Page 158

Derrien's eyes widened. "You actually know Chitley? But it is said that for some strange reason he chooses to be an utter recluse—no one has met him."

"Oh, he has a few friends."

"What is he like?" she demanded eagerly.

"Well, he is about my height—" As he spoke, Adrian was aware he was treading on treacherous ground and should stop before going too far.

"And?" she prompted.

"And..." He stopped as if to consider the question. "And I'm not sure you would like him very much."

"Oh fie on you, sir! You are teasing me again!"

Adrian chuckled but realized he should steer the conversation back to safer footing. "I'm not, I swear it. It's Price you would find yourself swooning over. He is tall, with the sort of artfully tousled golden curls and sensitive mien that cause females to fall at his feet in droves."

She gave a snort. "But his ideas are not nearly as interesting.”

Just as the viscount hoped, the talk turned to garden design and another lively discussion ensued.

Derrien was only listening with half an ear to the viscount's pithy comment, for try as she might, she couldn't help but be distracted by his physical closeness.

They had taken a seat on one of the benches overlooking the lake and the light pressure from his thigh was palpable even through the heavy folds of her gown.

She ventured a quick glance at his profile, then jerked her gaze back to the geese drifting across the rippled surface of the water.

Had the man any idea how attractive he looked when his eyes twinkled with such humor and when his lips relaxed into such a devastating smile?

Of course he did, she chided herself. He probably had it down to a fine art.

His current smile —or perhaps it was just a smirk— was no doubt prompted in part by how easy the game of charming a country miss must be appearing to him. Perhaps in the next minute he could lean in and steal a kiss without so much a squeak of protest.

Her jaw clenched, but her anger was more for herself, for she couldn't deny that for the last little while she had been wondering what it would feel like to have his lips pressed against hers.

"I'd be willing to wager a monkey that's what he means."

"Yes, I'm sure you would," responded Derrien in a tight voice. "Wager on it, that is." She yanked the skirts of her gown away from his knee. "Please excuse me, sir. I must be going—I am expected at home."

All the humor drained from Adrian's face, replaced by a look of puzzled surprise. "Have I said something wrong, Miss Edwards?"

"Not at all. You have merely reminded me that you are a profligate gamester, and no doubt a... rake as well, sir, and not a person with whom I care to spend time."

"I suppose it is no surprise that in a small town such as this, the arrival of any stranger will prompt a number of scurrilous rumors,” he said softly

"Do not deny that you are in St. Andrews as the result of some debauched wager! Hugh Philp says—" She swallowed hard. "That is, Mr. Philp is a friend of my aunt's, and it is from him that I have heard you must play golf against Lord Hertford because of a very large loss at the gaming table."

"Yes, it's true that I am bound to compete against the marquess, but…” He blew out a huff of frustration.

“Oh, the devil take it, why bother trying to explain!

It appears you are just as willfully opinionated as that hot-tempered brat of caddie I have been saddled with by Mr. Philp.

Both of you think that you understand everything at first blush. "

He rose brusquely and held out his hand. "Come, let me see you home."

Derrien stared at him in shock, rendered speechless by the raw hurt in his voice.

When she made no move to get to her feet, his expression turned hard as stone and he dropped his arm.

"As a gentleman, I am beholden to offer my company, but as it is clear you consider me no such thing, I will assume you are capable of making your own way out. "

He fumbled in his pocket to withdraw a gold watch and took a quick glance at the enameled dial. "Besides, I must be off if I am not to be late for a noon engagement."

His lips curled in a mocking smile. "And then, of course, I must head to the links to practice my gaming skills. Perhaps after that, I might consider deflowering a virgin or two before supper."

With a curt bow, he turned on his heel and stalked off.

She watched him quickly disappear around a bend in the path, then dropped her eyes to her lap, suddenly aware that the strings of her reticule were knotted so tightly around her fingers that they were in danger of cutting off all circulation.

The pain, however, was not nearly so sharp as the stab in her chest as she tried to draw a breath.

Her accusations had been justified, she assured herself. Why, he had even admitted as much!

And as to explanations… what possible explanation could there be?

Her reticule shifted in the folds of her skirts, and the corner of the book inside it caught against her leg.

And yet, how could a dissolute wastrel also possess such a keen understanding of gardens?

There was no denying his extensive knowledge of both their history and theory.

Nor was it possible to question his obvious sensitivity and insight.

A lump formed in her throat as her hand move to touch the leather spine. She imagined that the principles of garden design were hardly a subject that would interest most rakes and scoundrels.

It made no sense!

To her dismay, a tear spilled down her cheek.

With an angry swipe of her sleeve, she blotted it away, then forced herself to take out her sketchbook and pencil.

She had work to do, she reminded herself.

Her plans for the Laird's garden were much more important than dwelling on the complexities of a certain English lord.

Yet somehow, as she flipped through the pages, it took her more than a few moments to turn past the quick rendering of a certain profile that was most definitely not that of a begonia or tulip.