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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?