A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1)

by Andrea Pickens

  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.

  Brewster’s slight frown indicated he was thinking much the same thing. He hurried over to the ball and bent down to check the marking.

  “Ah ‘H’ with a dot below the crossbar—that’s our mark,” said Hertford’s caddie, shooting a sly smirk in Derrien’s direction. “You may see for
yourself, sir.”

  The judge straightened after a moment. “Yes, it appears it is,” he said grudgingly. His eyes narrowed with the suspicion that he had just been played for a fool, but since no one had witnessed any transgression, he was forced to allow the fortuitous discovery to stand. “In the future, both lads will wait for the rest of us to help with any search.”

  The caddie bobbed his head in mock contrition. “Yes, sir.”

  Marquand brushed a bit of sand from the sleeve of his jacket. “How extraordinarily lucky, Hertford,” he remarked dryly as the Marquess made his way toward the spot. “But then again, luck seems to have a way of appearing around you at the most opportune times.”

  Several voices in the small crowd sounded in muted agreement with the not-so subtle implications of the taunt. Hertford’s face darkened but he made no reply. His next shot landed close to the green, and as Marquand also recovered from his spot of trouble, the hole ended in a draw.

  “Luck my arse,” muttered Derrien when play was finished, this time drawing a strangled cough from the Viscount. It took a considerable amount of self-control not to let his thoughts—and eyes—shift to that interesting spot of her anatomy rather than remain focused on the task at hand. “It is no coincidence that Jimmy wears long trousers rather than breeches,” she added.

  “Ah, is that how he did it?”

  “Aye, I should have kept a closer watch, knowing what a weasel he is, but from now on, he’ll get away with no other tricks.” Her jaw set. “You’ve lost a hole because I didn’t do my duty well enough.”

  Marquand wished he could hug her to his chest and tell her, in both words and action, how much her plucky loyalty meant to him, but all he dared was a quick pat on the shoulder. “Don’t fret on it, Derry,” he said rather gruffly. “I have seen that look in a man’s eye on enough occasions, both in the ring at Jackson’s and facing the targets at Manton’s, to know what it means.” His lip curled upward. “Trust me, Hertford is beginning to get a little nervous.”

  The match moved on to the seventh hole, where the Marquess edged ahead by sinking a long, snaking putt of over twelve feet. Marquand squared it on the next with a wonderful chip to within a foot of the hole, allowing him an easy tap in for par while his opponent needed an extra stroke to finish up. No blood was drawn on the ninth, and both the players and the spectators sensed the tension mount as the turn was made for home.

  “Your friend is giving a good account of himself,” murmured Lord Bowmount as both Marquand and Hertford paused for some refreshment at a wooden crate set out with several earthenware jugs.

  “Aye,” replied Ellington, noting with some interest that the Viscount sipped water while the Marquess took a long swig of ale. “But I don’t trust Hertford by half, Jamie. He has already cheated Adrian out of one hole and no doubt he has more tricks up his sleeve—or trouser leg.”

  “We will have to hope that his caddie is a sharp lad, then, for—”

  “You need not worry about Derry.” Philp took a moment to fill the bowl of his pipe and strike a flint. “You asked me to give Lord Marquand my best, and so I have.” He sucked in a mouthful of the fragrant smoke and let it out slowly. “Between the two of them, I have every confidence they’ll sort out the wheat from the chaff.” With that enigmatic statement, he moved off to answer a query on strategy from one of the other spectators.

  Neither gentleman had much time to dwell on the master’s meaning, for Brewster called in a loud voice for play to begin on the inward nine.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It soon became evident that the Viscount’s observation had more than a grain of truth to it. Beneath the cocky sneers and smug grins for the benefit of his cronies, Hertford’s face began to take on a certain tautness around the mouth, and his step lost a bit of its swagger. The clever comments began to die away, replaced by a fierce silence between shots. And when he stepped up to his ball, there was none of the earlier casual nonchalance in his posture. On more than one occasion, when faced with a tricky shot, his knuckles went nearly white from gripping the club with such force.

  Marquand repressed a smile. So the pressure, more acute for its unexpectedness, was getting to the man. That was good. Very good. It was clear his opponent had expected this to be no more taxing than a stroll in the park, but what he had thought was firm ground had quickly turned into a quagmire beneath his feet. A bar of Beethoven’s Ninth nearly escaped from the Viscount’s lips. If he could keep up his level of play, he was sure the Marquess would soon be sunk.

  Derrien seemed to sense his thoughts. “Just stay relaxed, sir,” she counseled, dropping back to walk by his side on the way to the next hole. “And don’t think overly on the score, or the next holes. You have only to play steady and avoid any mistakes.”

  She ventured a look up at him and flashed a tentative smile, but it was the expression in her eyes that was worth untold words of encouragement. He could see she truly understood that this wager was about so much more than mere assets changing hands between two gamesters.

  How he was fighting to save not merely a fortune but

  something that resonated so much deeper in his soul— the chance to fulfill a lifetime dream.

  Then in a rush, it came to him that he no longer

  wanted Woolsey Hall just for himself anymore. He had been blindly, idiotically wrong to have thought that his life had room for only one passion. Just as he had been a fool to think the power of such emotion was in any way diminished by its being shared. In truth, divided it only grew stronger.

  His breath caught in his throat as he realized it was love he was thinking about.

  He had carefully drafted plans for his future with all his usual attention to detail, determined to leave nothing to luck or chance, and love had made a mockery of such hubris. He had drawn a perfect model of his intended countess, but all the straight lines and precise angles had been knocked askew by a brat in breeches, with unruly golden curls and an exuberant smattering of freckles across her cheeks.

  Luck? Why, right now he counted himself the luckiest man in the world—

  “Sir . . . Sir!”

  His head jerked up.

  “I said, remember there is that large bunker, the Principal’s Nose, hidden by the swale on the right,” she said in a low whisper. “Make sure to aim well to the left.” Her words trailed off as she fixed him with an odd look. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Er, yes. Couldn’t be better, actually.”

  Her brows tweaked up in some skepticism, but she forbore making her usual tart rejoinder and simply reminded him once again to keep his mind on the next shot, nothing more.

  Hah! Easier said than done. But as he stepped up to hit his drive, a strange sort of calm came over him. The stitched featherie looked as big as a cricket ball, and before he drew the club back, he knew for certain that the shot would fly true. All at once he knew that he was going to win, not because of his superior skill but because he was feeling, well, inordinately lucky.

  After all, the ace of diamonds had already turned up in his hands.

  Both drives had been well struck, as had the second shots. The two balls lay close to each other, well within range of the fluttering flag. Marquand was determined to be a tad farther from the hole, so he stepped up to hit first. His club swept back with perfect timing, but just as it started down, a sharp jangle broke the silence. The Viscount flinched slightly, not much, but enough to pull the clubface off-line. The ball popped up weakly, dribbling barely past the fringe of the green.

  ‘Terribly sorry,” smirked Hertford. “Don’t know how I was so clumsy as to drop my coin purse.”

  A low buzz of protest rumbled through the small crowd. Brewster scowled as well, but there was nothing he could do about the bit of gamesmanship other than to issue a pointed warning. “May I remind both of you gentlemen that golf is a game based on honor and sportsmanship. It is meant to be played within the spirit as well as the letter of the rules.”

  The Marquess bo
wed his head, more to hide a nasty grin than from any true contrition. His shot landed within easy range of the hole. If he were to make what looked to be an easy putt, he would go up by one with only two holes left to play.

  Marquand marched up to his ball and took his time in studying the slope of the ground and the grain of the grass, knowing that his only chance for a tie was to make what looked to be an impossible putt.

  “A moment, sir, while I go pull the flag for you.” Derrien started out in a straight line, then suddenly swerved to the left, so as to approach the hole in a roundabout fashion. The change in direction caused her steps to cross directly in the line between Hertford’s ball and the hole. A slight trip caused her heel to dig deeply into the soft turf.

  A howl of protest escaped from the Marquess as he realized what she had done. “Look,” he cried, pointing to the visible gouge. “The damn brat has ruined my shot! I demand to move my ball.”

  “Just one moment, my lord,” said Brewster firmly as Hertford’s caddie made to bend down. “It is an unfortunate accident, sir, but you know quite well that the rules do not allow you to take relief from such a thing. You will have to play it as it lies.” Then, trying mightily to wipe the look of suppressed amusement off his features, he turned to Derrien and waggled a stem finger under her nose. “As for you, lad, you should know better than to tread in the line of a putt. See that it doesn’t happen again.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When the titter of the spectators had died away, Marquand took his putt, rolling the ball close enough that he had no trouble finishing out in two. Grabbing up his own putter with a muttered oath, the Marquess stepped up for his attempt to take the lead in the match. The alignment was dead-on, the speed was perfect and the ball started off straight toward the center of the hole. Then, as it hit the heel mark, it gave a little jig to the left and Hertford could only stare in white-faced fury as it missed the lip by a scant two inches.