A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1) (8 page)

A muscle of his jaw twitched ever so slightly. Surely his engagement had been fashioned with a steady hand? Miss Dunster was the perfect material for a wife—cool and lovely as the finest marble, and just as unlikely as that substance to display any sudden shifts from her proper place. Yet Ellington’s gentle criticisms had given him pause to think.

He, of all people, knew the difference between a work where all the angles were correct, resulting in a perfect hard-edged beauty that all might admire, and a creation that stirred a more . . . passionate response. One was craft, the other art. Would he truly be satisfied with mere correctness in his personal life, something which he would never settle for in his professional affairs? He couldn’t help but recall his reaction to kissing his intended. Even then, he hadn’t been able to repress a vague notion that despite all his meticulous planning, some crucial element had been left out that would doom his marriage to being no more than mediocre.

The thought was chilling.

His eyes strayed to the decanter on the sideboard, and for the first time he could remember, he felt a twinge of understanding for those whose inner demons drove them to drown self-doubt in a deluge of drink. He felt a rather strong temptation himself to drain the entire contents, but a glance at the clock on the mantel reminded him that tomorrow promised to be as long—and no doubt as trying—as the past afternoon. Honor bound him to give his best effort in meeting any challenge. And as he was not quite ready to hoist the white flag over his ramparts, he put aside his glass and rose with some stiffness, then took himself off to his desk. He still had a great deal to do before he could allow himself the luxury of some sleep.

“You must remember to shift your weight to your right foot when you take the club back, sir, and then fire through, as if you were throwing a rock toward that patch of gorse.” Philp took the club from Marquand’s hands and dropped a ball from his pocket onto the grass. The hickory shaft came back and then forward in one fluid motion, sending the small leather orb in a soaring arc through the light fog. “Like that.” He dropped another ball at the Viscount’s feet. “Try again.”

Jaw clenched, Marquand took up his stance.

“Lord, try not to grip the club as if you were going to smash someone over the head with it,” came a low snicker from behind his back.

Marquand restrained the urge to do exactly that to the speaker.

“Ahem!” The caution from Philp was clear.

“But he doesn’t seem to be attending to anything you tell him,” protested Derrien, shifting the group of clubs from one arm to another.

The older man fixed her with a stem look. “That’s hardly fair la—lad. You know very well golf is not something that is learned in a day. His lordship is progressing quite nicely.”

She ducked her head in mute contrition. He was right, of course, she allowed to herself, but it was irritating in the extreme to watch the stiff-rumped English lord approach the ball as if it were something he could hammer into submission—no doubt that was what he was used to! Still, she must remember that much as she disliked him, his upcoming opponent was an infinitely worse sort. Her attempts at advice should, as Philp had just hinted, be couched in a more positive manner. After all, she had promised her mentor that she would do her best to help.

Philp had turned back to the Viscount. “Now, sir, go ahead.”

Marquand set his feet once again, then drew the long shaft back in the sweeping motion he had been taught, goaded by Derrien’s caustic reminder to keep his hands well relaxed. The club paused for a fraction at the top of the swing, then started down, gathering speed as it descended toward the ball. The head of the long spoon made clean contact, and with a sweet thwock, the feath-erie flew up into the damp morning air, landing in the middle of the fairway not far from Philp’s drive.

“Well struck, sir!” exclaimed his teacher.

“Good shot,” allowed Derrien, though she couldn’t help but add under her breath, “It’s about time you got the hang of it.”

A slow smile lit up Marquand’s face. “So that’s how it’s done,” he murmured to himself, unable to mask the note of elation in his voice. “Lord, it seemed so effortless. I hardly felt any impact at all, and look at how far a distance the ball traveled.”

Derrien had to admit with a grudging sniff that when the Viscount unbent enough to show aught but a look of icy hauteur upon his rigid features, he could appear almost attractive. That is, if one favored tall, broad-shouldered gentlemen of title with no apparent skills other than the ability to shuffle a deck of cards or knot an intricate cravat. Which, of course, she most certainly did not.

Philp also chose to indulge in an uncharacteristic show of emotion, going so far as to clap Marquand on the shoulder. “We’ll make a golfer of you yet, my lord.” The Viscount’s smile broadened, revealing a boyish enthusiasm Derrien wouldn’t have guessed possible. He further surprised her by breaking into a most unlordly trot in his haste to reach his ball. “The middle spoon,” he called, waving at her with undisguised impatience. “Stop dawdling, lad.” He nearly snatched the club out from under her arm as she approached. “What say you, seventy yards to the flag?”

Derrien squinted to make out the flutter of bright cloth through the mist. “Nay, the distance is deceiving in this weather. It’s more like eighty.” She stood quite still for a moment, gauging the feel of the swirling breeze. “And another ten for the wind.” Her hand reached out and pulled the middle spoon from his grasp. “You’ll need the heavier club.”

“The devil I will.” Marquand ignored the proffered handle. “Give me the middle spoon.”

She clamped the club in question even more firmly under her arm. “You’ll hit what I tell you to hit.” There was a deliberate pause before she added, “sir.” Even a half-wit could not have mistaken the sneer in her tone.

Philp hastily interposed himself between the two of them to ensure that the next swing of a club was not directed at Derrien’s head. “What’s the trouble here?” Marquand pointed a long elegant finger at his scowling caddie. “This impudent little wretch won’t give me the deuced club I asked for.”

“Of course I won’t, Mr. Philp, because it isn’t the right shot to attempt.” Her chin jutted out with a defiant tilt.

“You said I was to try and teach him something about the game, but if he insists on being a total gudgeon . . Her words trailed off, but not without a decided snort of contempt.

“Hmmmm.” The older man looked from lord to lad, then slowly removed the pipe from his pocket and took his time in tamping down the fragrant tobacco. Several puffs of smoke curled up into the gusting breeze before he spoke. “How far do you hit a middle spoon, my lord?”

“You just saw. It was eighty yards at least.”

“Aye, and a bonny shot it was. The best you’ve struck so far.” He paused for a fraction. “How often could you do it again, sir? Nine times in ten? Seven in ten? Or perhaps only two in ten?”

Marquand’s lips compressed, and much to his chagrin he felt a tinge of color creeping to his cheeks.

“Now, do you know what lies in front of the green? Or behind it?”

“Of course he doesn’t,” interrupted Derrien. “He didn’t know enough to ask.” She turned a look of withering scorn on the Viscount. “There is a sharp gully cutting in front of the hole, while behind it, the ground rolls off in a gentle incline. If you hit your ball short, it will take several strokes to recover, while there is little penalty for hitting it long. It’s quite simple, really. One way you give yourself a chance to win the hole, while the other—”

“Thank you, Derry. I believe you’ve made the point sufficiently clear.” Philp slowly let out another ring of smoke and watched it drift toward the waves breaking upon the strand. “Golf is a mental game as well as a physical one, Lord Marquand. Especially match play. Think of it this way—you will soon be going into battle against a tough opponent. You would do well to consider yourself a Wellington of sorts. You must weigh risk, understand your own capabilities—and those of your foe— in order to devise a strategy that will give you the best chance of success.”

A muscle twitched in the Viscount’s jaw. He was sorely tempted to use Philp’s advice to justify an immediate retreat to his residence, and then back to London. If he could be outwitted and outmaneuvered by a mere schoolboy, surely he had no chance up against a canny veteran like Hertford. He drew in a long breath, feeling the master’s appraising eyes on him. But it was the veiled look of triumph in the caddie’s eyes that decided his course of action. Why, it was just what the imp expected of him, to explode in a fit of pointless pique or quit the field in a huff.

He reached out his hand. “The scraper, if you please.” Derrien gave it over without a word.

Marquand took his stance over the ball, taking care to set his feet at the proper distance. He gave the club a waggle or two, then let go with a prodigious swing, powerful, yet controlled. The ball shot off, as if fired from a cannon, and ripped through the fog to land a scant five yards past the flag. Without so much as a look at Derrien’s face, he flipped the club in her direction, then stalked off toward the green.

“Well, well. So his lordship has some competitive fire beneath that icy exterior.” TTie fine lines around Philp’s eyes crinkled in humor as he gave a low chuckle. “Derry, my dear, I think our man might just have a chance.”

“How did the lesson go today?”

Marquand tossed his jacket over the arm of the sofa and sat down with a sigh. “Philp seems to think I am making some progress. And it does appear that the ball is beginning to go in the vague direction that I am aiming.” His lips pursed. “Though it is still up in the air as to whether I shall be able to refrain from throttling that irritating little caddie before the match with Hertford.” After a moment’s reflection, he gave a rueful grimace. “However, I suppose I had better keep my hands wrapped around the club, for despite his egregious manners, the damn brat does seem to know a good deal about the game.”

Ellington laughed. “Well, you did imply at one time that you thought the game would be child’s play.” He tossed a thick vellum card onto the Viscount’s lap on his way to pour himself a glass of Madeira. “Do not forget, we are invited to an evening musicale at Sir Twining’s residence tonight. It is to be our introduction to local Society, so I’ll not hear of you trying to cry off,” he added, on seeing the look of incipient mutiny that crossed the Viscount’s features. “Jamie has gone to a good deal of trouble to arrange our welcome here, and it would be most rag-mannered of us to ignore such efforts.” He took a sip from his glass. “Did you not notice 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.”

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 backside full of buckshot. His friend was right. It would be unforgivably rude to spurn this generous show of hospitality by the local gentry, but as his gaze swept over the assembled guests, he found both his manners and his patience close to deserting him. Spotting several large botanical prints that promised to be of more interest than any of the people present, he made his way over to the quiet nook where they hung. Though the plants were a rather obscure native variety with which he was unfamiliar, and the quality of the line and colors unusually fine, they failed to lift his spirits for more than a brief moment before his mind strayed back to what had him in such an unsettled mood.