twinkle. "A game that I have heard on numerous occasions from my late husband may drive even the mildest of men to contemplate murder."

An appreciative chuckle escaped from Adrian. "My limited experience has done nothing to gainsay such a sage observation."

Mr. Kildare looked rather pleased at having finally chased the scowl from the English lord's face. Emboldened by his success, he sought to continue with his introductions. "Lord Marquand, I don't believe you have met Mrs. McDare's niece." As he spoke, he reached behind a squat potted palm and drew out young lady, who looked none too happy at being dragged away from whatever it was she had been doing. "Allow me to present Miss Derrien Edwards."

The viscount saw a marked family resemblance, though the niece was shorter and more willowy than her aunt, and her cornflower blue eyes a shade lighter— but perhaps that was because they were at the moment warmed with a distinct look of displeasure.

He gave a slight bow. "Miss Edwards."

The candlelight glinted off the coppery highlights in her blond hair, giving her a decidedly Mars-like aura that matched the grim expression that had spread over her delicate features.

Adrian stifled a wry grin at seeing a mood that so closely matched his own, wondering at the same time what could have caused such an unusual show of emotion. It was rare to see anything but a carefully schooled mask of bland cheerfulness on the face of a young miss, much less any hint of irritation.

"Lord Marquand." The young lady barely dropped a curtsy, and he could swear that she would have turned and retreated back behind the fronds of the tree had not the professor kept a tight grasp on her arm.

Puzzled by such behavior, his eyes lingered on her, as if seeking to discover its source. Like her aunt, Miss Edwards was not attired in anything resembling the stylish fashions of London, yet the dark, serviceable garments could not altogether disguise what looked to be a graceful neck and lovely set of shoulders...

He jerked his thoughts away from such ridiculous musings. It was a testament to how out of kilter his mind had become that he was taking any notice of an ill-mannered country chit. And one who was probably hoyden enough to run around outside without a bonnet on. That gave him pause for a moment, as a vision of the sun playing over the masses of golden curls popped into his head.

His lip curled in a self-mocking grimace. One would think he had been imbibing the local whisky by the crazy meandering of his thoughts! She wasn’t at all his type?—

A loud announcement by the butler caused Adrian's gaze to shift abruptly and all improper reveries concerning Miss Derrien Edwards were immediately chased away. Other heads swiveled as well, silence reigning as the local gentry took in the silky splendor of the trio ascending the stairs.

Lord Hylton stepped forward after sweeping his gaze over the assembled guests and tugged at the lapel of his swallow-tailed evening coat. "Well, Marquand. You have chosen a deucedly strange place in which to rusticate."

Arrogant coxcomb! fumed Derrien as the viscount walked away with barely a civil excuse to her aunt and Mr. Kildare.

Why, the nerve of the odious man to rake his eyes over her as if she were no more than a lamb chop set out for his supper— and then to walk away as if what he had seen robbed him of his appetite!

She had not missed the slight curl of his well-chiseled lips nor his haste to quit her presence as soon as his English acquaintances had arrived.

Not that she cared a whit what he thought of her, but his haughty reserve and ill temper was even more abrasive here in the drawing room than on the links. It was clear that he had no desire to be mingling with the local gentry. He had been wearing a black expression from the moment he had mounted the stairs, and even his friend had had enough manners to demand a better face from him.

Did the insufferable viscount hold all Scots to be beneath an Englishman's notice? Or was he merely a stiff-rumped prig in general?

Derrien ventured a peek at the tall, flaxen-haired beauty whose hand he was bringing to his lips. The young lady was dressed in an elegant gown of pale grey watered silk, cut to accentuate the svelte curves of her feminine form. The candles danced over the shimmering material, and with her pale coloring, frozen features and the knot of pearls at her throat she looked exactly like an icicle—a vision of cold, sharp perfection.

Derrien couldn't repress a smirk. What a couple! The lady was undeniably beautiful, and despite her instinctive dislike for the viscount, she couldn’t deny that he was an extremely attractive man, with his dark curling hair, piercing grey-green eyes and sculpted features of a classical Greek hero.

That was just it— the two of them appeared to have no more heart or soul than the works chiseled out of stone.

She brushed an errant curl back from her cheek. The viscount's exterior might be flawless, but she knew the faults that lay beneath the surface. He was a reprobate, a gamester —and no doubt worse. Of the young ice lady's shortcomings Derrien could only imagine. But judging from the beauty's rigid features, she was like all other ladies of the English ton , puffed up with a sense of her own consequence and concerned with naught but money and social position.

Yes, the two of them were eminently suited to each other.

With one last disdainful look in their direction, Derrien slipped back into the tiny alcove hidden by the leafy palm and picked up the book on gardening that she had been eagerly perusing before the professor's unwelcome interruption.

It was a work with which she was unfamiliar, and the diagrams were most intriguing, so at least the evening was not going to be a complete waste of time.

"I thought I might play along with you on your round this afternoon." Rafael speared another piece of kippered herring. "That is, if my presence won't distract you from your lesson with Mr. Philp. I know that you have little time to spend with him these days."

Adrian looked up from the piece of paper on which he was busy scrawling some diagrams. "Er, no, you are welcome to see how I am faring." His attention immediately returned to his jottings.

His friend craned his neck to peer over the pitcher of cider. "Notes on strategy?"

"Ahhhh." The sheet was folded and hastily stuffed in his pocket. "Actually, some notes on a garden I passed this morning," he admitted with a sheepish grin. "The arrangement of rhododendrons and Norfolk pines was most interesting and I wished to remember how they were placed."

Rafael smiled in return, taking in the dark circles under Adrian's eyes. "Knowing you, half the night was spent filling your notebooks with such scribblings as well. How can you still think of your work, given the circumstances?"

"I hardly think of it as work, Rafe. For me it is..." He paused, struggling to put his feelings into words.

"A passion?" suggested his friend.

"That seems a bit melodramatic. I'm not a very passionate fellow. It's just that when I pick up my sketchbook or look at a patch of dirt and begin to envision a plan, I can forget all else. My imagination can soar as high as the clouds—" His voice cut off, a look of embarrassment stealing over his features.

"Not a passionate fellow? Why, you've become a poet as well as an artist." Rafael gave a low chuckle. "Lud, there's hope for you yet, Adrian."

A faint tinge of color rose to the viscount's cheeks.

Rafael took a long draught of his cider. "And what does your intended bride think of this... work of yours?"

"I told you, she isn't aware of it— yet."

His friend's brows waggled.

"I shall tell her, of course," he added defensively. "Not that it will make any difference to our... arrangement."

"No, of course not," murmured Rafael softly. "It shouldn’t matter a whit to Lady Honoria or her family that the future Earl of Chittenden is engaged in trade."

Adrian didn't answer. Groping in his pocket for a handful of coins, he stood up abruptly and tossed them on the table to pay for their meal. "Come, we mustn’t be late for our game with Mr. Philp."

The master and caddie were waiting at the first hole, Philp tamping a pinch of fragrant tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, while Derrien swung one of the tapered hickory clubs in some impatience. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of the tall English lord and his friend approaching. He wore the same grim expression she had come to expect, but today, there was also a look of fatigue etched around his eyes.

Out gaming all night , she thought, repressing a snort of disgust. Or indulging in one of the other activities that rakes and wastrels found alluring.

"I hope you do not mind if I play along?" asked Rafael. "I should like to try out the new long spoon I purchased from you."

Philp gave a friendly wave of his hand. "You're more than welcome to join in, sir. Shall I send up to the shop for the rest of your clubs and another caddie?"

"Nay, no need for that. I'll make use of Marquand's new sticks." He gave an appreciative glance at the finely tapered heads and neatly corded wrappings. "A lovely set they look to be."

"Let's get on with it," muttered Derrien under her breath as she readied a club. A sharp look from Philp pricked her conscience, reminding her she was here for a reason other than to antagonize their pupil. "Your club... sir," she said in a louder voice, striving for a less hostile tone.

Adrian took the proffered long spoon without so much as a look at her and waited for her to finish building the small pile of sand on which his ball was to be placed. Aware of three pairs of eyes on his back, he took an extra few moments in his set up. His arms finally drew back a bit stiffly, then swung forward at a rapid clip. However, the timing was a touch off. The leather-covered sphere sliced low through the breeze, drifted right, then came to rest in the middle of a patch of tall grass, not more than fifty yards from where it had been struck.

A low oath escaped from the viscount's lips.

His friend quickly averted his eyes and appeared to be studying the progress of a gull out over the strand.

"Throw down another, Lord Marquand," advised the master.

He did so and swung again. The results were nearly the same, only this time the ball arced even farther right.

"I assure you, I have been hitting it better than that of late, Rafe," growled Adrian.

Derrien stared pointedly at the two wayward shots. With an exaggerated sniff, she handed him a lofted iron. "You'll need this one to get out of that sort of trouble."

Adrian stalked after her without a word. Once the first ball had been located in the rough, he sought to find some sort of stable footing in the tangled grass. Despite all his efforts, he could gain no more than an awkward stance, which allowed him nothing but an off-balance hack at it.

The ball didn't budge.

He swung again, this time even harder. It popped forward maybe three inches but still remained deeply embedded in the rough.

Derrien bit back a grin. "Perhaps you should just use your foot, sir."

The viscount looked less than amused at her jibe. His grip tightened around the sueded sheepskin grip and it appeared as though his next swipe might do damage to more than a mere blade of grass.

Philp gave a discreet cough. "You may count that as the first of your lessons for the day, milord. All beginners play badly when performing before their first audience. Don't fret on it. With some practice, you will soon get used to it. It's important to just relax and forget about the presence of any onlookers. Now pick up your ball and we will move on to the second hole."

From the expression on Adrian's face, Derrien was fully ready to see him explode in a fit of pique at the blow to his pride.

Instead his lips slowly curled in a rueful smile. "I take your meaning, Mr. Philp. I have seen countless green cubs at Manton's or Jackson's Boxing Saloon make fools of themselves by trying too hard. I suppose I must have looked equally as ridiculous. It's a mistake I'll try not to repeat."

Her brow furrowed at the unexpected response. However unlikely, it appeared the starchy English lord could actually laugh at himself. Grudgingly, she found her opinion of him rising just a notch. Perhaps he was not as totally lacking in sensibility as she had thought.

The next several holes went more smoothly. With a few additional pointers from Philp, Adrian began managing quite a number of credible shots. By the ninth hole, he even bested his more experienced friend in putting the ball in the hole, drawing an appreciative whistle.

"A round of ale says you will not beat me on the back nine," grinned Rafael as they turned to start making their way back toward the town.

"Done."

The two of them began a match of teasing words as well, the bantering growing more lively as the match remained close. From beneath the brim of her floppy tweed cap, Derrien observed the animation of the viscount's face, further surprised by the boyish enthusiasm of his grins and the flash of spirit in his eyes. Relaxed in the company of his friend, he appeared a completely different person from the one who set her hackles up, His wit was engaging, his laughter infectious. He even had the taciturn Philp grinning at some of his more pithy sallies.

The fellow was proving to be human after all— and a rather interesting one at that. For some reason, she found that to be a most unsettling discovery. It was much easier to despise a block of stone.

When the round was finished, Philp congratulated his pupil on his progress. "Well played, sir. You are at the stage now where practice is more important than further instruction." He made a show of adjusting the silver spectacles perched on his nose. "For the next little while, I shall leave it up to you and Derry to work together, just the two of you, on the course."

The viscount and his caddie exchanged scowls.

"I trust you will find a way to make some progress." Philp regarded both of them with a meaningful look.

"I don't suppose I have any choice," growled Adrian.

"Not if you wish to have any hope of success, milord."