A Diamond in the Rough

by Andrea Pickens

  A faint tinge of color rose to the Viscount’s cheeks. Ellington took a long draft of his cider. “And what does your intended bride think of this . . . work of yours?”

  “I told you, she isn’t aware of it—yet.”

  His friend’s brow shot up.

  “I shall tell her, of course,” he added defensively. “Not that it will make any difference to our . . . arrangement.” “No, of course not,” murmured Ellington softly. “It should not matter a whit to Miss Dunster or her family that the future Earl of Chittenden is engaged in trade.” The Viscount didn’t answer. Groping in his pocket for a handful of coins, he stood up abruptly and tossed them on the table to pay for their meal. “Come on, we must not be late for our game with Mr. Philp.”

  The master and caddie were waiting at the first hole, Philp tamping a pinch of fragrant tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, while Derrien swung one of the tapered hickory clubs in some impatience, neatly trimming a large tuft of grass down to a mere stubble with several swipes. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of the tall English lord and his friend approaching. He wore the same grim expression she had come to expect, but today, there was also a look of fatigue etched around his eyes. Out gaming all night, she thought, repressing a snort of disgust. Or indulging in one of those other activities that rakes and wastrels did.

  “I hope you do not mind if I play along?” asked Ellington. “I should like to try out the new long spoon I purchased from you.”

  Philp gave a friendly wave of his hand. “You’re more than welcome to join in, sir. Shall I send up to the shop for the rest of your clubs and another caddie?”

  “Nay, no need for that. I’ll make use of the Viscount’s new sticks.” He gave an appreciative glance at the finely tapered heads and neatly corded wrappings. “A lovely set they look to be.”

  “Let’s get on with it,” muttered Derrien under her breath as she readied a club. A sharp look from Philp pricked her conscience, reminding her she was here for a reason other than to antagonize their pupil. “Your club . . . sir,” she said in a louder voice, striving for a less hostile tone.

  Marquand took the proferred long spoon without so much as a look at her and waited for her to finish building the small pile of sand on which his ball was placed. Aware of three pairs of eyes on his back, he took an extra few moments in his setup. His arms finally drew back a bit stiffly, then swung forward at a rapid clip. However the timing was a touch off. The clubface lagged behind his hands, making contact with the ball at an odd angle. The leather-covered sphere sliced low through the breeze, drifted right, then came to rest in the middle of a patch of tall grass, not more than fifty yards from where it had been struck.

  A low oath escaped from between the Viscount’s clenched jaw.

  His friend quickly averted his eyes and appeared to be studying the progress of a gull out over the strand.

  “Throw down another, Lord Marquand,” advised the master.

  He did so and swung again. The results were nearly the same, only this time the ball arced even farther right and did not travel quite as far.

  “I assure you, I have been hitting it better than that of late, Tony,” growled the Viscount, his cheeks taking on a deeper shade of red than the wind might have been expected to raise.

  Derrien stared pointedly at the two wayward shots. With an exaggerated sniff, she handed him a lofted iron. “You’ll need this one to get out of that sort of trouble.” Marquand stalked after her without a word. Once the first ball had been located in the rough, he sought to find some sort of stable footing in the tangled grass. Despite all his efforts, he could gain no more than an awkward stance, which allowed him nothing but an off-balance hack at it. The club cut through the tall stalks with the swish of a scythe.

  The ball didn’t budge.

  He swung again, this time even harder. It popped forward maybe three inches but still remained deeply embedded in the rough.

  Derrien suppressed a grin. “Maybe you should just use your foot, sir.”

  The Viscount looked less than amused at the jibe. His grip tightened around the sueded sheepskin grip and it appeared as though his next swipe might do damage to more than a mere blade of grass.

  Philp gave a discreet cough. “You may count that as the first of your lessons for the day, my lord. All beginners play badly when performing before their first audience. Don’t fret on it. With some practice, you will soon get used to it. It’s important to just relax and forget about the presence of any onlookers. Now pick up your ball and we will move on to the second hole.”

  From the expression on the Viscount’s face, Derrien was fully ready to see him explode in a fit of pique at the blow to his pride. Instead his lips slowly curled in a rueful smile. “I take your meaning, Mr. Philp. I have seen countless green cubs at Manton’s or Jackson’s Boxing Saloon make a fool of themselves by trying too hard. I suppose I must have looked equally as ridiculous. It’s a mistake I’ll try not to repeat.”

  Her brow furrowed slightly at the unexpected response.

  However unlikely, it appeared the starchy English lord could actually laugh at himself. Grudgingly, she found her opinion of him rising just a notch. Perhaps the gentleman was not as totally lacking in sensibility as she had thought.

  The next several holes went more smoothly. With a few additional pointers from Philp, Marquand began managing quite a number of credible shots. By the ninth hole, he even bested his more experienced friend in putting the ball in the hole, drawing an appreciative whistle.

  “A round of ale says you will not beat me on the back nine.” Ellington grinned as they turned to start making their way back toward the town.

  “Done.”

  The two of them began a match of teasing words as well, the bantering growing more lively as the match remained close. From beneath the brim of her floppy tweed cap, Derrien observed the animation of the Viscount’s face, further surprised by the boyish enthusiasm of his grins and the flash of spirit in his gray-green eyes. Relaxed in the company of his friend, he appeared a completely different person from the one who set her hackles up. His wit was engaging, his laughter infectious. He even had the taciturn Philp grinning at some of his more pithy sallies.

  Why, the fellow was proving to be human after all— and a rather interesting one at that. For some reason, she found that to be a most unsettling discovery. It was much easier to despise a block of stone.

  After striking their first drives on the fifteenth hole, the two English lords strolled to where their caddie and the golfing master were standing, one hundred yards up the fairway, behind a thick copse of gorse. “Hell’s teeth, I fear I had one too many glasses of that excellent cider,” muttered Marquand as he stopped and began to unfasten the flap of his breeches.

  “W—what are you doing?” cried Derrien with a sharp squeak.

  The Viscount’s fingers paused on the buttons. “What do you think I am doing, lad? I am taking a leak.” Caught up in the teasing mood that had sprung up between himself and his friend, his lips curled faintly in a mocking smile as he winked at Ellington. “Or are Scotsmen built on a different jig?”

  “Good Lord! Well, aren’t you going to . . . t—turn around?”

  Philp cleared his throat. “Ahhh, he’s a rather innocent lad,” he murmured to the two Englishmen. “Only females at home. Very, er, religious household. Not used to seeing, er, such—well, you know.”

  Marquand’s brow arched up. “Are the Presbyterians so starched up they believe the Almighty has forbidden man to take a piss?” Nonetheless, he turned around to face the bushes.

  Derrien’s face was a vivid shade of scarlet by the time the Viscount had finished. On seeing the caddie’s acute discomfort, Marquand found he could not refrain from the childish urge to pay his caddie back for some of the previous humiliations he had endured from the lad’s sharp tongue. As they began to walk toward their drives, he turned to Ellington with a casual question. “No doubt you are missing the charms of that delectable little opera
dancer you’ve tucked away in Chiswick?”

  Taking the Viscount’s cue without missing a step, his friend grinned. “Ah, the lovely Mademoiselle Antoinette? Indeed I am.” They proceeded to discuss—in graphic detail—just exactly what those charms comprised, pointedly ignoring all of Philp’s strangled coughs.

  Finally, Marquand turned a quizzical eye on his teacher. “Are you Scotsmen so straitlaced as to have no interest—or appreciation—of the opposite sex? His gaze shifted to a furiously blushing Derrien, and with a wicked gleam in his eye, he inquired, “Had any luck yourself, lad?”

  To her intense mortification, the color in her cheeks deepened to match the scarlet stripe in Ellington’s waistcoat.

  “Scottish lasses must be much shyer than the girls in the south,” he went on. “I’m surprised you haven’t managed a tumble in the hay as of yet. You’re a good-looking youth”—he winked again at his friend—“and big enough, wouldn’t you think, Tony? Though we’ll be better able to judge when he’s ready to relieve himself.”

  Ellington gave a peal of laughter as Derrien began to fairly sprint ahead. “Don’t worry, lad,” he called. “Your size may not match his lordship’s yet, but it will increase as you grow to manhood.”

  Marquand’s lips quirked upward. He looked back at the older man. “Bit of a prude, that lad. Why, by his age, both Tony and I had no doubt been near to bedding a willing wench or two.”

  Philp fixed them with a look of stony reproach. “Perhaps you gentlemen wouldn’t mind if we turned our attention back to golf?” he said rather sharply. “You would do well, Lord Marquand, not to waste what little time you have with me in frivolous behavior. If you must indulge in bawdy talk, I should ask you to confine it to the taverns, not the links.”

  All trace of amusement disappeared from Marquand’s face. “Forgive us if we have offended you. We were merely having a bit of friendly sport with the lad, as gentlemen are wont to do. Hell’s teeth, the cocky little urchin has been asking to be taken down a peg or two—” “No! I must have your word that you will leave off any further teasing of my young friend. Derry is . . . more sensitive than most lads, and I’ll not have my best caddie overset for any reason. Otherwise, you may seek out a different teacher.”

  “Very well,” replied the Viscount stiffly. “We shall refrain from any more bantering with the brat, though I must say, he’s a deucedly odd lad to be so missus about the normal way of things between men.”

  Philp cleared his throat. “I daresay some Scots may be a tad different from the English in certain respects. Now, sir, as to the position of your left hand when you set up to drive . . .” With a deft turn of the phrase, the master steered the conversation away from any further hazards.

  The round finished without further incident, and Philp congratulated his pupil on his progress. “Well played, sir. You are at the stage now where practice is more important than further instruction.” He made a show of adjusting the silver spectacles perched on his nose. “For the next little while, I shall leave it up to you and Derry to work together on the course.”

  The Viscount and his caddie exchanged scowls.

  “I trust you will find a way to make some progress.” Philp regarded both of them with a meaningful look.

  “I don’t suppose I have any choice,” growled Marquand.

  “Not if you wish to have any hope of success, my lord.”

  Chapter Six

  Derrien yanked the brush through her tangled curls. Odious man, she repeated yet again. If it weren’t for her friendship with Hugh she would be sorely tempted to abandon the debauched London rake to the hazards of the links and Lord Hertford without a second thought. He certainly deserved as much. Her cheeks nearly colored again on recalling a few of the more spicy details exchanged by the Viscount and his friend. How dare they speak in such a vulgar and unrestrained way in the company of a . . . Her fingers paused in teasing out another snarl and she gave a rueful grimace into the cheval glass. In all fairness, he could not be accused of that, she admitted, just as honesty compelled her to acknowledge that his comments had not been so very different from those she had heard bandied about among the caddies on numerous occasions. Still, there were plenty of other sins to lay at his door.

  Gambling, for one. He wouldn’t be here unless he was a reckless gamester, stupid enough to risk a fortune on the turn of a card. And wenching. His conversation had made it quite plain that he was no stranger to the game of seduction. For a moment, a picture came to mind of piercing gray-green eyes peering out from beneath dark, windblown locks and she imagined that he had no lack of invitations from eager partners. No doubt the thought of those broad shoulders and strong, lithe hands would make any lady more than willing to offer ... The bristles of the brush dug in deeply enough to cause her to wince.

  Whatever was she doing, thinking such ridiculous thoughts—even for an instant!

  Men like Viscount Marquand and the Marquess of Hertford seduced women without a care to the pain and suffering they left in their wake. The reflection in the mirror caught the hardening of Derrien’s expression. Though she felt a simmering anger for the Viscount and his undoubtably rakish ways, her contempt rose to a boil on considering his coming opponent. Forced to make a choice between them, she had to admit that Lord Marquand was the lesser of two evils. She could only imagine his faults, while those of Hertford were all too real.

  For the sake of the unfortunate women who had fallen victim to his practiced charm—or brute strength—as well as her dear friend Hugh Philp, she would do her best to see the dastardly Hertford beaten at this particular game, even if it meant helping . . .

  “Derrien?” Her aunt poked her head into the small bedchamber. “My dear girl! The invitation is for eight and you are not near ready. I shall send Lucy in to you right away. She will be able to make short work of that unruly mop of curls.”

  Derrien glowered at her own reflection. “I would much rather stay home and finish the book I borrowed from Professor McAuley’s library.”

  “That may be so, my dear, but as Baron Twining is anxious to show the visitors from London that the folk of St. Andrews may be as cultured and hospitable as any people to the south, we owe it to our friend to help make a favorable impression on the English guests.”

  Ha! There was little chance of that, she thought in silent retort. However, she decided to keep such things to herself. While her aunt knew of her usual masquerade on the links, she was not yet aware of her niece’s involvement in training the English lord. And though in general she was the most tolerant of guardians, Derrien decided it would perhaps be prudent not to put the issue to a test.

  “For his sake,” continued her aunt, “I know you will do your best to be pleasant to Lord Marquand and Lord Ellington.”

  Derrien ducked her head, feeling slightly guilty to recall the numerous snide remarks she had flung at the

  Viscount over the past little while. “Very well,” she muttered, rooting in her dressing table drawer for a ribbon to match the trim of her gown. Glancing up at her reflection, she made another face. Lucy might well be able to coax her curls into some resemblance of order, but there was little anyone could do about the smattering of freckles across her nose. She couldn’t help envisioning a certain creamy complexion, unmarred by any such unladylike imperfection, and for some reason her mood grew even more prickly.

  As she waited in some impatience for her aunt’s maid to arrive, she withdrew a small notebook and pencil from a drawer and added it to her reticule.

  She had heard that Mr. Gregory had recently received several unusual specimen plantings from the West Indies for his garden, so perhaps the evening would not prove to be a total bore.

  “Well now, finally a moment alone.” Marquand’s steps came to a halt before a wrought-iron bench and his gloved hand shifted beneath Honoria’s fingers. “Would you care to sit down, my dear?”

  “No, thank you. Since Mama was feeling poorly and required me to sit and read to her all afternoon, I thi
nk I should prefer to keep strolling, sir—Adrian, that is.” The last vestiges of the setting sun suffused the garden with a pale wash of gold, and for an instant, the soft play of light and shadow across her profile and the folds of her ivory silk gown made her appear at one with the carved statue standing behind her. “It is a pretty garden, is it not? Only look at this charming Greek faun standing among the bower of dahlias.”

  He forced a weak smile. “It is a Roman satyr and the flowers are common tuber roses.”

  “Oh. How . . . interesting.”

  It was clear that it was no such thing, and the Viscount found his teeth setting on edge. Her air of cool detachment had been one of the qualities that had attracted him to her—she was no voluble schoolroom chit given to wild flights of emotion. But he suddenly found himself wishing she might show a bit more . . . life. He knew that she possessed opinions and the intelligence to express them in an interesting way, for the conversations they had shared as they became acquainted had assured him that she was by no means a vapid idiot. He would never have been able to tolerate that, not even for a lovely face and generous dowry. Yet since his intentions had become clear, it seemed that for some reason she was becoming increasingly rigid and remote in his presence, rather than the opposite. He couldn’t begin to fathom why. Of late, she looked as though the prospect of their upcoming nuptials was about as palatable as a dose of castor oil.

  The thought was rather disturbing.

  She must have sensed the stiffening of his arm. Her head turned slightly. “Is something wrong?”

  “Not at all,” he lied, drawing them a few steps farther along the graveled path. There was an arrangement of rather unusual plants behind a large urn that had caught his eye. “And what of you, Honoria? You seem a trifle preoccupied of late. Is there something on your mind?” “I—I suppose I am still a bit overwhelmed with the honor you do me in asking me to be your future Countess. I shall try to be worthy of the choice.”