A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1) (22 page)

“Hmmph.”

They located his ball hard by a cart rut, resting on a patch of gravel with a large stone less than a foot behind it. The Viscount stared at it for several moments, his lips pursed in consternation.

“What are you going to try?” demanded Derrien.

His eyes went from the ball to the fairway, then back again. “Well, it’s possible that with the long spoon I could knock it over that bunker and end up in a good position on the fairway, with a chance to make par.” “It’s possible—that is, if you managed to avoid breaking your wrist on that rock and then were able to hit the best shot of your life off the graveled lie. What do you think the odds are of that?”

He kicked at a loose stone. “Ahhh, not great, I suppose.” “Aye, not great. The more likely result would be that you would need a seagull to retrieve your ball from the Bay or that it would be buried so deeply in that tall grass up ahead that you would need a scythe to extract it. In either case, it would result in a wasted stroke and a penalty, and your troubles would still not be over.” She put one hand on her hip. “Come now, sir. Imagine that we are playing for real. What is the best decision?” Marquand studied the lie of his ball once more, then heaved a sigh. “I suppose I should take a lofted iron and knock it sideways rather than trying to advance it straight ahead. That way, I should avoid the chance of injury, as well as of ending up in the water or the tangle of rough, and be certain of regaining the fairway.”

With a brisk nod of approval, Derrien thrust the bespoke club into his hands and signaled for him to hit away. The results were as anticipated, eliciting another nod, this one betraying just the tiniest bit of smugness. “There, you see! At most you have lost one stroke and if you hit a good third shot you might still make par. There was no need to take a risky gamble, especially on the third hole.”

The Viscount’s jaw set. “Ah, but you are forgetting that I’m said to be a reckless fellow.”

Though it was said half in jest, she didn’t fail to note the rough edge to his voice and couldn’t help but wonder again what thoughts were causing such an odd mood. Rather than reply with her customary bite, she gave a ghost of a smile. “That’s why you have me here. For a hardened gambler, you seem uncommonly willing to listen to advice.”

Her comment finally caused some of the grimness to ebb from his face and he gave a reluctant chuckle. “Usually it should work the other way around—the recklessness of youth tempered by the wisdom of age.”

“It may not make much sense, but somehow we seem to make a good team, sir.”

“Yes,” he said rather thoughtfully. “We do at that.” For some reason, Derrien felt an unaccountable flutter inside her chest.

He stepped up, and after waiting for a moment for a gust of wind to die down, hit his next shot. It landed a bit short of the flag, but even Derrien had to admit that it was not a bad effort. And though his putt did not find the hole, he finished up, as she had predicted, with only a bogey rather than the disastrous score that might have resulted from his errant shot.

As though in charity with his efforts, the weather began to clear a bit during the short stroll to where Marquand was to hit his next drive. The blustery wind died down to a gentle breeze and the thick clouds thinned enough to allow a faint wash of sunlight to wink over the rain-soaked grass. The ball sailed straight through the rising mist, coming to earth in the middle of the fairway, a fair distance from where it had been struck.

It appeared the Viscount’s thoughts were finally focused on the task at hand, so they played the next few holes with little conversation other than an occasional exchange over distance and choice of clubs. The lengthy silences had none of the overt tension of their previous outings but were of a much more companionable sort, the result of a certain hard-won comraderie winning out over the initial combativeness. Her experience as a caddie told Derrien to do nothing to break such a mood, but as they turned to play the inward nine she couldn’t help but blurt out a question that had been dogging her thoughts for longer than she cared to admit. “It’s, er, said you are engaged to a . . . beautiful lady, sir. You must be—well, you must like her very much.”

Marquand’s head came up with a jerk, and he nearly stumbled over a twist of ragwort that spilled out over the edge of the fairway. For an instant he appeared taken aback, then his expression changed into one of unholy amusement. “So, lad,” he said with a slow smile, “you have an interest in the opposite sex after all? I was beginning to fear that your thoughts never strayed beyond the links.”

Derrien felt her cheeks go very crimson.

“No need to look embarrassed, Master Derry. At your age, it would be most unnatural of you not to show a healthy curiosity. Is there something specific you wish to ask?”

The sound she made came out as a strangled squeak. He chuckled. “I imagine that a well-favored lad like you has no need for explanations as to what takes place between a man and a woman who have a certain attraction for each other?” He paused in his steps, his brow raising slightly. “Or are you Scots really as impervious to normal desires as your flinty hills are to the elements?” She was most grateful that he didn’t demand a translation of her initial confused mumblings, but his look made it clear he expected something more to follow.

“N—no. That is, I imagine we are no different than most in that regard. What I was wondering was .. . what it is like to be in . . . 1—love.”

It was the Viscount’s turn to stutter. “Er, well as to that . . .” He cleared his throat, but it was several more moments before he made a reply. “Marriage is a good deal more complex than mere emotion, Master Derry. Especially for one in my position.”

Her mouth went a bit dry at the carefully worded answer. Suddenly it was very important for her to know the truth as to his feelings for Miss Dunster. “But surely you must feel some sort of . . . regard for the lady, to think of tying yourself to her for the rest of your life?” His lips twisted in a strange sort of smile. “Of course I feel a regard for Miss Dunster. She is possessed of beauty, intelligence, poise, and charm. All the qualities that a man could wish for in a wife.”

Derrien felt a sudden flood of relief! His words expressed the highest praise for his intended—but surely no more. It seemed that for whatever reasons the Viscount had made his declaration, one of them was not because his heart was irrevocably attached.

Viscount Marquand does not love Miss Dunster, she repeated to herself.

Why was it that the words flowed as sweet as wild heather honey over her tongue?

She swallowed hard, trying to find some rational explanation for the sudden pounding in her chest. She was simply relieved, she told herself, because she didn’t wish to see him hurt. Yes, that was it. She had come to see him as a sensitive, caring individual rather than a cold, unfeeling aristocrat—in short, she had come to see him as a friend.

A slight cough interrupted her thoughts. “Does that answer your question, Master Derry?”

She didn’t dare look at him. “Yes, sir. I think I understand what you mean.” She fumbled with the hickory shafts resting on her shoulders. “Uh, it’s the baffing spoon you’ll be wanting next, sir. See that steep bunker you must clear? Well, it is wider than it appears and behind it . .

Marquand did not look at all unhappy to be leaving the questions of his personal affairs behind. With a tad more eagerness than usual, he took the club and executed the shot she suggested. “Now, I imagine I should take my heavy iron and chip the ball toward that crest on the right. The slope of the green will then cause it to roll close to the hole.”

Derrien nodded.

He finished his play and made a note of his score with the pencil and paper he kept tucked in his pocket. “Not bad,” he murmured.

“Don’t start thinking of your score, sir,” she cautioned. “There is plenty of time to tally up the strokes once we are finished. It’s best to keep your mind well away from such thoughts while still out on the course.”

She was soon ruing such sage words of advice when, after knocking a decent drive at the start of the sixteenth hole, he handed back the long spoon and started to follow her down the fairway. “So, Master Derry,” he began, “you’ve asked of my lady. What of you? Have you someone who has set your heart aflutter?” He grinned. “Someone whose sweet lips you dream of tasting?”

She nearly choked. “I . . . No!”

“No?” His grin widened. “Come now, don’t be shy, lad. Surely you Scots are as wont to discuss the ladies among yourselves as we Englishmen. And as I have a bit more experience in that field than I do at golf, I might even be able to offer you some advice on how to coax a kiss from the object of your affection.” He reached out and took playful hold of her chin, tilting her head up toward him. “Though I would think, lad, you would have no trouble stealing whatever you wanted from the opposite sex. Have you yet enjoyed a grope or a tumble in the hay?”

She twisted out of his grasp. “Sir!” Her voice very nearly slipped into a squeak. “This was not exactly the sort of topic I had in mind when I said to think of something other than the score.”

Marquand let his arm fall to his side. “Since such teasing appears to make you uncomfortable, Master Derry, I shall—” His words cut off abruptly as Derrien’s hand came up to rub at her chin and his gray-green eyes suddenly focused on her lips with an intensity that caused her to take a step back.

“W—what is it?”

It was a moment before he spoke. “Nothing,” he muttered, letting out a harried sigh. “It’s just that at times, you remind me of someone, but I can’t for the life of me figure out who.” Then he shrugged. “Well, it’s of no importance, I suppose.”

They had come up to his ball and Derrien was grateful for the excuse to look away into the distance. “Take the middle spoon, and aim for the church spire.”

He did as he was told and the shot landed on a slight rise, just left of the sloping bunker on the left.

“Excellent placement, Lord Marquand!” came a voice from behind a thicket of tall gorse.

Both of them started as Philp stepped out from the flickering shadows. “I thought I might come out and check on what sort of progress you have been making, sir,” he continued after taking several puffs on his briar pipe. It might have been Derrien’s imagination, but it seemed the older man’s gaze lingered first on the Viscount and then on herself for a touch longer than necessary. “But I see there is nothing to worry about. You are making great headway.”

“Due in no small part to my caddie.”

Derrien felt her face growing quite warm at the Viscount’s praise. Good Lord, she must be more careful! The man was beginning to have entirely too much effect on her person, that a few simple words could cause her blood to heat.

“I have to admit that your Master Derry has taught me a thing or two,” continued Marquand. “Though honesty compels me to confess that when we started, I would not have thought it possible. The lad has turned out to be quite a diamond in the rough.”

A decided twinkle came to Philp’s eyes. “Yes, Derry has quite a number of hidden facets.”

She restrained the urge to kick him in the shins. “We had best start play if we are to finish the eighteenth hole before the rain returns.”

“Yes, it was, shall we say, a rather amusing performance.” Hertford tapped the ash from his cigar and a smug smile formed on his lips. “Perhaps, as Lord Marquand appears to have a fondness for sand, he should consider taking himself off to Jamaica, where the beaches are said to be quite extensive.” As he paused to take another glass of champagne from a passing waiter, a harsh chuckle bubbled up from the depths of his throat. “And after I add Woolsey Hall to what I’ve won from his father, the poor fellow may have no choice but to seek his fortune in the New World, for there will be precious little of the Linsley inheritance that will not be in my possession.”

Derrien couldn’t help but overhear the last of the marquess’s words as her steps brought her close to the far end of the terrace, where a group of gentlemen had gathered to blow a cloud without disturbing the ladies. She came to a halt in the shadows of the pergola spanning the graveled path and drew in a sharp breath to keep from making an angry retort. Several of Hertford’s cronies who had come up with him from London laughed at the barbed quip, but the locals, having no fondness for their English neighbor, remained silent.

The unseemly bragging appeared to set particularly ill with Sir Twining, who gave a grunt and raised his shaggy brows a fraction. “You seem quite sure of victory, my lord.”

A trail of smoke rings drifted out toward a row of esplaniered pear trees, followed by a mocking chuckle. “As you said yourself, golf takes years to master.” “Indeed.” The Baronet exhaled slowly. “But Lord Marquand does not have to master the game, merely acquire enough skill to be able to post a credible score for one round. From what I have heard, his efforts are beginning to add up.”

The number that he mentioned caused the Marquess to choke on a lungful of smoke.

“Not bad for a neophyte,” continued Twining with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. “Not bad at all. It seems that this contest may prove to be more interesting than anyone imagined.” He paused to quaff a bit of his ale. “But naturally, as a keen sportsman, you must welcome the challenge of meeting an opponent who can test your skills.”

More than one flinty smile appeared among the Scotsmen.

Derrien, too, found her scowl replaced by a look of grim satisfaction as she watched Hertford drop the stub of his cigar and grind it out under his heel with a show of unconcern.

“Any beginner may manage to put together a few lucky shots in practice,” he drawled. “It would take a player of far greater expertise than the Viscount to give me cause to doubt the outcome of the real match.” The smirk, however, had disappeared from his face, replaced by a certain tautness around the mouth. With an exaggerated shrug, he turned abruptly and stalked off down the steps leading to the gardens.

Trapped by his sudden approach, Derrien had no choice but to shrink farther into the shadows and hope that he might pass without noticing her presence. His gaze, however, seemed to catch on the gently swaying climbing roses entwined around the weathered wood. To her dismay, he halted, then drew closer to the fragrant blooms.