A Diamond in the Rough (Dangerous Liaisons #1)

Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

A drian finished the sketch and put it aside, along with several others. That should give Miss Edwards a number of possibilities to consider, he thought with some satisfaction. This last one he particularly liked, what with the way he had worked in the addition of several discreet grouping of rhododendrons in subtle salute to the Laird's preferences.

He tapped his pencil against the polished oak of his desk. If only there had been a chance the previous evening to arrange a rendezvous with the young lady for this morning, he would have been able to show her his ideas without delay. Instead, he would simply have to hope she would make an appearance at Playfair's musicale so that they would be able to set up a meeting. Or perhaps he would simply bring the plans along and try to steal some time alone with her.

As his eyes strayed to the clock on the mantel, he even toyed with the idea of taking a stroll. A stroll that might take him past the McDare residence, so that he might?—

The pencil paused in mid air.

Something inside him warned that this was not exactly a direction in which he ought to allow his thoughts to stray. And yet, the prospect of another encounter with the outspoken Miss Edwards, of watching the passion of ideas set fire to her expressive eyes, of seeing the way the sunlight danced across the errant ringlets that always seemed to escape from the confining hairpins made his pulse quicken.

He tossed the pencil down and pushed away from his desk.

Good Lord, this was madness!

He was the envy of London, what with his engagement to a reigning Diamond of the First Water. Reason said that he should be thanking the Fates for his good fortune, rather than allowing his thoughts to dwell on a feisty country miss… and what it might be like to press his lips to the alluring curves of her mouth.

With a muttered oath, he rose and stalked to the mullioned window. Outside, the gusting winds and scudding storm clouds looked as unsettled as his own emotions. It promised to be a wet time out on the links, but perhaps a good dousing would help dampen the strange heat coursing through him.

Through his own choice, he was bound to Lady Honoria and his honor as a gentleman demanded that he not stray from his commitment. Not even in thought. It was too late for regrets, if that was what he was feeling, and so he must simply cease thinking of Miss Edwards as aught but a talented designer of gardens. He would allow himself to look at her sketches, but he must not let his eyes—or his imagination—stray to her pert nose or sensuous lips...

His brow suddenly furrowed.

Those lips.

Something about them was nagging at the back of his mind. There was a familiarity about them, as if he had seen those exact curves somewhere else. Yet that was, of course, impossible. It was simply another sign of how addled his brain had become since leaving London.

He let out a harried sigh and went in search of an extra muffler. If the squall didn't blow through, it was going to be a stormy afternoon on the golf course.

"Come now, you can do better than that, sir," said Derry sharply as she slanted another quick glance at the viscount and wondered what was prompting such a look of preoccupation on his face. If it was worry over the coming match, he would do well to pay more attention to the matter at hand, she thought. But perhaps it was concern over other, more personal things that had his mind wandering...

She tugged the large tweed cap down a bit more firmly over her curls and ordered her own thoughts to keep from straying too far afield. "Try to concentrate! A lapse like that against Lord Hertford and you shall find yourself in a deep hole before the match has really begun."

Adrian tried to make out through the spitting rain just where his ball had landed. "I don't think it ended up too far to the right."

She gave a snort of impatience. "On this hole, anything to the right of the fairway is grave trouble, remember?"

"Errr… aye."

"Those are the sorts of things you must keep in your head, sir."

"Along with keeping my head down, my shoulders pointed at the target, my arms relaxed, my knees flexed and the clubface square on contact," he muttered under his breath.

She tried to repress a grin. "Aye, those things as well—although sometimes it's best not to think of anything at all when you go to hit the ball."

Adrian shot her a dark look before ducking his head to avoid another shower of raindrops. "Ah, that's really quite helpful, Master Derry," he replied with undisguised sarcasm. "Any other words of wisdom you have been holding back, seeing as the match is only four days away?"

So perhaps it was, after all, merely tension over the approaching wager that had him looking rather distracted. She sought to help him relax. "I'm not entirely joking. It's all very well to think between shots, but when you step up to the ball, it is better to clear your thoughts of anything specific. Just... well, just trust yourself and swing."

"Hmmph."

They located his ball by a cart rut, resting on a patch of gravel with a large stone less than a foot behind it. The viscount stared at it for several moments, his lips pursed in consternation.

"What are you going to try?" demanded Derry.

His eyes went from the ball to the fairway, then back again. "Well, it's possible that with the long spoon I could knock it over that bunker and end up in a good position on the fairway."

"It's possible—that is, if you managed to avoid breaking your wrist on that rock and then were able to hit the best shot of your life off the graveled lie. What do you think the odds are of that?"

He kicked at a loose stone. "Not great, I suppose."

"Aye, not great." She put one hand on her hip. "Come now, sir. Imagine that we are playing for real. What is the best decision?"

Adrian studied the lie of his ball once more, then heaved a sigh. "I suppose I should take a lofted iron and knock it sideways rather than trying to advance it straight ahead. That way, I should avoid the chance of injury, as well as of ending up in the water or the tangle of rough, and be certain of regaining the fairway."

With a brisk nod of approval, Derry thrust the club into his hands and signaled for him to hit away. The result was as anticipated, eliciting another nod. "There, you see! At most you have lost one stroke, and if you hit a good third shot you might still make par. There was no need to take a risky gamble, especially on the third hole."

The viscount's jaw set. "Ah, but you are forgetting that I'm said to be a reckless fellow."

Though it was said half in jest, she didn't fail to note the rough edge to his voice and couldn't help but wonder again what thoughts were causing such an odd mood. Rather than reply with her customary bite, she gave a ghost of a smile. "That's why you have me here. For a hardened gambler, you seem uncommonly willing to listen to advice."

Her comment finally caused some of the grimness to ebb from his face and he gave a reluctant chuckle. "Usually it should work the other way around—the recklessness of youth tempered by the wisdom of age."

"It may not make much sense, but somehow, we seem to make a good team, sir."

"Yes," he said rather thoughtfully. "We do at that."

For some reason, Derry felt an unaccountable flutter inside her chest.

He stepped up, and after waiting for a moment for a gust of wind to die down, hit his next shot. It landed a bit short of the flag, but even Derry had to admit it was not a bad effort. And though his putt did not find the hole, he finished up with only a bogey rather than the disastrous score that might have resulted from trying to make a near-impossible shot.

As though in harmony with his efforts, the weather began to clear a bit during the short stroll to where Adrian was to hit his next drive. The blustery wind died down to a gentle breeze and the thick clouds thinned enough to allow a faint wash of sunlight to wink over the rain-soaked grass.

The ball sailed straight through the rising mist, coming to earth in the middle of the fairway, a good distance from where it had been struck.

It appeared the viscount's thoughts were finally focused on the task at hand, so they played the next few holes with little conversation other than an occasional exchange over distance and choice of clubs. The lengthy silences had none of the overt tension of their previous outings but were of a much more companionable sort, the result of a certain hard-won camaraderie winning out over the initial combativeness.

Her experience as a caddie told Derry to do nothing to break such a mood, but as they turned to play the inward nine she couldn't help but blurt out a question that had been dogging her thoughts for longer that she cared to admit.

"It's, er, said you are engaged to a... beautiful lady, sir. You must be—well, you must like her very much."

Adrian looked up. For an instant he appeared taken aback, then his expression changed into one of unholy amusement. "So, lad," he said with a slow smile. "You have an interest in the opposite sex after all? I was beginning to fear that your thoughts never strayed beyond the links."

Derry felt her cheeks go very crimson.

"No need to look embarrassed, Master Derry. At your age, it would be most unnatural of you not to show a healthy curiosity. Is there something specific you wish to ask?"

The sound she made came out as a strangled squeak.

He chuckled. "I imagine that a well-favored lad like you has no need for explanations as to what takes place between a man and a woman who have a certain attraction for each other?"

She was most grateful that he didn't demand a translation of her initial confused mumblings, but his look made it clear he expected something more to follow.

"N-no. B-But what I was wondering was... what it is like to be in... l-love."

It was the viscount's turn to stutter. "Er, well as to that..." He cleared his throat, but it was several more moments before he made a reply. "Marriage is a good deal more complex than mere emotion, Master Derry. Especially for one in my position."

Her mouth went a bit dry at the carefully worded answer. Suddenly it was very important for her to know the truth as to his feelings for Lady Honoria. "But surely you must feel some sort of... regard for the lady, to think of tying yourself to her for the rest of your life?"

His lips twisted in a strange sort of smile. "Of course I feel a regard for Lady Honoria. She possessed beauty, intelligence, poise and charm. All the qualities that a man could wish for in a wife."

Derry felt a sudden flood of relief! His words expressed the highest praise for his intended—but surely no more. It seemed that for whatever reasons the viscount had made his declaration, none of them were because his heart was irrevocably attached.

Lord Marquand does not love Lady Honoria , she repeated to herself.

Why was it that the words flowed as sweet as wild heather honey over her tongue?

She swallowed hard, trying to find some rational explanation for the reason for the sudden pounding in her chest. She was simply relieved, she told herself, because she didn't wish to see him hurt. She had come to see him as a sensitive, caring individual rather than a cold, unfeeling aristocrat.

In short, she had come to see him as a friend.

A slight cough interrupted her thoughts. "Does that answer your question, Master Derry?"

She didn't dare look at him. " I think I understand what you mean, sir." She fumbled with the hickory shafts resting on her shoulders. "Uh, it's the baffing spoon you'll be wanting next, sir. See that steep bunker you must clear? Well, it is wider than it appears and behind it..."

The viscount didn’t look at all unhappy to be leaving the questions of his personal affairs behind. He took the club and executed the shot she suggested. "Now, I imagine I should take my heavy iron and chip the ball toward that crest on the right. The slope of the green will then cause it to roll close to the hole."

Derrien nodded.

He finished up and made a note of his strokes. "I am playing rather well," he murmured.

"Don't start thinking of your score, sir," she cautioned. "There is plenty of time to tally up the strokes once we are finished. It's best to keep your mind well away from such thoughts while still out on the course."

She was soon ruing such sage words of advice when, after knocking a decent drive at the start of the 16th hole, he handed back the long spoon and started to follow her down the fairway. "So, Master Derry," he began. "You've asked of my lady. What of you? Have you someone who has set your heart aflutter?" He grinned. "Someone whose sweet lips you dream of tasting?"

She nearly choked. "I... No!"

"No?" His grin widened. "Come now, don't be shy, lad. Surely you Scots are as wont to discuss the ladies among yourselves as we Englishmen. And as I have a bit more experience in that field than I do at golf, I might even be able to offer you some advice on how to coax a wee kiss from the object of your affection." He reached out and took playful hold of her chin, tilting her head up toward him. "Though I would think, lad, you would have no trouble winning a lassie’s regard."

She twisted out of his grasp. "Sir!" Her voice very nearly slipped into a squeak. "This was not exactly the sort of topic I had in mind when I said to think of something other than the score."

Adrian let his arm fall to his side. "Since such teasing appears to make you uncomfortable, Master Derry, I shall?—"

His words cut off abruptly as she rubbed at her chin, and his gaze suddenly locked on her lips with an intensity that caused her to take a step back.

"W-what is it?"

It was a moment before he spoke. "Nothing," he muttered, letting out a harried sigh. "It's just that at times, you remind me of someone, but I can't for the life of me figure out who." Then he shrugged. "It's of no importance, I suppose."

They had come up to his ball and Derrien was grateful for the excuse to look away into the distance. "Take the middle spoon,” she said, “and aim for the church spire.”

He did as he was told and the shot landed on a slight rise, just left of the sloping bunker on the left.

“Excellent placement, Lord Marquand!” came a voice from behind a thicket of tall gorse.

Both of them started as Philp stepped out from the flickering shadows. “I thought I might come out and check on what sort of progress you have been making, sir,” he continued after taking several puffs on his briar pipe.

It might have been Derry’s imagination, but it seemed the older man's gaze lingered first on the viscount and then on her for a touch longer than necessary.

“But I see there is nothing to worry about. You are making great headway.”

“Due in no small part to my caddie.”

Derry felt her face growing warm at the viscount's praise.

“I have to admit that your Master Derry has taught me a thing or two,” continued Adrian. “Though honesty compels me to confess that when we started, I would not have thought it possible. The lad has turned out to be a diamond in the rough.”

A decided twinkle came to Philp's eyes. “Yes, Derry has quite a number of hidden facets.”

She restrained the urge to kick him in the shins. “Come, sir, we had best start play if we are to finish the 18th hole before the rain returns.”

“Yes, it was, shall we say, a rather amusing performance.” Hertford tapped the ash from his cigar and a smug smile formed on his lips. “Perhaps, as Lord Marquand appears to have a fondness for sand, he should consider taking himself off to Jamaica, where the beaches are said to be quite extensive.” As he paused to take another glass of champagne from a passing waiter, a harsh chuckle bubbled up from the depth of his throat. “And after I add Woolsey Hall to what I've won from his father, the poor fellow may have no choice but to seek his fortune in the New World, for there will be precious little of the Linsley inheritance that will not be in my possession.”

Derrien couldn't help but overhear the last of the marquess's words as her walk through the garden brought her close to the far end of the terrace, where a group of gentlemen had gathered to blow a cloud without disturbing the ladies. She came to a halt in the shadows of the pergola and drew in a sharp breath to keep from making an angry retort. Several of Hertford's cronies who had come up with him from London laughed at the barbed quip, but the locals, having no fondness for their English neighbor, remained silent.

The unseemly bragging appeared particularly offensive to Sir Joseph, who fixed the marquess with a basilisk stare. “You seem quite sure of victory, milord.”

A trail of smoke rings drifted out toward a row of espaliered pear trees, followed by a mocking chuckle. “As you said yourself, golf takes years to master.”

"Indeed." The baronet exhaled slowly. "But Lord Marquand does not have to master the game, merely acquire enough skill to be able to post a credible score for one round. And from what I have heard, his efforts are beginning to add up."

The number that he mentioned caused Hertford to choke on a mouthful of smoke.

"Not bad for a neophyte," continued Sir Joseph with a nonchalant shrug. "Not bad at all. It seems that this contest may prove to be more interesting than anyone imagined."

More than one flinty smile appeared among the Scotsmen.

Derrien, too, found her scowl replaced by a look of grim satisfaction as she watched Hertford drop the stub of his cigar and grind it out under his heel with a show of bravado.

"Any beginner may manage to put together a few lucky shots in practice," he drawled. "It would take a player of far greater expertise than the viscount to give me cause to doubt the outcome of the real match." The smirk, however, had disappeared from his face, replaced by a certain tautness at the corners of his mouth. Without another word, he turned abruptly and stalked off down the steps leading to the gardens.

Trapped by his sudden approach, Derrien had no choice but to shrink farther into the shadows and hope that he might pass without noticing her presence. His gaze, however, seemed to catch on the gently swaying climbing roses entwined around the weathered wood. To her dismay, he halted, then drew closer to the fragrant blooms.

"Why, Miss Edwards, out for a stroll by yourself? Your interest in gardens must be great indeed." He lounged up against one of the thick posts and raked his eyes over her rigid features. "I, too, am fond of pretty blossoms, especially ones that have a show of color to them."

"As I’ve told you, sir, your likes and dislikes are of no earthly interest to me," replied Derrien.

"No?" His brow rose in mock surprise. "But I was so looking forward to cultivating an acquaintance. Of all the local flora, you are quite the most intriguing."

"And of all the local fauna, you are quite the most despicable." She made a move to go around him, but he shifted to block her path.

"A prickly little thing, aren't you," he continued in a low voice. "But I have a great deal of experience and skill at plucking?—"

"Surely you would not be thinking of disturbing even a petal in Playfair's garden?" said a voice from behind them. "I don't imagine he would look kindly on that sort of thing."

Hertford spun around. "Marquand, you are becoming a?—"

"Thorn in your side?" suggested the viscount. "No doubt I am proving a good deal more troublesome than the drunken fools you are used to fleecing."

"Just what are you implying?" snarled the other man.

"Why, only that this time, the cards you have dealt to yourself may not prove as lucky as usual." He stepped around to the other side of the pergola and offered his arm to Derrien. "Miss Edwards, perhaps I might escort you to a part of the garden that would be more to your liking?"

She flashed him a grateful smile. "Yes, I find this spot is not at all to my taste."

Eyes narrowed in anger, the marquess watched them walk away. "Ha! You haven't a prayer's chance in Hell of coming up aces," he muttered to himself. But the furrowing of his brow showed that a seed of doubt had been planted.

"Are you quite sure, Nora?" Ferguson's eyes flooded with worry. "If he tells your mother, there is no telling what extreme measures she might take in order to keep you away from me."

"Oh, I have no doubts that she would be well capable of ordering me trussed up and carted back to London in a locked carriage if it would do any good, but like you, Charlie, I am no longer a green adolescent, afraid to stand up for myself. I am of age and I cannot be forced into wedlock, no matter what my parents may desire. This time I shall inform them in no uncertain terms that my mind is made up—that is, if it comes to that." She drew in a deep breath. "But I believe Lord Marquand is too much of a gentleman to betray us."

Ferguson looked unconvinced. "A lover scorned is not going to be inclined to be overly magnanimous, my dear. Especially as he is losing not only a lovely bride, but also a rather large dowry. And word has it that he could well use the blunt."

"I hadn't thought of that." She bit her lip, "Still, I have made up my mind, Charlie. For the sake of my own honor, I cannot leave without telling him to his face. It would be cowardly and he deserves better."

He sighed. "You must do what your conscience dictates, Nora, but—" The rest of his words turned into a warning cough as another couple approached.

"A splendid evening, is it not, Ferguson?"

"Yes. Splendid."

"And you, Lady Honoria. You are enjoying your visit to Scotland?"

She fixed the local magistrate and his wife with a brilliant smile. "I couldn't be more pleased with how things have turned out." Her lips twitched slightly as she stole a glance at Ferguson. "Not at all what I expected."

"Yes." The man looked a trifle confused by her words but gave a knowing nod. "Of course. Scotland is, er, like that."

Ferguson coughed again, this time to hide a smile. "I believe I have kept you away from Lord Marquand far too long, Lady Honoria. Shall we go look for him?”

"Oh, as to that, I saw His Lordship not five minutes ago,” said the magistrate. “Sitting by Cupid's fountain with Miss Edwards."

"Ah, thank you." Ferguson offered his arm to Honoria and led her toward a path bordered by a low hedge of clipped yews. As soon as they were out of earshot, he added, "I see I owe my friend Miss Edwards yet another debt of gratitude. Though I asked for her help just that once at the picnic, she has since taken it upon herself to keep Marquand occupied, even though she cannot abide the fellow, so that I might have an easier time finding some private moments with you."

Before Honoria could answer, they turned a corner and the circular marble fountain came into view. "Here is your opportunity, my dear. I hope you are not making a terrible mistake."

Her hand tightened on his sleeve. "So do I, Charlie," she whispered. "But it must be done."

Adrian was so intent on showing his sketches to Derrien that he didn't hear the crunch of gravel until the approaching couple was nearly upon him. On seeing his intended bride and the young professor, he shot to his feet, spilling the papers in his lap onto the ground.

Hell's teeth. A stab of disappointment that cut through him on realizing that his private chat with Derrien was at an end. He had not nearly finished pointing out all the nuances of his suggested plan.

Still, he carefully masked his feelings with a tight smile as he bent to retrieve the papers. "Ah, there you are, Honoria."

"I was wondering where you had gone off to, sir," she said softly. Her eyes went from Derrien's barely disguised scowl to the drawings. "But perhaps I am interrupting?—"

Ferguson kept her from retreating a step.

"No, no. That is, I was merely showing Miss Edwards an... an idea or two. For a garden." He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another, then gave himself a mental kick for behaving like a guilty schoolboy. "Forgive me, my dear," he went on. "I must have lost track of the time."

"Adrian..."

He waited.

"Might Miss Edwards allow me to steal you away for a moment?"

Derrien reached up and plucked the plans from his hands. "Of course. Lord Marquand had already been more than kind in taking the time to scribble a few pointers for me."

He had to restrain the urge to tuck the errant curl of hair behind her ear.

"Derrien, perhaps you would care to walk up to the terrace before it becomes too dark," offered Ferguson quickly. "The view down to the marble Folly is particularly pretty at this time of the evening."

She stuffed the sketches into her reticule and got to her feet. "By all means, Charlie."

Charlie , thought Adrian with some irritation. Were they on such friendly terms that she always called him Charlie? And who had given the impertinent fellow the right to use her given name? Or take her arm in such an intimate way as they strolled away.

It was a moment or two before he remembered he was not alone. "Er, would you care to be taken inside, my dear? The breeze appears to freshening."

"No. Actually I prefer to stay here, My Lo—Adrian. There is a matter of some importance that I wish to discuss with you."

He forced his eyes away from the receding figures. "Why, of course," he said, trying to sound as if she had his full attention.

She hesitated.

"Yes?" he encouraged.

"This... is very difficult, milord."

He couldn't help but notice how her eyes sought to avoid his.

Good Lord, had he really wished for such a bride, he thought with a surge of regret, one who was so wooden that she couldn't unbend enough to say his given name?

Honoria's head was bent, her blond tresses knotted in an artful arrangement that called to mind Rafael’s recent comment by Rafael.

Not a hair out of place .

Suddenly, all he could picture was an unruly mass of wheaten curls, dancing free of any hairpin or other constraint—and all his simmering frustrations finally boiled over.

"Oh, for God's sake, Honoria, tell me what's wrong! We used to be able to talk to each other with a modicum of honesty, even if there was little passion between us."

Her eyes fly up. "But Mama has always said that gentlemen do not want?—"

"The devil take it! Your Mama has no clue as to what a man might want from a lady! She is a bitter, withered stick, with not an ounce of sap left in her. Don't let her drain the life from you as well. Now out with it!" He tried to temper the heat of his words with a grim smile. "After all, how bad can it be?"

She tried to smile as well, though her lips were quivering. "Actually, I doubt it can be any worse."

It took several moments for her to go on. "I feel you have a right to be told to your face, for you are an honorable, n-nice man, milord—Adrian."

A tear spilled down her cheek, however her chin held firm. "But I... I don't love you. I love Charles Ferguson. We are going to elope tomorrow and be married by nightfall. I should like to ask that you don't alert my mother as to our plans, but even if you do, I shall contrive to break away."

"Ferguson?" Stunned, he could only stare at her in blank disbelief. Of all the possible reasons for her odd behavior since his proposal, this was certainly not one that had ever crossed his mind.

He supposed he ought to be experiencing some sense of outrage or betrayal, but instead, he found himself wondering whether Miss Edwards knew, and whether she would be disappointed in her friend Charlie's sudden change of heart.

Honoria's shoulders had stiffened, as if in expectation of an onslaught of anger. When he said nothing more, she relaxed slightly and ventured a nod.

"Ferguson," he repeated softly. "Well, I see I have been quite a fool about a number of things—most especially in thinking that there was little passion burning inside you, my dear." He managed a wry grimace. "I must admit, the man looks to be a rather ordinary fellow, but to have captured your heart in so short a time?—"

"My heart has been his since I was sixteen," she whispered.

Adrian fell silent, his brow knitting in confusion. "But?—"

"You have a right to hear the whole story, sir. After all, you were very nearly sold damaged goods." She swallowed hard. "Charles was engaged as my brother's tutor after his studies were finished at Cambridge.”

A lengthy explanation followed, including all the unvarnished details of the first, failed flight to the north. "So you see, since you made your formal declaration, I have been torn with guilt. I felt you had to be told the truth, and yet my father and mother had drummed it into to me that it was my duty to bring you up to scratch, especially as my earlier transgression had threatened to leave them with nothing to show for the effort and expense of grooming me to attract a lofty title."

He looked at her with real sympathy. "I know all too well what it is like to be at the mercy of your parents. I only wonder that your father didn't hold out for a Marquess or even a Duke?"

She choked back a sob. "He would have liked to, but I had already refused to consider several proposals and I suppose he was getting rather desperate to have me safely wed. You may think me naught but a scheming mercenary, yet I saw no choice but to obey my family's wishes." Her voice steadied. "I had at least vowed that I would never accept anyone for whom I could not feel a real regard. I thought with that as a basis, I could be a good wife to you."

She started to twist the end of her gown's sash between her fingers. "But then we came to Scotland. When I saw Charles, whom I never thought to lay eyes on again, I realized that none of the things I had been taught to hold dear— money, fancy gowns, lavish balls, imposing homes, and armies of servants— were half so important as spending my life with someone I truly love."

Adrian continued to stare at her nervous fumblings for several seconds, then his lips quirked upward.

"Bravo!"

"Y-you are not angry?" She looked up in some amazement. "I had thought that you might feel a blow to your pride, even though I sensed there would be no blow to your heart."

"No! I'm delighted for you." Indeed, he suddenly felt nearly giddy with emotion. "Truly I am. Lud, you have more courage and bottom than most men! You deserve to be happy. Really happy. I wish you all the best."

Honoria threw her arms around his neck. "Oh, Adrian, you are truly the most wonderful of men," she sobbed, the tears now flowing with abandon.

He gave a low chuckle. "Better have a care, my dear. I might lose my heart yet."

She smiled, dabbing at her cheek with the silk handkerchief he had thrust into her fingers.

"You know, you might consider simply crying off," he continued. "Ladies are allowed to, you know. Perhaps I could help convince your parents to accept Ferguson's suit, and you would be able to have a proper wedding, if that is what you would like."

Honoria shook her head resolutely. "It is most thoughtful of you, Adrian, but Father would never agree. No, Charles and I have no choice but to carry on with our plan. I am so sorry, for I know that it will cause you embarrassment." She lifted her tear-stained face. "B-but I should like to think that we might remain friends."

Friend rather than bride —Adrian suddenly realized that was exactly how he would prefer to think of Lady Honoria Dunster.

He gave her a quick hug, ending with a light kiss to her cheek. "You may count on it, my dear. And please don’t fret. After all the peccadilloes of my own parents, a touch more scandal attached to the Linsley name will hardly signify."

He squeezed her hand. " I shall survive. I shall also have a little talk with your parents and convince them that a scandal will hardly reflect well on them in London. Together we should be able to quash the worst of the rumors, so that you and Ferguson do not suffer unduly from your decision. You'll see—it will all work out for the best."

"Thank you, Adrian."

"Thank you ," he murmured under his breath.

Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, he turned their steps back toward the main house. "I hope that Miss Edwards will not be, well, too hurt by your Mr. Ferguson's sudden defection. It appears they have a certain rapport that the young lady might see as something deeper than mere friendship."

Honoria gave him a rather odd look. "I don't think you need worry about that. I am quite sure that Charlie is not the gentleman for whom Miss Edwards has a developed a tendre."

"Oh." Adrian mulled over her words for the next few steps. He found himself strangely relieved that the young lady's heart did not appear in danger of being broken by the young professor, yet Honoria's words were not quite the complete reassurance he would have liked.

If Miss Edwards did not feel any romantic inclination for her friend Charlie, then who the devil had won her heart?

From their vantage point on the raised terrace, Derrien and Ferguson could just manage a glimpse of the shadowed couple by the fountain.

"What's happening?" asked the young professor in a nervous whisper. "You don't think the viscount is the sort of man to... strike her in a fit of rage, do you?"

Derrien ventured a peek through the tall rose bushes and caught sight of Honoria throwing her arms around Adrian's neck. "It appears that you need not worry about that." She hesitated for a fraction. "In fact, neither of them seems angry in the least."

Her observation caused him to abandon all pretense of detachment, and he rushed over so that he might take a look as well.

"Ahhhem." He choked down a strangled cough. "Well, it looks as though Nora was right, and Marquand is not going to kick up a dust over the news."

Derrien said nothing as she watched the viscount return the embrace of his intended bride—his former intended bride, she reminded herself—then touch a caress to Honoria's cheek. The gesture made her heart give a lurch.

What a fool she had been! She had dared to imagine that the viscount was not really in love with the beautiful young English lady, just because she wished it to be so. It was not only absurd but hopelessly na?ve. She had clearly misunderstood his words on the golf course.

She had only to look at what was right before her very eyes!

Derrien forced her gaze back to the couple, feeling a sudden stab of jealousy at seeing Honoria still in the viscount’s arms. She assumed that he was trying to change her mind with another gentle caress and a declaration of undying affection.

But even if he didn’t convince her to give up Ferguson, his own heart would no doubt always be in thrall to such a paragon of perfection.

She blinked, surprised to feel the sting of tears against her lids. The state of Marquand's heart should be of no concern to her, she reminded herself. She need only worry about such things as the strength of his arms or the stamina of his legs.

"You are a lucky fellow, Charlie, to be so sure of your lady's feelings—and your own," she said in a tight voice, stepping back abruptly from the screen of roses. "Good luck on the morrow. I wish you all the happiness in the world." Giving a quick peck to his cheek, she turned and made to leave.

His head jerked around. "Wait! You aren't really abandoning me to face them by myself?"

"I'm certainly not needed here." Her eyes pressed closed once more, just for an instant. "And I'm afraid something in the night air has given rise to a nasty headache, so if you'll excuse me, I think I shall ask Aunt Claire to take me home."

"But—"

Leaving him no time to finish his pleading, she hurried off.

Ferguson was still puzzling over her odd behavior when Honoria and Adiran appeared at the edge of the terrace and came up the steps. As he shuffled in awkward embarrassment, the viscount reached out and gave him a firm handshake.

"Congratulations, Ferguson. I hope that you realize what a truly fortunate man you are."

Before he could answer, Honoria stepped around to his side and slid her hand in his.

"Charlie," she said, looking up at him with face aglow. "Adrian has been most noble about all of this, and wishes us nothing but happiness."

He stammered a thanks while returning her rapturous smile.

"Is not Miss Edwards here with you?" inquired Adrian after a moment, searching among the potted roses for any sign of her. "I thought I might offer to escort her into supper so that you two might have a bit more privacy."

"You needn't bother, sir. Derry said the evening chill was making her feel a trifle ill, so she's gone home." Loath to admit that they had indulged in a bit of spying, Ferguson omitted any mention of what they both had observed down by the fountain.

Adrian’s brow furrowed. "Ill? She didn't seem at all ill—" His words suddenly cut off. " What did you just call her?"

Ferguson looked confused. "You mean Derry? Why, it's just an old childhood nickname that her good friends still use at times."

He felt his mouth twist in a wry smile. Lud, what devilishly odd evening! The night air must be affecting his own head as well, to have him imagining, even for an instant, that there was any connection...

No. It was impossible. Absolutely impossible.

He cleared his throat, hiding his disappointment at finding her gone by carefully straightening the folds of his cravat. "Well, it is a shame that Miss Edwards—or Derry, or whatever she prefers to be called—has succumbed to some malady. I have the feeling that it is not often that she allows anything, most especially a mere megrim, to get the better of her."