A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1) (27 page)

“I have,” he admitted with a sheepish grin. “My friend Ellington threatened to tie me to my chair until I polished off Cook’s porridge, several shirred eggs, and a platter of gammon. Falling faint with hunger will not be the worst of my worries.”

“Still, you are welcome to the last of Mrs. Hamish’s creations. She is accorded to be the best baker in town,” said Derrien, taking great care to match the Viscount’s light tone.

“I shall take your word for it.” Marquand took a seat next to her—much too close for her own peace of mind. She quickly looked back down to the golf club in her lap, in hopes that his perceptive gray-green eyes would not see what she feared was so clearly written on her face.

Philp picked up his pipe and stowed it in one of his pockets. “I had best toddle along and fetch Duncan Brewster from his table.” He gave a curt nod to the Viscount. “As captain of the Society of St. Andrews Golfers, he shall serve as judge for the match. He’s a good man—an authority on the rules and scrupulously fair.”

“Above temptation as well?” asked Marquand in a low voice. “The Marquess would no doubt be willing to be quite generous.”

“Aye, you may count on his honesty. Of that I’m certain.”

“Good. Now, I only hope I may count on my own rather suspect skill as well.”

“You have become a good golfer, sir. Stay focused and relaxed. Remember to think of the shot at hand, rather than the outcome and you shall do fine. Oh, and between shots try to think of something other than golf.” The master looked slowly from the Viscount to his caddie. “I have a feeling in these old bones that all is going to turn out well, my lord.” With that, he took his leave. “You are expected at the first hole at eight,” he added over his shoulder before closing the door. “Don’t be late.”

Derrien’s head was still bent, the iron in her hands fast becoming burnished to a silvery glow. Marquand began to toy with the grip of his putter. “All is in readiness?” he asked, more to break the silence than because he feared she might forget anything.

She nodded, still not daring to look up.

There was a slight stirring as he shifted his seat on the bench. “You know, with all the recent, er, events, I have not had a chance to properly thank you for all you have done. It cannot have been an easy task, putting up with my clumsy efforts and foul moods, not to speak of the sort of rough teasing I would not have dreamed of inflicting upon a female’s ears.” He cleared his throat. “I— I know you have soldiered through it out of loyalty to Mr. Philp and the young ladies who have suffered at the hands of Hertford, rather than out of any regard for me, but nonetheless, I am terribly grateful for your help. Without it I am well aware I wouldn’t stand a chance.” There was another fraction of a pause. “I would hope that in spite of all our differences and disagreements, we might cry friends.”

Friends? Oh, how she wished they might be much more than that. However, she supposed she must be satisfied with it. After all, a hoydenish little hellion was hardly likely to inspire any more passionate response when the Viscount had the likes of Miss Dunster and other polished London belles to choose from.

“Of course.” Her voice was carefully schooled to reveal none of her inner turmoil. “I have thought of us as a ... a team for some time now, sir.”

He gave a strange sort of smile. “Have you now? I am glad to hear it.”

Despite a firm resolve to keep a cool demeanor, she couldn’t help but ask, “I imagine that whatever the outcome, you will be leaving St. Andrews as soon as the match is over?”

“Yes, Tony and I must return to London as soon as possible. I’ll be hard-pressed as it is to finish the preliminary sketches for the Duke’s commission.”

“I am sorry we have not had much of a chance to discuss your work, sir. I—I hope that you might be kind enough to send me a copy of your essays when they are published.”

“You shall be the first to see them, I promise.” A flare of emotion lit in his eyes before they strayed to the club in her lap. “I think you may leave off working on that, unless you intend on using it for a mirror.”

“Oh!” She gave a short laugh. “I guess I am more nervous than I care to admit.” Laying it in the pile with the rest, she stood up and fumbled in the pocket of her breeches. “We had best be on our way. But first, sir, I wanted you to have this.” A thin silver chain lay in the palm of the hand she thrust forward. Attached to it was a silver charm in the shape of a thistle, its design and detail wrought with exquisite craftsmanship. “It is the symbol of Scotland and it . . . well, it reminded me of you and your gift with gardens,” she said with halting awkwardness, her voice barely above a whisper. “It has always brought me good luck, so perhaps it will do the same for you.”

She looked away quickly after he took it up, wondering if he thought her ridiculous—or worse—for such a forward gesture. No doubt a proper young lady would never dream of acting in such an impulsive way, but then again, she thought with an inward sigh of resignation, the Viscount was well aware of her hoydenish ways.

But Marquand did not seem to be put off by the gift. He slowly undid the clasp and put it around his neck, carefully tucking the chain in beneath his shirt and Belcher neckerchief. “Why, thank you, Derry.”

She drew in an involuntary breath at the sound of her name on his lips. The sound turned into a slight gasp as those same lips brushed against hers with a gossamer touch. Before she could react any further, the kiss—if that was what it was—was over and he had drawn back, a strange expression on his features.

“I have always thought of Lady Luck as someone I would not care to have an acquaintance with, but recently I find I have changed my mind about that.” Under his breath he added, “Indeed, I have changed my mind about a great many things since arriving in Scotland.”

The carved silver felt cool against his skin at first, then quickly took on a comforting warmth. It was a bit like the young lady before him, he mused. Her quixotic moods seemed to run just as hot and cold regarding himself. At times, he was sure she was, at best, indifferent to his presence, if not outright annoyed at being forced to endure his company. Yet once in while there was some hint of emotion on that lovely face that gave him cause for hope that her feelings were not altogether negative.

A team, she had called them. He suddenly realized he wanted nothing so much as to continue the partnership far beyond the coming few hours of the golf match. What a complete ninny he had been to imagine he desired nothing more than a prim, well-behaved young lady whose thoughts never strayed beyond the borders of propriety!

Good Lord, Tony had been right after all, sensing that as his own odd behavior bucked the rigid rules of the ton, a conventional match would never do. But it had taken a delightfully different sort of female to show him just how flat his life would have been, leg-shackled to someone who could not share his passions or his dreams.

He was tired of disguising his true self. He longed to share with Miss Edwards the full range of his ideas, to hear her opinions, to engage in spirited debate, even to argue. His mouth quirked in a grudging smile. That they would exchange heated words on occasion he did not doubt, as he recalled some of their run-ins on the golf course. She was not one to back down from what she thought was right, even when facing someone twice her size who wielded a wooden club! Rather than finding the notion disturbing, he found himself once again admiring her courage, her grit in challenging the overwhelming odds against her, from her birth to her love of the links, to her desire to excel in a world deemed closed to those of her sex. He understood her struggle, for he didn’t accept Society’s strictures any more than she did. They were, quite simply, oddities in their own worlds.

They were, quite simply, perfect for each other.

The trouble was, Marquand was not certain of how to convince her of such a thing. He stole a glance at her face as they hurried down Argyle Street. She wore so serious an expression that his hands tightened in his pockets. How the devil was he going to win her regard? Perhaps it was a start that she admired Mr. Chitley, but he wished for her to like Adrian Linsley as well!

The wash of the surf on the rocky strand warned that the golf course was just around the corner. With grudging reluctance he forced the conundrum of Miss Derrien Edwards to the back of his mind. Right now he had better start concentrating on winning something rather less ephemeral than a lady’s heart.

The showers had already blown out to sea, and a faint hint of blue sky was showing at the horizon as they drew near the first hole. Lord Hertford had not yet appeared, but Philp and Brewster were standing with their backs to the gusting breeze, along with a small group of spectators that included Ellington and Lord Bowmont, who had arrived in town the night before.

Brewster graced Marquand with a barely perceptible nod. “I see you, for one, are prompt, sir.” He pulled a large steel pocketwatch from his waistcoat, and after a deliberate wait of nearly thirty seconds, he continued with a loud announcement to the small gathering. “It is exactly eight o’clock. The Marquess has exactly five minutes before he will incur a penalty—”

“That won’t be necessary,” came a lazy voice from some distance off. Hertford sauntered over at a leisurely pace, followed by his caddie and several cronies. Handing his walking stick to one of them, he removed his cloak with a theatrical flourish and tossed it over as well. “It seems poor Marquand has trouble keeping a grip on his possessions—word around town is that he has just lost his intended wife to another man,” he remarked to one of his friends in a voice clearly designed to be overheard by all present. “A shame that he is about to lose his ancestral estate as well.”

A slight twitch of his jaw was the only reaction from Marquand.

“Gentlemen, let us not waste time,” interposed Brewster in a trice, seeking to keep things from heating up too quickly. “A sporting wager is to be decided by a round of golf between the Marquess of Hertford and Viscount Marquand,” he went on to inform the spectators. “It will be scored as match play—each hole shall be won by the man shooting the fewest strokes. If the scores are the same, the hole will be deemed a tie. After eighteen holes, he who has won the greater number of holes shall be the winner. If there is a tie at that point, we shall play on until someone emerges victorious on a hole. Any questions as to rules or procedure shall be decided by me. Is that clear?”

Both gentlemen nodded their assent.

“Very well. Who shall hit first?”

A mocking smile spread over Hertford’s lips. “As the nominal host, I cede the honors to Viscount Marquand,” he replied smoothly, taking advantage of the opportunity to put the pressure on the other man right from the start.

Marquand ignored the other man’s sneering tone and gave a nonchalant shrug. “Whatever you wish.”

As Derrien brushed by him in order to construct the mound of sand for his ball, she managed to murmur a bit of advice. “The best way to wipe that smirk off his face, sir, is to smack it right down the middle of the fairway. Forget there is an audience and let it fly as I know you can.”

After a moment’s wait, he stepped up to the new featherie she had set upon the small pyramid. His stomach gave a nervous lurch as he set his feet and waggled his wrists, but then he closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath, determined not to play into the Marquess’s expectation of seeing the ball slice out onto the rocky stand. All was still as the club drew back, swinging up in a wide arc that brought the shaft nearly parallel to the ground. With barely a pause, it began its descent, gathering speed until it was almost a blur as it made contact with the small orb of stitched leather. A low murmur ran through the crowd as the ball lofted high and straight into the air, finally coming to ground a tad shy of one hundred eighty yards from where it had been struck.

“That should give the dastard something to think about.” Derrien reached for the long spoon and clapped it over her shoulder, flashing a big grin in his direction.

The Viscount couldn’t help but grin back, and the twinkle in her eye caused him to add a quick wink.

A team, indeed. Suddenly all the tightness seemed to ebb away, numbing fear replaced by calm confidence. He stepped aside to allow the Marquess to hit, further buoyed by the barest flicker of doubt that passed over the other man’s features.

Hertford’s drive landed not far from his own, on the left fringe of the fairway but well out of trouble. The two caddies exchanged scowls, then hefted their full complement of clubs and started off.

The match had begun in earnest.

The first few holes were a seesaw affair, with Hertford’s experience balanced by Marquand’s raw athleticism and Derrien’s sage advice. Neither man could gain a clear advantage, and they reached the sixth hole tied at two, with two draws.

It was there that the first dispute arose. Marquand’s drive hooked into the light rough, but Hertford, anxious to take advantage of his opponent’s mistake, made a bigger one of his own. Overeager, the Marquess jerked his arms through a fraction too fast, sending his ball much farther left than that of the Viscount’s, right to the edge of a thick tangle of gorse. With a muttered curse, he threw the club to the ground and motioned his caddie to be quick about mounting a search for the errant shot.

“The hole is yours, sir,” said Derrien with some satisfaction as she and Marquand started down the fairway. “I saw where it landed—not even a ferret would manage to find a ball in there, even with considerably more time than the allotted five minutes.”

It was with great surprise, therefore, that several moments later they heard a cry ring out from the other caddie. “Here, my lord, I’ve found it!” He waved to Hertford and pointed to a spot at his feet, several yards to the right of the hazard, where sure enough, the stitched featherie sat, not only free from any entanglement in the bushes but in a perfect lie, atop a short clump of grass.

Derrien said a particular word that would have caused the Viscount to choke with laughter had the situation been different. “If that is the Marquess’s original ball, I shall eat it for supper, along with a side of haggis,” she added with barely contained rage. Her hand went to her hip as she waited for Brewster and the others to draw near. “Sir, I tell you I saw quite clearly where Lord Hertford’s shot landed and it was nowhere near that spot,” she protested.