Chapter 10
CHAPTER 10
" G ood 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 perform the required social niceties.
He turned slowly and she thought she noted a flicker of some emotion in his grey-green eyes, though what it was she couldn't make out. Most likely annoyance, she thought with an inward grimace.
She could hardly blame him, 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 companion, sir—not formally, that is."
Whatever previous emotion had flashed across Adrian'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 a dangerous 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 met?”
"No, we have not." The viscount interrupted her speech by inclining a slight bow in Ferguson's direction. "Marquand."
"Charles Ferguson, milord."
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, the viscount looked impatient to be on his way, but Derrien sidled forward to effectively block his path. "I was wondering, milord, if I might a brief word with you.”
His brows arched up in surprise.
"Ah, Charles, I'm sure Lady Honoria 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."
"Yes, the white kestrel," he repeated faintly. "Er, quite right. I should be delighted, that is, if the lady would care to accompany me, and His Lordship has no objection." He cleared his throat and offered his arm to Honoria.
If possible, her face became even paler, but she placed her hand on his sleeve.
The viscount raised no objection. He stepped aside, and indicated that the couple should pass. Once they had disappeared around the corner of the ancient church, he turned back to Derrien and fixed her with a quizzical stare.
"Well, Miss Edwards? I must admit, I am waiting with bated breath to hear whatever it is you wish to tell me. It must be of great importance, indeed, for you to seek out my company of your own accord."
Ferguson made no attempt to speak until they were well away from the others, and even then, he had to clear his throat several times before any words would come out.
"You have grown even more beautiful over the years, Nora." His mouth quirked into a tentative smile. "I think of you often. More often than I care to admit, as I'm sure that you hardly remember a poor tutor who?—"
Her eyes flew up to meet his, alight with a spark of emotion that the viscount would not have recognized. Although her answering words came out in barely more than a whisper, they were no less intense. "How can you think that I have forgotten you, Charlie, even for a day!"
Glancing around to make sure they were unobserved, Ferguson pulled her into the shadows of an archway and brought his lips down upon hers in a passionate embrace. Honoria returned his kisses with equal ardor, until finally, regaining some measure of discretion, she pushed away gently from his chest. "Oh, Charlie, we must not allow this to happen.”
"The devil we mustn't!" He tipped her chin up so that she could not hide her face from him beneath the cover of her bonnet. "Just tell me one thing. Do you love him?"
The answer was more than evident in her expression of longing. "You need ask?" she replied, the corners of her mouth trembling. After a moment she added, "But my feelings have nothing to do with it. You know I have precious little choice in the matter."
An edge of bitter cynicism cut into her tone. "My father expects a handsome return on his investment of raising a daughter. I am expected to do my duty and procure a prominent title in return for his blunt, no matter that I am... d-damaged goods."
Ferguson's hands tightened on her shoulders.
"Lord Marquand is a decent man," she continued in a near whisper. "It... it could be much worse."
A savage oath exploded from his lips. "I'm not a callow youth anymore, Nora! When your maid gave away our plans to elope and your father caught up with us on the Great Northern Road, I should never have let him convince me that I was too raw, too poor, to ever make you happy. I realize now what a fool I was to slink away and let you go without a fight."
His fingers came up to caress her cheek. "Now that chance has brought us together again, I don't intend to make the same mistake." He hesitated, a hint of doubt creeping into his voice. "That is, if you would still have me. I cannot offer you a fortune or a title, but neither am I a penniless tutor anymore. I have a good position at the University and have some prospects for further advancement. There would be no endless rounds of balls nor closets full of expensive gowns nor a houseful of servants, but we would have a comfortable life together."
She made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a sob. "None of those things matter a whit to me! All I wish is to be with you, Charlie! But what can we do? My engagement to the viscount was announced before we left London, and Mama has already picked out a date."
"When?"
"The fourth of December."
His mouth compressed in a grim line. "That is quite a long way off—much may happen to change things."
"But we are supposed to leave here to return to London in little more than a week."
"Don't worry, my love, I shall come up with something by then." He essayed a tight smile. "After all, this time we are already in Scotland."
Honoria answered him with her own brave imitation of his expression.
The faint echo of footsteps warned them that others were approaching. "I had best take you back." He straightened his cravat and placed her hand back on his sleeve, not before giving it a quick squeeze. "You must try to act as though nothing is amiss. I shall contrive to be included in all the entertainments to which you are invited over the next little while, and we shall manage to steal a few moments to speak privately and decide on a plan. Do you think you can do that, Nora?"
They had begun to walk at a leisurely pace back toward the other path, taking great care to appear as no more than two casual acquaintances making polite conversation. Honoria's chin came up and when she turned her head slightly to glance at the young professor, all trace of emotion had been wiped from her face.
"Of course I can pretend as if nothing is wrong, Charlie. After all, I have been doing it for the last four years, so another little while will hardly signify."
"Brave girl," he murmured. "My only fear is that your parents might recognize my face, despite?—"
"Father is off at a friend's shooting box and Mama—I don't think Mama ever bothered to take a proper look at her son's tutor."
He gave a mirthless chuckle. "Quite right. Well then, our little secret should be safe enough for a while." He drew in a deep breath as they came to the crest of the hill. "Keep that lovely chin up, my dear. I promise you I will find some way out of this bumblebroth."
"Well, as to that, sir..." Derrien bit her lip, frantically searching for some plausible reason as to why she had interrupted the viscount’s stroll with his intended bride. Now that he stood there in front of her, foot tapping in impatience, she felt like a fool. To her mortification, her cheeks began to burn, and the thought of how silly she must look caused her jaw to clench.
"I wish to apologize for my rudeness of the other day. As I told you, I have an unfortunate knack for letting my tongue run away with me."
For an instant he looked surprised, then his expression quickly changed into one of amusement. "Somehow, Miss Edwards, such contrition is not overly convincing."
"Why—"
A quirk of a smile appeared on his lips. "Because you are scowling as though that tongue of yours would rather run all the way to India than be forced to apologize to me."
"T-that's not true… Not entirely. " Her head ducked. "I am sorry for what I said. I am aware that I have no right to comment on your... personal affairs."
"No, you do not. Especially when you don't understand them," he said softly.
Derrien was taken aback by the raw emotion in his voice, so at odds with his usual cool demeanor. "But you have admitted you are here in St. Andrews because of a wager. If I am wrong in what I said, I should like to understand why."
"Understand, Miss Edwards?"
He turned to stare out over the sea, where a rising breeze had kicked up a froth of whitecaps, and his expression twisted into one of weary cynicism. "Understand what? That my father is a wastrel and has risked the family estate on the turn of a card, leaving me with the task of salvaging the whole sordid affair?”
A sigh. “I doubt a young miss like you, raised in a warm and loving family, would understand that sort of obsession. Just as you wouldn't have any idea what it is like to live with the uncertainty of whether there was enough blunt for food or whether your father was going to beat you while in a drunken stupor. Or your mother abandon you for months on end in a cold, drafty house with naught but an elderly?—"
He caught himself and a dull flush spread over his cheeks. His eyes closed for an instant, accentuating the fine line of worry etched at their corners, before he spoke again. "Now it is I who have let my tongue run where it should not," he said quietly. "I don't know what has come over me of late. I am not usually prone to behaving as if I were a hysterical schoolgirl. I've never spoken to anyone but Rafe about such things."
For the second time in as many days, Derrien was forced to hang her head in shame. If the viscount's revelations had even a grain of truth to them, she was guilty of a gross injustice in judging him so harshly. Not that she doubted any of his words. She had caught a glimpse of his inner pain in his eyes before he regained his usual icy composure.
She opened her mouth to speak but words seemed to elude her. No explanation seemed adequate to express the tangle of her confused emotions.
He slowly forced his gaze back to meet hers. "I pray you will do me the favor of forgetting this little scene. Your apology, though unnecessary, is accepted." He reached out his arm. "Shall I escort you back to your friend?”
His gesture caused her to step forward and lay a hand on his arm. "I always imagined a titled gentleman would have a perfect life."
The viscount gave a grimace of self-mockery. "No, Miss Edwards. More likely it is you who have had the perfect upbringing, with doting mother and father, and now an aunt who?—"
"I never knew my father," she blurted out, not quite sure why she was moved to make such an intimate revelation to him, of all people, when she had never been able to discuss such painful truths with even her closest friends.
"I'm sorry." There was a slight hesitation. "I take it he passed away when you were very young?"
She shook her head. "No, that's not what I meant, sir. I never knew who he was. Other than he was a titled English gentleman, an officer posted for a short time in Edinburgh." The toe of her half boot scuffed at the ground. "And one who felt free to indulge in the sorts of amusements men of his rank and fortune feel they are entitled to.” She paused to control the tremor in her voice.
"Like gambling, carousing and seducing innocent young ladies." There was a flicker of sympathy in the viscount's eyes. "I see."
Derrien somehow knew that he did.
"Well, that certainly explains your aversion to me."
"No!" Her glove tightened on the sleeve of his fine melton wool coat. "That is, I admit I wanted to feel that way at first. But the more I have come to know you, sir, the more I see it is not always right to make such sweeping assumptions.”
He interrupted with a short chuckle. "That's quite generous of you, Miss Edwards, but I would hardly say that you have come to know me all that well. After all, we have not spent very much time in each other's company."
Ha, she thought with an inward grimace. More than you imagine! However, she kept that particular revelation to herself.
"I'm afraid you would soon discover I have more than my share of faults," he continued. "I can be all the things you dislike—arrogant, short-tempered, moody.”
"Oh, I'm well aware of that."
His brows drew together in question.
"I mean, all of us have the sort of faults you speak of." She swallowed hard, then went on in a halting voice. "But in truth, it is I who deserve your scorn, not the other way around." Her chin rose a fraction. "After all, you now know my dirty little secret. One who is born on the wrong side of the blanket is hardly fit to pass judgment on anyone else."
"We all have our dirty little secrets, Miss Edwards." He tucked her hand under his arm and guided their steps toward the high granite walls of the old church. "Rest assured that yours is quite safe with me. And you may also be sure I think no less of you for it. I have come to realize over the years that the only people deserving of scorn are the individuals who, through their own selfishness, have caused pain and suffering for others." He drew in a deep breath. "Though perhaps what they really deserve is pity."
They walked for a bit without speaking, but it was more a thoughtful silence than an awkward one. As they approached the first of the crumbling aches, Derrien finally ventured to break it. "Lord Marquand?"
"Yes, Miss Edwards?"
"Do you think we might continue to converse about gardens?"
He smiled. "Ah, gardens. There is something very magical about them, isn't there? They are all about life and growth. Cold and drought may cause them to lie fallow for a time, but there is always a rebirth of beauty, of color, of vibrancy. Such constant renewal in the face of the elements gives one cause for hope, I suppose. In any case, they rather lift the spirits."
Adrian slipped his hand into his coat pocket. "Yes, I should like to continue our discussions." He withdrew the volume of essays and held it to her. "Perhaps next time we meet, you would care to give me your opinion on these latest ideas from Payne Knight."
"Oh!" Her eyes widened. Not only had he remembered his promise, but he had kept it, despite her nasty accusations. Her confusion was made even worse by his obvious sensitivity and eloquence.
As she now knew it was not he who was the inveterate gambler, it also struck her that perhaps neither was he a dissolute rake.
But just what was he?
The book was still in his outstretched hand. "Have you decided that Knight is not to your taste after all?"
"Oh no! It's just that—I-I don't know what to say..."
He gave a low chuckle. "Something that does not occur very often, I imagine. Why not simply say 'thank you' and put it away in your reticule."
She did, though her fingers seemed to move with disconcerting awkwardness. He appeared to ignore her fumblings and began a pithy commentary on how well the surrounding ruins would suit the tastes of a certain landscape designer currently much in vogue. By the time they met up with the other couple, Derrien had forgotten her embarrassment in the spirited exchange of opinions that had begun.
It was with a pinch of disappointment—and perhaps some other emotion—that she relinquished the viscount's arm to his intended bride.
On stealing another glance at the cool, composed face of the young lady, her polished features unmarred by any crease or dimple of emotion, Derrien couldn't help but puzzle on what Ferguson could possibly have wanted to discuss with the regal English beauty, and why it had demanded such urgency.
Her friend took her elbow. "I believe I saw that the baron's servants are laying out the picnic. Allow me to escort you to a seat." Without waiting for a reply, he hastened their steps away from the slanting shadows of the crumbling nave. Derrien had no choice but to follow along, however it took a good measure of self-control to refrain from darting one last look over her shoulder at the viscount.
Adrian forced his gaze away from the sight of the retreating figure and the way several errant blond curls had slipped free from her confining bonnet to dance in the breeze.
"I trust it was not too great an ordeal to endure the professor's company?"
Honoria stumbled slightly. "No, not at all. That is, I mean yes, he seems... a very sensible young man."
"Sensible—now that has a rather dry ring to it." He gave a low chuckle. "Was the fellow truly an insufferable bore? If so, I shall try to make sure you are not trapped in his presence?—"
"N-No!" Quickly recovering her poise, she hastened to add, "That is, he was perfectly pleasant company. You needn't pay it any mind." She kept her eyes averted from his face. "And you, sir? I hope Miss Edwards was not a nuisance? She looks to be a very headstrong young lady."
"She wished to inquire about a matter concerning gardens." He wondered why it was that a slight flush was creeping to his cheeks.
"How odd."
He bit back a sharp retort. "I have a passing interest in the subject, you know. In fact, one might say I have a modicum of knowledge concerning such things."
"Oh, yes. I suppose you have mentioned that on occasion," she replied absently. Her tone was distant, as if her thoughts were as far away as the gulls winging out to follow a distant fishing boat. "I imagine that most gentlemen of property do."
"Woolsey Hall has some of the most beautiful gardens in England," he continued, seeing if he might raise a spark of interest in her. "I mean to see what improvements I might add to such magnificent designs."
"Mmmm."
The sound failed to convey even a hint of enthusiasm, causing the viscount to frown in consternation. Had she always exhibited such a flatness of emotion? Or was it only the comparison with a certain other young lady that was making the lovely Lady Honoria appear to be cut out of pasteboard?
With a reluctant sigh, he looked searchingly at her half-turned profile. "Are you sure something is not amiss, and that your earlier encounters with these scholarly Scots haven't in some way overset you?"
She started. "Oh, no," she repeated, with some force. "I fear I was thinking on why the young lady would feel the need to request a private audience with you to discuss gardens."
Adrian gave a wry grimace. "I have long since abandoned any hope of understanding the working of the female mind." His light tone was designed to elicit at least an answering smile, but she remained staring straight ahead, her only reaction to his attempt at humor was a slight tremor of her jaw.
He gave up trying to probe any further and lapsed into his own moody silence.
It was with some gratitude that he saw Rafael disengage himself from a heated discussion on the merits of salmon fishing on the River Tay and make his way toward them. They then proceeded to where several tables had been set up with a veritable groaning board of food.
"I had best rejoin Mama now," said Honoria in a low voice, glancing nervously at where Lady Dunster sat off to one side of several couples. "She is not as yet comfortable with the local ladies."
Was it his imagination, wondered Adrian, or did he detect a note of relief at finding an excuse to quit his company? "Of course," he murmured politely. "Shall Rafe and I fix a selection for the two of you or do you wish to sit for a bit before partaking in the repast?"
"I shall ask Mama what she prefers."
As he and his friend strolled away, Adrian's gaze flitted from where Honoria sat in rigid correctness next to her mother, hands folded demurely in her lap, to where Derrien was sprawled—none too ladylike—on a blanket laid out on the grass, engaged in what looked to be an animated debate with Ferguson. He drew in a sharp breath, wondering why it was he found himself wishing?—
Wishing what?
Adrian gave an inward sigh. Honesty compelled him to admit that after he fetched a glass of the local ale, he would have vastly preferred taking a seat on the ground by the maddening Miss Edwards to heading to the table set up for the comfort of the English visitors. He found himself wondering what topic of conversation was bringing such a spark to those flashing eyes.
As he took the glass that Rafael had just passed to him, a sudden trill of laughter from Derrien caught his attention, and he realized the sound was far more intoxicating than any amount of spirits. The young lady might be outspoken, hot tempered and given to decidedly hoydenish behavior—in short, all the things he did not wish for in a female. But she was also intelligent, sensitive and undeniably passionate in her opinions.
Damnation, he thought with some vehemence, raising the glass and draining half its contents in one gulp. She was intriguing!
Rafael cleared his throat. "You might want to wipe the scowl from your face. You are supposed to be putting aside your troubles for the afternoon, remember?" He slanted a sideways glance at Lady Hylton's pinched countenance, and added, "Though I vow, the prospect of such a mother-in-law might drive me to strong drink."
Adrian growled something unintelligible in reply. His friend hadn't the slightest notion just which lady it was that was having such an effect on his thoughts, and he intended it to remain that way.
"Come," he said gruffly. "I suppose we had better see which delicacies Honoria and her mother would care to sample."
Plates were fixed for the ladies, and the two gentlemen dutifully took their places next to them. The buzz of voices punctuated the clink of silverware and the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze as everyone settled down to the sumptuous array of food.
The meal was well under way when the sound of an approaching horse and rider caused a lull in the conversation. An elegantly dressed gentleman appeared at the far end of the ruins and, with a wave of greeting to the group, dismounted from his glossy stallion and began to approach. Removing his curly brimmed beaver hat, he ran a hand through his cropped chestnut locks and inclined an elegant bow in the direction of the host.
"Ah, Lord Hertford! Glad you could join us. I thought I had heard that you recently arrived in town," called the baronet. "Though it seems you have come north a tad earlier than you are usually wont to do."
The gentleman brushed a bit of dust from the sleeve of his immaculately tailored hacking jacket and surveyed the assembled group, his eyes lingering for a second on the viscount before sweeping by with nary a flicker of acknowledgement.
"Yes," he replied nonchalantly, his lips pulling into an enigmatic half smile as he tapped his crop against his polished Hessians. "I must say, St. Andrews suddenly seemed a much more rewarding place to be than London." He smoothed at a fold in his starched cravat. "After all, Scotland affords such a wealth of pleasures for a keen sportsman, don't you think?"