A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1)

by Andrea Pickens

  Chapter Nine

  Philp took one look at her face and put his file down. “Tommy, run along to Robertson’s shop and pick up the box of featheries he has ready for me.” As soon as the lad had scampered off, he turned back to Derrien. “What’s wrong, lassie?” he asked in a low voice.

  She took a seat on the corner of his work bench and ran a finger along the hickory shaft he was shaping. “N— nothing—”

  “Don’t try to gammon me, Derry.” A callused finger tilted her chin up so that he was able to peer under the brim of the heavy tweed cap at her reddened eyes.

  A lock of hair fell across her cheek and she reached up to brush it away. “I’m sorry, Hugh. I didn’t mean— it’s just that things have gotten ... so confusing.” “Hmmm.” He took up his pipe and, without a word, slowly tamped down the fragrant tobacco, patiently waiting for her to go on.

  She toyed with a small pile of wood shavings, reducing it to mere dust. “He likes gardens!” she finally blurted out.

  Philp didn’t have to ask whom she meant. “Ah.” The flint struck up a spark. “I should have thought that would not be a mark against him.” A puff of smoke obscured his expression. “Indeed, I would have expected you to like him better for it.”

  “But I don’t want to like him!”

  “Hmmm. Well, I suppose that is perfectly understandable.” He bent down to sight along the length of wood. “But the problem is that you do, don’t you?”

  Derrien jammed her hands into her pockets, suddenly aware of how childish her outburst must have sounded— and how hollow. With the unerring accuracy of one of his golf shots, her friend had hit on the very essence of her dilemma. A slight flush spread across her features and for the second time that day she had the unsettling notion that perhaps her own feelings were not quite as sure as she might have liked.

  “You have only to say the word, you know.” Philp didn’t look up. “If you wish to quit—”

  “I gave you my word, Hugh! I won’t go back on it, no matter what.”

  “No matter what?” He picked up the file and began to smooth out a miniscule bump in the straight grain. “I should think about that very carefully, Derry. Maybe you should go home today and let me take his lordship out for his lesson.” He sighed as he regarded the unfinished club. “I imagine McAllister can wait until the morrow for his new putter.”

  “That isn’t necessary,” she muttered. She got up and went to get the Viscount’s set of clubs.

  Philp pushed the silver spectacles back up to the bridge of his nose. “I take it that it is Miss Derrien Edwards who has been discussing gardens with Lord Marquand.” When she nodded, he took another deep mouthful of smoke and slowly let it out. “Auch, be careful, lassie. Whatever else you think, he is no fool.”

  She tugged at the front of her cap. “Don’t worry, Hugh. I keep myself pretty well hidden, and what with the smudges on my face, he’ll not notice any resemblance.” Her voice dropped considerably in timbre. “And you yourself say I’ve become a dab hand at disguising my voice. So there’s little to fear on that score.” Hefting the clubs to her shoulder, she turned and started for the door.

  “Is there?” he whispered softly, his lined face crinkling in concern as he wondered whether he had made a serious mistake in involving her with the English lord. “ ’Tis a dangerous game you’re playing, lassie.”

  The ball rolled nearly four feet past the hole. With a rather loud expletive, Marquand turned and held out his hand for another one. “And I warn you, brat, keep any snide comments to yourself—I’m in no mood for them this afternoon,” he growled, throwing down the new ball with enough force to put a noticeable indentation in the closely cropped turf.

  She shoved her hands in her pockets and moved to the fringe of the green. His next putt came up at least a yard short. Another curse followed. Without waiting for the order, she tossed another ball at his feet.

  “You might want to consider loosening the tension in your shoulders, sir. And your hands. Try to, well, feel the ball going into the hole,” she murmured as he set up again in his putting stance.

  He shot her a black look. “What I feel is like heaving this damnable club—and all the rest of them—into the Bay.”

  Derrien avoided meeting his eyes. “Aye, golf is a hard game. What Mr. Philp advises is that one must learn to deal with the anger and frustration that inevitably occur over the hours of play. He who can do that best has a leg up on winning. If something is upsetting you, try to put it from your mind. Focus on the task at hand.” She kicked at a loose clod of dirt. “At least, that is what Mr. Philp says. But if you wish we can quit for the day.”

  The Viscount bit back another snarled retort as he realized how badly he was behaving. No matter that his mood matched the gray choppy waters crashing onto the rocky strand, the lad had done nothing to deserve having to endure several hours of his foul humor. He stepped back from the ball for a moment and took a few deep breaths, then once more took up his stance, carefully aligning his feet toward the hole. His whole body did seem more relaxed and his shoulders initiated a motion that swung the club back and then forward with a fluid precision, much like the pendulum of a longcase clock. With equal precision, the ball rolled in a straight line, its momentum dying just as it reached the lip of the hole, and dropped inside.

  Derrien didn’t say a word as she took several more balls from her coat pocket and tossed them on the green.

  With exactly the right combination of speed and aim, Marquand proceeded to sink each of them.

  He stood straight up after the last one and rubbed at his jaw, his face betraying a mixture of emotions. “May Lucifer’s wings be singed,” he muttered, feeling as juvenile as the lad before him. “So that’s how it’s done.” Eyes still averted, she went to retrieve all the stitched featheries. “Do you wish to keep putting, sir, or would you prefer to move on to something else?”

  “Shall we play a few holes?”

  A slight shrug of her shoulders, indicating the choice was up to him, was her only reply. She replaced the flagstick, gathered up the rest of the clubs, and looked to him for an indication of where to proceed.

  “Let us play seventeen and eighteen.”

  With another wordless shrug, she turned and began to walk off toward the left.

  Marquand caught up with her after several strides. He slanted a puzzled look at the top of her tweed cap as they skirted a large clump of gorse and veered around a deep pot bunker. “Oh, go ahead and say it,” he finally growled with a harried sigh.

  Her head twitched though her gaze remained locked on the tops of her boots. “Say what . . . sir?”

  The Viscount gave a rueful grimace. “Whatever cutting set-down you wish to make over my last display of stubborn pique.” When she didn’t answer, his expression turned to one of faint bemusement. “I should hope I’m not too much of an ass not to be able to admit when I’ve acted in a stupid manner. Once again, you’ve proved yourself the wiser of us two, lad. My thanks for the advice.”

  Derrien shifted the clubs on her shoulder and quickened her stride.

  Marquand couldn’t help but wonder at his caddie’s uncharacteristic reticence. “Is something amiss with you today, Master Derry? You are unusually silent—and unusually tactful. I have come to expect a more barbed assessment of my shortcomings rather than such measured restraint.” A low chuckle escaped his lips. “Could it be that you are feeling ill?”

  “There is getting less and less to criticize, sir,” she mumbled. “You are making quite a bit of progress.” They had reached the start of the penultimate hole and she held out his long spoon, then bent down to build a small mound of sand for his ball. “Aim at that patch of tall grass in front of the fence post,” she said quickly, as if anxious to change the subject.

  He glanced at the proposed target, then back at her. “But that is way off the fairway! If I hit it there, it will take me several extra strokes to reach the hole.”

  “Feel the wind—your ball won’t go
there. If you aim straight ahead, you’ll end up in that thicket of gorse and will have to take a penalty for it.”

  His eyes swept over the course. For a moment he looked ready to mutiny, but despite his expression of grave doubt, he put his head down and drove the ball toward the spot she had indicated. It flew up in a high arc, looking at first to be headed straight for the stubbly rough on the right. A gust caught it in midflight and its direction veered sharply, curving down and sideways until it fell to earth in the center of the fairway. A bounce and a hop brought it to a near perfect angle from which to take aim at the fluttering flag.

  Marquand shook his head in amazement. “How the devil can you know exactly where to hit it?”

  Derrien shrugged. “Through experience.” She slanted a look at his furrowed brow. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, sir. It’s not something you can learn in a week or two. It’s the sort of knowledge that can only be gained by playing the course over countless rounds.” They started walking toward his drive. “Don’t worry. As long as you can hit it where I say, you have a decent chance of beating Lord Hertford. Actually, a more than decent chance, as long as you keep putting as you did back there.” There was a brief hesitation before she added, “The stakes must be very . . . high for you to have journeyed here from London.”

  “High?” He gave a harsh laugh. “Aye, you might say that, as the Linsley ancestral home is riding on my ability to put the deuced ball where you tell me to.”

  “Lord, how can anyone be so stupid as to risk such a thing on the turn of a card!” she blurted out. “You . . . you must have been truly jug-bitten.”

  His jaw set. “No, I—” he started to say, somehow caring more than he knew he should what his young companion might think of him. In an instant, however, he caught himself and his words cut off abruptly. “Oh, damnation—never mind. You may possess a modicum of experience out here on the golf links, lad, but you have precious little understanding of the real world. Things are not quite so black and white as you seem to imagine.” “W—what do you mean?”

  Marquand had come up alongside his ball and merely held out his hand for a club. “The middle spoon or the long iron?” he demanded, his tone making clear that he had no intention of answering her question.

  She took a second to gauge the wind and the distance. “Definitely the spoon.”

  “Would that all of life’s choices could be made with such surety, brat,” he muttered. “Mayhap one day you will have some idea of what I mean.”

  Choices, choices, he thought to himself later that evening. They were still bedeviling him. Should he add a low stone wall on either side of the graveled path in order to accentuate the perspective, or use a more natural bed of perennials to soften the straight line? His pencil hovered over the sketch of the classical summer house as he sought another sheet of paper.

  “Still at work? It’s nearly midnight.” Ellington placed a glass of brandy on the edge of the desk, then took a long sip from the one that remained in his hand.

  Marquand looked up and rubbed at his temples. “Is it?” He leaned back in his chair and took up the spirits with a nod of thanks. “Well, there’s little choice on it, Tony. I really must have these preliminary ideas finished by the time we return to Town.”

  Ellington regarded the dark circles under his friend’s eyes. “Can’t your assistant take care of some of the work?”

  “The fellow is fine when it comes to overseeing one of my designs, but as to any real creativity, well . . .” His words trailed off. “No, I’m afraid I have no one to look to but myself.”

  “Have a care, Adrian. It is a Herculean task you are setting for yourself.”

  He smiled grimly. “Not at all. I am only attempting two impossible tasks. I would have to accomplish five more in order to match the heroics of that mythical figure.” His hand threaded through his dark locks. “Besides, I have no choice, Tony. I simply cannot afford to lose either Woolsey Hall or my business.”

  Ellington stirred up some flames in the banked fire, then took a seat in the oversized chair by the hearth. “How goes the golf?”

  “I believe I am making some progress.” The Viscount’s lips twitched upward. “No less formidable a critic than my young caddie has informed me that my skills have improved enough that there is a ghost of a chance of victory—if I can manage to do as he says.”

  “Well, I hope for your sake that he is right.” Ellington drained his glass while surreptitiously regarding the fine lines of strain etched on his friend’s tired face. “At least tomorrow you shall be forced to take a break from both your concerns. Don’t forget we are promised to be part of a picnic to view the old abbey near Anstruther. Perhaps a pleasant day spent in the company of the lovely Miss Dunster will help smooth the worry from your brow.”

  It was odd, thought Marquand, but the picture that came to mind was of a pair of flashing blue eyes and a pert, freckled nose rather than the pale visage of his intended. He made some noncommittal sound in his throat in answer to the other man before polishing off the rest of his brandy in one gulp. Somehow he doubted that any outing which included the feisty Miss Edwards was going to be very helpful in improving his state of mind, especially after this morning.

  So why did he find himself looking forward to it?

  His eyes fell on the slim volume of essays he had already dug out of his trunk of books. Along with a sharp tongue and prickly personality, she possessed an admirable intellect, all the more so because of the censure and ridicule she must have faced in developing it. He knew all too well what it was like to persevere in the teeth of adversity, so despite her opinion of him he meant to see she received the promised writings. He knew she would respond to the ideas with the passion and intensity that they deserved.

  He wondered what else might stir such feelings in her. Would her eyes flare with heat if his lips pressed down upon—

  “. . . indulge in such dreaming?”

  His head jerked up in some embarrassment and a hot flush rose to his cheeks. “Er, what was that?”

  “I said, how long are you going to stay up trying to dream up some new design for a Greek Temple or whatever else you are envisioning for the Duke’s gardens?” Ellington eyed the sheepish expression and schoolgirl blush for a moment then his brows stole up. “If I were you, I should get some sleep, Adrian. You are acting deucedly strange.”

  “I shall be along shortly,” he mumbled.

  Strange? That didn’t begin to explain the half of what he was feeling.

  Derrien tugged at the ribbons of her bonnet, thinking not for the first time how much she preferred men’s clothing to the constraining garb required of females.

  “That’s a most attractive color on you, my dear,” said Mrs. Kildare, smiling at her from the facing seat of the Baronet’s carriage. “It brings out the blue of your eyes, does it not, Mr. Ferguson?”

  The young professor regarded her scowling face with a show of great deliberation. “Indeed.” He gave a sly wink that only she could see. “Though right now I believe I see a hint of some other, warmer hue in them.” She restrained the urge to stick her tongue out at him.

  The older lady fell back into conversation with the portly gentleman at her other elbow, a fellow colleague of her husband’s in the Classics, giving Ferguson a chance to pursue a more private talk with Derrien. “What has put the proverbial bee in that lovely bonnet?” he inquired with a smile.

  “Oh, do give off, Charlie,” she muttered. She squirmed yet again against the squabs. “Whoever invented these horrid things must have a great dislike of females. As if we don’t wish to see what’s around us! Why, I can hardly look out the window without forever bumping the cursed brim against the glass.”

  He chuckled. “Nevertheless, you look enchanting.” “Ha!” She brushed impatiently at an errant ringlet on her cheek. “More likely I look ready to bite someone’s head off at being forced by my aunt to be a part of this little excursion.”

  “Not mine, I hope!” He gave a mo
ck sigh. “Alas, I should have thought the prospect of my scintillating wit and charming company would have sparked a greater enthusiasm in your breast.”

  She grinned in spite of her sour mood. Over the past several years, the two of them had become good friends through their mutual acquaintances at the University. He was one of the few men who actually seemed interested in the opinion of a mere female, encouraging her to speak her mind. As it happened, they agreed on more than a few things, and those on which they differed gave rise to any number of lively discussions. A closeness had developed between them, but one akin to the camaraderie of siblings rather than one of any romantic overtones. Each had seemed comfortable with that, and indeed, Derrien thought of him more in the light of an older brother than anything else.

  “If it were just you and the rest of our friends, I should find it a most pleasant diversion,” she replied to his light teasing. “But the presence of the visitors from London ...” Her voice trailed off as she attempted to turn her eyes to the passing countryside. However a corner of the chipped straw caught on the gathered curtain, drawing some further expression, whispered under her breath.

  Ferguson stifled a laugh. “Derry, my dear, have a care or our English guests will think that we are the wild heathens they have been taught to expect.”

  “I don’t give a fig what they think,” she muttered.

  An odd look flashed over his face, then his brow rose in mild surprise. “Have you truly taken such a dislike to them?”

  The brim of her bonnet hid her face. “Surely you have to admit there is precious little to like—Miss Dunster appears as cold and haughty as she is beautiful, while Lord Marquand ... is said to be a drunken gamester.” Her voice took on a brittle edge. “But what else would you expect from titled English aristocrats? No doubt they will spend the afternoon peering down their noses at us country bumpkins. Given my druthers, the outing is one I would avoid like the plague, if not for Aunt Claire.”