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"No, no, that's hardly necessary. Just be here by this gate at ten o’clock.

It's only a short distance and I like to walk.

" She reached out to tuck an errant corner of paper back within the leather case and couldn't resist adding, "I should think an engagement with your future bride would not bring such a scowl to your face, Lord Marquand. "

He finally finished tying the ribbons. "You must be mistaking my expression, Miss Edwards," he said softly.

"We bloodless fellows have none to speak of, remember?

Now, if you will excuse me, I really must hurry, for even people without a pulse can be roused to anger in the face of deliberate rudeness. "

Derrien felt her face grow rather hot as she watched him hurry toward the gate.

It was outside of enough that in some strange moment of delusion she had actually invited the viscount to accompany her to Sir Hugh's garden.

But even worse was that he remembered —to the letter— her childish remarks of the other night.

She might not like either the gentleman or his intended bride, but it had been horribly rude of her to snap out such nasty comments simply because she had been embarrassed.

The elegant lady must think her a veritable hoyden, and no doubt Lord Marquand did as well.

Her additional gibe concerning his imagination certainly hadn't helped her cause.

Loath as she was to admit it, she found she didn't like the idea of him thinking of her as... well, an ill-mannered brat.

After expelling a harried sigh, Derrien continued on to the bench facing the painted gazebo.

Taking a seat, she withdrew a small sketchbook and pencil from her reticule, but on opening its pages, she found her hand strangely reluctant to begin its work.

Instead, she lifted her gaze to survey the formal row of shrubs in the foreground, which turned at right angles and led the eye back to a more natural and irregular display of foliage and flowering plants.

The contrast created a certain tension, making for a more interesting scene whose complexities drew one back again and again.

It was a concept the notable designers she had mentioned earlier understood intuitively, and now, as she sat and studied the view before her, she slowly realized it applied to people as well.

Lord Marquand was nothing if not a study in contrasts.

And despite her firm resolve to dislike the man, she found that with each new glimpse, he was becoming increasingly intriguing.

Yes, he could be impossibly stiff-rumped and formal at times, yet such an appearance was quite at odds with the raw athleticism and vibrant masculinity he displayed on the golf links.

His bearing bespoke of an icy hauteur, and yet her harsh comments had shown him to be vulnerable, to have feelings that could be hurt.

And while his own words could seem stilted in the extreme, his exuberant drawing skill could not be hidden, though most of the works had been copies, several of the scattered sketches had been his own, depicting the exact gazebo she was now gazing upon.

Her eyes dropped down to the blank sheet of paper. To think that he possessed an expertise in gardens, of all things!

She bit her lip. Why, oh why, had she let her cursed tongue run so loose as to not only insult him, but then to tender that impetuous invitation?

She was spending quite enough time with Lord Marquand without cultivating any additional contact.

That she was coming to respect his determination and fighting spirit was bad enough.

She wasn't sure she wanted to pursue the discovery that he, too, was interested in the same subject she longed to discuss with another knowledgeable person.

Or that he might actually listen to her and solicit her opinion. It was simply too hazardous.

She might have made up her mind to tolerate him, but she wasn't about to start liking him as well!

Her rueful grimace twisted into a mocking smile as she recalled yet another facet of his character.

How could she forget, even for an instant?

He was also a hardened gamester, she reminded herself.

One who apparently ran with the likes of Lord Hertford and thought nothing of risking a fortune on the turn of a card.

While she didn't know the particulars of his wager, it must have been quite high indeed to have necessitated an arduous journey from London to Scotland.

And it was only natural that a gentleman like that was also a practiced rake. She swallowed hard. That would account for the ease with which he had caused her defenses to bend, as if they were no more substantial than the fragile wildflowers that were clustered around the distant stone fountain.

No!

Derrien drew the pencil over the paper, leaving a sharp dark line. Then she relaxed slightly, knowing she was in no danger of succumbing to his charm, now that there had been a moment to reflect on his baser nature. In the future she'd not forget what sort of man he really was.

Another few shadings were scratched on the page.

That being the case, she mused, it couldn't hurt to talk about gardens with him.

She was dying to know what Nash's latest essays, just recently published in London, had to say on the subject of aesthetics, Just as she was curious to know more about the fellow Chitley.

It appeared the bold new talent was somewhat of a recluse, and little information about him other than his wonderful sketches had made their way past the northern border.

She was very curious as to what sort of fellow he was, and whether any of his writings had yet been published.

With the bold creativity and ingenious way of thinking that was revealed by his plans, she couldn't imagine that he was an older man, but?—

A glance down at her book caused her to draw in a sharp breath. Rather than a quick rendering of the gazebo, her hand had somehow of its own accord sketched a rugged profile, with straight nose, lean jaw and longish curling locks falling in boyish disarray.

She snapped the pages closed with a muttered curse that would have brought an instant rebuke from Philp and stood up.

Men! They seemed to be plaguing her thoughts this morning.

The dull chimes of the clock served as a reminder that she, too, had best be off to seek sustenance for the coming afternoon.

As she draped the strings of her reticule around her wrist, an impish grin slowly spread to her lips.

Men, indeed! Well, if she couldn't beat them, she might as well join them.

"I said, have you made any progress in this golfing endeavor, Marquand?" Lord Hylton had stopped chewing long enough to repeat his question in an even louder tone than before.

"What—er, that is, were you speaking to me, sir?"

"I'm not speaking to the deuced epergne, though it seems I might as well be," he growled under his breath, cutting off another thick slab from his lamb chop.

"Language, Fitzwilliam!" warned his wife with a whispered rebuke.

"Father, I'm sure His Lordship is preoccupied with his upcoming lessons. Just as I am sure he will do his best when the time comes," murmured Honoria, not quite able to look at the viscount as she offered some measure of support.

Adrian squirmed in his chair. Why was it that she couldn't seem to get comfortable speaking his name?

A glance around the table only served to increase his ill humor.

Everything seemed to be rubbing him the wrong way this afternoon, from the baron's thinly veiled questions as to the future of Woolsey Hall, to the perpetually sour expression on Lady Hylton's thin face to Honoria's perplexing lack of vitality.

It was as if all the charm and wit he knew she possessed had been drained from her veins.

He frowned slightly. Bloodless . That was what the little minx Miss Edwards had called her, and on stealing another surreptitious look at his intended bride's pale face, it was hard to argue with the harsh assessment.

His lips twitched for an instant. Miss Edwards . Now there was a young lady who could hardly be described as bloodless. Bloodthirsty, maybe, given the sharpness of her claws when she was angry. He found himself wondering why she seemed bothered by his very presence.

"...will take place in another week?" Hylton's voice once again cut through the air.

Adrian's mouth tightened in a grim line. "Ten days to be exact," he answered curtly. "Until then, at least, Woolsey Hall is safe." His expression curled into a faintly mocking smile. "I'm touched by your concern, sir."

"Harrumph." Sensing he had perhaps pressed too hard, the baron took a long swallow of claret and changed the subject.

"Well, then, I think I may pay a short visit to Preston's hunting box.

He's assured me that his moors are particularly rich with grouse this year.

" He motioned for his glass to be filled.

"The ladies will naturally want to stay here in a more civilized setting, that is, as civilized as any Scottish place may be. "

His wife grimaced. "I shall be well pleased when we may quit this savage land."

Adrian couldn't refrain from shooting her a stony look. "Do you truly think it so, Lady Hylton? For my part, I have found the local folk to be most hospitable. What of you, Honoria?"

The baron's wife looked too nonplussed to respond, while her daughter stared at her plate and murmured something inaudible.

"More wine, Marquand?" inquired Hylton, seeking to break the awkward silence that descended over the meal.