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D errien yanked the brush through her tangled curls.

Odious man, she repeated yet again. If it weren't for her friendship with Hugh she be sorely tempted to abandon the debauched London rake to the hazards of the links and Lord Hertford without a second thought.

He certainly deserved as much. Her cheeks flamed on recalling how the viscount had laughed at a racy joke that his friend had recounted as the two of them had walked to the shop after finishing their round.

How dare they speak of such things in the company of a female...

Her fingers paused in teasing out another snarl and she gave a rueful grimace into the cheval glass.

In all fairness, he could not be accused of that, she admitted.

And honesty compelled her to acknowledge that his comments had not been so very different from those she had heard bandied about by the other caddies on numerous occasions.

Still, there were plenty of other sins to lay at his door.

Gambling, for one. He wouldn't be here unless he was a reckless gamester, stupid enough to risk a fortune on the turn of a card.

And likely wenching.

Aristocratic gentlemen like him all indulged in such behavior. For a moment, a picture came to mind of piercing grey-green eyes peering out from beneath dark, windblown locks—and she imagined that he had no lack of invitations from eager partners…

The bristles of the brush dug in deeply enough to cause her to wince.

Whatever was she doing, thinking such ridiculous thoughts—even for an instant!

Men like Viscount Marquand and the Marquess of Hertford seduced women without a care to the pain and suffering they left in their wake.

The reflection in the looking glass caught the hardening of Derrien's expression.

Though she felt a simmering anger for the viscount and his undoubtedly rakish ways, her contempt rose to a boil on considering Adrian's coming opponent.

Forced to make a choice between them, she had to admit that Lord Marquand was the lesser of two evils.

She could only imagine his faults, while those of Hertford were all too real.

For the sake of the unfortunate women who had fallen victim to the marquess’s practiced charm— or brute strength —as well as her dear friend Hugh Philp, she would do her best to see the dastardly Hertford beaten at this particular game, even if it meant helping...

"Derrien?" Her aunt poked her head into the small bedchamber. "My dear girl! The invitation is for eight and you are not near ready. I shall send Lucy in to you right away. She will be able to make short work of that unruly mop of curls."

Derrien glowered at her own reflection. "I would much rather stay home and finish the book I borrowed from Professor McAuley's library."

"That may be so, my dear, but as Sir Joseph is anxious to show the visitors from London that the folk of St. Andrews may be as cultured and hospitable as any people to the south, we owe it to our friend to help make a favorable impression on the English guests."

Ha! There was little chance of that, she thought in silent retort.

However, she decided to keep such things to herself.

While her aunt knew of her usual masquerade on the links, she was not yet aware of her involvement in training the English lord.

And though in general she was the most tolerant of guardians, Derrien decided it would perhaps be prudent not to put the issue to a test.

"For his sake," continued her aunt. "I know you will do your best to be pleasant to Lord Marquand and Mr. Greeley."

Derrien ducked her head, feeling slightly guilty on recalling the numerous snide remarks she had flung at the viscount over the past little while. "Very well," she muttered, rooting in her dressing table drawer for a ribbon to match the trim of her gown.

Glancing up at her reflection, she made another face.

Lucy might well be able to coax her curls into some semblance of order, but there was little anyone could about the smattering of freckles across her nose.

She couldn't help envisioning a certain creamy complexion, unmarred by any such unladylike imperfection, and for some reason, her mood grew even more prickly.

As she waited in some impatience for her aunt's maid to arrive, she withdrew a small notebook and pencil from a drawer and added it to her reticule.

She had heard that Mr. Gregory had recently received several unusual specimen plantings from the West Indies for his garden, so perhaps the evening would not prove to be a total bore.

"Well now, finally a moment alone." Adrian's steps came to a halt before a wrought iron bench and his gloved hand shifted beneath Honoria's fingers. "Would you care to sit down, my dear?"

"No, thank you. Since Mama was feeling poorly and required me to sit and read to her all afternoon, I think I should prefer to keep strolling, sir— Adrian, that is.

" The last vestiges of the setting sun suffused the garden with a pale wash of gold, and for an instant, the soft play of light and shadow across her profile and the folds of her ivory silk gown made her appear as one with the carved statue standing behind her.

"It is a pretty garden, is it not? Only look at this charming Greek faun standing among a bower of dahlias. "

He forced a weak smile. "It is a Roman satyr and the flowers are common tuber roses."

"Oh. How... interesting."

Adrian found his teeth setting on edge. Her air of cool detachment had been one of the qualities that had attracted him to her— she was no voluble schoolroom chit given to wild flights of emotion.

But he suddenly found himself wishing she might show a bit more.

.. life. He knew that she possessed opinions and the intelligence to express them in an interesting way, for the conversations they had shared as they became acquainted had assured him that she wasn't a vapid idiot.

He would never have been able to tolerate that, not even for a lovely face and generous dowry.

Yet since his intentions had become clear, it seemed that for some reason she was becoming increasingly rigid and remote in his presence, rather than the opposite.

He couldn't begin to fathom why. Of late, she looked as though the prospect of their upcoming nuptials was about as palatable as a dose of castor oil.

The thought was rather disturbing.

She must have sensed the stiffening of his arm. Her head turned slightly. "Is something wrong?"

"Not at all," he lied, drawing them a few steps father along the graveled path. There was an arrangement of rather unusual plants behind a large urn that had caught his eye. "And what of you, Honoria? You seem a trifle preoccupied of late. Is there something on your mind?"

"I -I suppose I am still a bit overwhelmed with the honor you do me in asking me to be your future countess. I shall try to be worthy of the choice."

Were her words really as stilted as they sounded to his ears?

He drew in a sharp breath, but quickly brushed aside any momentary irritation and forced a smile.

"Worthy? Why there is nothing to be nervous about.

You are the very model of perfection." Now it was his own phrases that sounded hopelessly contrived. At least she appeared not to notice.

"How kind of you... Adrian. I shall try not to give you any cause for further comment. Mama says that gentlemen dislike above all things being distracted by a fidgeting female."

His brows drew together. "I should hope you would always feel free to discuss with me anything that was bothering you."

"Yes. Of course." She bit at her lip and turned to examine the carving along the rim of the garden ornament.

"Actually, sir, there is a matter that I should—" A shriek interrupted her halting words as she suddenly tripped over a figure crouched among the cascading ivy.

"Good Heavens!" she cried. "There is someone crouched in the bushes! "

Adrian rushed to steady her. "There is no need for alarm, my dear." His gaze had already raked over Derrien's slightly disheveled gown and the bits of broken leaves that had twined themselves in among her golden curls. "It is only one of the other guests."

Honoria pressed a hand to her bodice. "It is hard to believe that the local young ladies have no more concept of proper behavior than to be sneaking around in the dark, spying?—"

"I was no t spying," retorted Derrien, rising to her feet and brushing a stray lock from her cheek. "As it happens, I was here first."

A faint gasp sounded. "But what were you doing out here if not skulking after His Lordship and myself?"

Derrien fisted her hands on her hips. "I was having a look at the Ananas bracteatus that Mr. Gregory has just received from the isle of Jamaica."

Adrian edged slightly closer to the bed of plantings and stole a quick glance. "And a most unusual specimen it is," he murmured, itching to bend down as Derrien had been doing and subject the multi-colored striated leaves and cluster of spidery stamens to a more thorough examination.

Honoria's eyes widened in confusion. "What?—?"

"Ahh, most unusual," he repeated gruffly. "For a lone female to be outside unaccompanied?—"

Derrien interrupted him with an unladylike snort.

"What a silly set of rules your fancy London strictures are.

I'm hardly in any danger of running into trouble among people I've known all my life— or of being a threat to any sensible person.

It is only a martinet such as you who would kick up a dust."