A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1) by Andrea Pickens Page A

there was also a note on the tray downstairs for you? It arrived only an hour or two ago.”
    Marquand pulled a face. “I cannot imagine who it might be from. I have no acquaintance with anyone in town.”
    “Well, that may no longer be the case, Adrian. I saw a traveling coach pass down Market Street when I was out earlier, and if I am not mistaking the crest upon the door, it appears the lovely Miss Dunster and her parents have arrived in St. Andrews.”
    A muttered oath slipped from the Viscount’s lips. Now what the devil was Lady Honoria and her family doing here, he wondered? A sudden vision of Lord Hylton’s corpulent face came to mind, and how the man’s greedy eyes had blinked in rapid succession on hearing the request for his daughter’s hand, as if they were the beads of an abacus adding up the possible assets of such an alliance. His mouth tightened in a grim line. Whatever was in the note that awaited his perusal, he could already read between the lines. It was clear he was not the only one with an interest in the fate of Woolsey Hall.
    It shouldn’t be of any great surprise, he told himself. After all, hadn’t he also voiced the opinion that a match should be based on a purely rational assessment of the benefits? Still, he found himself feeling rather like a stud being led out at Tattersall’s, to be watched intently by the prospective buyers as he was put through his paces. And he found himself chafing at the bit.
    “I would have expected a slightly more, er, joyous reaction on learning that your bride-to-be and her family have journeyed such a great distance to lend support to your endeavor.” Ellington toyed with the silver stopper of the decanter, his gaze ostensibly averted from Marquand’s stony countenance.
    “If Hylton is to lend anything, you may be sure he expects a handsome return on his investment.” The words were barely audible but they caused his friend’s fingers to pause on the polished top. Rising abruptly, Marquand took up his jacket, still heavy with the salt air. “If you will excuse me, Tony, I have a number of things to attend to before we must make our appearance tonight.”

Chapter Five
    Ellington could see that the last few hours had done little to improve his friend’s disposition. The Viscount 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.” Several less flattering adjectives came to Ellington’s mind, and as their host stepped forward to greet them, he was forced to whisper a harsh rebuke in Marquand’s ear.
    “Ah, gentlemen! So nice to make your acquaintance.” Sir Twining 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 Ellington. “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 Marquand, 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 Baron slipped his pudgy hand around Ellington’s elbow. “Do you shoot as well, sir?” The affirmative nod caused the fellow to look even more pleased. “Then you must meet Sir Strathbume, whose grouse moor is unrivaled . . .” Marquand 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, as well as the relative merits of guns made by Manton versus the new upstart, James Purdey, he remained where he was, doing his best not to glower as if he were nursing a