A Diamond in the Rough

by Andrea Pickens

  He shifted slightly and his hands began roaming toward the inside of her legs. She gave a soft moan and through a haze of desire he realized that had she been wearing skirts they might well have been tossed up around her glorious thighs by now. Perhaps it was just as well that breeches on a woman were beyond his experience, for he was not quite sure that he could bank the flames of passion that her touch, her kisses, her very scent had ignited.

  It was the damp chill of the rain-soaked ground that finally brought them both back to earth.

  With a sudden squeak of embarrassment, Derrien slithered out from between his knees and scrambled none too steadily to her feet. Marquand rose as well, his own legs betraying a slight wobble. For several moments they stared at each other in awkward silence. It was Derrien who wrenched her eyes away first, and then kicked at the shaft of the long spoon that had fallen close by her feet.

  “Damnation!”

  Though the tension between them was nearly as thick as the low bank of fog rolling in from Eden Estuary, Marquand couldn’t help but give a twitch of a smile. It was so utterly like her, to react in a way no female of his previous of acquaintance would ever dream of. A month ago he would have been shocked beyond words, he admitted. But now, he found himself wondering why all the perfectly behaved misses from the sparkling ballrooms seemed rather flat and faceless in comparison.

  “You know, Miss Edwards, only men are supposed to swear like that, not proper young ladies.”

  “Well as you can clearly see, I am hardly a proper young lady,” she replied rather acidly, slapping at a cluster of curls that had fallen over her cheek.

  “The sporting of breeches and boots might raise a few eyebrows, I admit,” he said in a low voice. “But let me assure you that other than that, every bit of you is most definitely a real lady.”

  Her face turned a dull scarlet as she bit at her lower lip, still swollen with the passion of his kisses. “Th—this wasn’t supposed to happen,” she whispered, struggling to hold back tears.

  “But it did.” He raked a hand through his own disheveled locks, hoping the gesture would help restrain the urge to pull her close to his chest once more and soothe the confusion from her pale face. “Lord, it is as if your Scottish witches of yore are making sport of us mere mortals, what with all the misunderstandings and masquerades that have been going on,” he muttered. “The problem is, this little charade certainly changes—” “No!” She forced her eyes back to meet his. For a moment he was awash in the tempest of emotions swirling in their blue depths. “Please, you must not tell! Why, it would ruin everything!”

  “Miss Edwards, by all rights, I should be furious at your deception.”

  “Why?”

  He hesitated and felt himself sinking, as if caught in the shifting sands of the deepest pot bunker. “Well, er—”

  “Hugh asked me to do this because I’m the best caddie here.” She bent to pick up her cap. “What does it matter that I’m not a male? Has my advice or guidance been any less valuable?”

  It was the Viscount who was forced to contemplate the tips of his boots.

  As if sensing that things were turning to her advantage, she pressed on. “Besides, you are hardly in a position to criticize me for disguising my true identity in order to engage in something I’m good at.”

  “Miss Edwards, that’s playing dirty, to use my—”

  She played her trump card. “Look, you want to win, don’t you?”

  He drew in a deep breath. “So you are suggesting we continue as if . . . none of this has happened?”

  “As you said yourself, it’s only for another day, then we can both forget about the entire thing. I’ve already agreed with Hugh that it is time for Master Derry to disappear from St. Andrews.”

  Marquand tried to fathom her expression, but once again her features were submerged in shadows due to the replacement of the damn cap. Would she really find it so easy to forget their time together? His jaw tightened as he shifted his gaze from the subtle contours of her face to the myriad nuances of the linksland, with its rolling fairways, sandy bunkers, tall grasses, and hearty gorse. Here they had traded taunts, shared laughter, endured frustration, made mistakes, and sweated through hard work in order to celebrate some small measure of progress. At times it hadn’t been easy, but they had somehow managed to see it through together. He knew it would be no simple matter for him to simply excise these few weeks from his mind, as one would tear an unsatisfactory page out of a sketchbook, crumple it up, and toss it away.

  But perhaps she did not care for the broad strokes and delicate shadings of their relationship. After all, he knew quite well what her sentiments were regarding titled English lords.

  What he wished he knew more clearly were her sentiments regarding him.

  “And anyway,” she continued in a halting voice, “I... ' I imagine that what just happened was only due to the fact that you are overset over . . . Miss Dunster.”

  “You think I kissed you because I was thinking of Miss Dunster?”

  Derrien swallowed hard. “W—why else? She is a perfect picture of a fine, highborn lady—beautiful, poised, and n—not a hair out of place.” Her fingers fumbled to tuck another errant ringlet up under the wool brim. “While I am an outspoken country ... brat in breeches.” Once again it took all of the Viscount’s considerable self-discipline not to sweep her up into his arms and continue where he had left off until she could make no mistake about whom he was thinking. Instead, he took several steps closer so that he could reach out and cup her chin. “Miss Honoria Dunster may be beautiful, poised, and perfectly groomed, but she cannot swing a long spoon, loft an errant shot out of the briars, or knock the ball to within a foot of the flag on the eighteenth hole. Pick up the clubs, brat. We have work to do.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was barely past dawn, and yet Derrien had already let herself into Philp’s shop. By the dim light of a single oil lamp, she inspected each of the Viscount’s clubs for any minute flaw which might affect play. Once assured that none of the grips were loose or cordings frayed, she ran a cloth dampened with a mixture of linseed oil and pine spirits over the hickory shafts and shaped hawthorn heads to remove any residue of salt or dried mud.

  Having passed the scrutiny of both master and caddie, a dozen new featherie balls lay on the adjoining workbench, waiting to be pocketed for play. She tucked them in her jacket, along with a pouch of sand, then looked around. There was really nothing else that needed to be done, but to keep busy she began to polish the forged heads of the irons, even though there was not; a trace of dirt to be seen on them. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she worked. It was not difficult to find something to occupy her fingers, but it was not nearly so easy to keep her mind engaged on any of the mundane tasks she tried to appoint for it.

  Her thoughts kept straying to things she knew were best forgotten, like the feel of Marquand’s lips on hers, a warm gentleness underlying the searing passion, or the intoxicating scent of him, a subtle mixture of woodsy spice with ovemotes of bay rum and leather which even now, in mere memory, were doing strange things to her breathing. Her fingers tightened on the cold iron. After today, all she would have of the Viscount were memories. She would have to picture in her mine’s eye the way the salty gusts ruffled his hair against the upturned collar of his shirt, the way damp linen clung to the corded muscles of his back.

  No, that was not entirely true, she realized. There was one tangible remainder of his brief presence in her life in the carefully folded sheet of drawing paper that lay tucked away inside her sketchbook. The thought of it was nearly her undoing, and it took all of her self-control to keep from sobbing aloud. It was something she would always treasure. Those deft lines and shadings, so simple yet so eloquent, showed more than just a masterful talent for mixing color, texture, and shape. They revealed the toplofty English Viscount to be, in reality, a true artist, passionate and sensitive as well as boldly original in his thinking.

  They also drew a pictu
re of someone who was kind and generous. That he had taken the time to study her paltry efforts and offer such meaningful suggestions showed him to be far different from the cold, selfish aristocrat she had expected, just as his surprising personal revelations had shown him to be far more vulnerable than she had ever imagined. He was just the sort of man she had secretly given up hope of ever meeting—one whose intellect and imagination were matched by his compassion and his sensitivity. One for whom she could feel nothing but utmost respect and regard.

  The club dropped into her lap. Who was she trying to fool? What she felt for Marquand was something much more than respect or regard. Her lip curled into a mocking grimace. Lord, she had really made a mull of things, for despite all her resolve to the contrary, she had fallen in love with an English lord. She supposed she deserved the dull ache that now settled in her breast for thinking, with all the hubris of youth, that she was immune to the intricacies of the human heart.

  A sound nearby caused her head to come up. Philp took a seat at his workbench and slowly unfolded a heavy linen napkin on its scarred pine top. “You had best eat something, lassie. You are going to need your strength.” He held out a hot scone, refraining from any comment on the faint trace of a tear or two on her pale cheek.

  “Thank you, Hugh.” Derrien managed a bite of the rich, raisin-studded pastry and found to her surprise that she was indeed hungry. The rest of it disappeared rather quickly.

  A small smile played on his lips. “That’s a good sign, you know, that you aren’t so nervous as to have lost all appetite.” He broke off a bit for himself. “So, have you confidence that you and your man have a chance?”

  A part of the scone was reduced to crumbs between her fingers. “What Lord Marquand lacks in experience he makes up for in determination, Hugh. And this match is of the utmost importance to him. So, yes, I think we can win. We shall no doubt need a little luck as well as skill, but it can be done.”

  “I think his lordship is not the only one with pluck,” murmured Philp. “Now best put on that cap of yours before he arrives—”

  “He knows, Hugh.”

  “What?” Philp nearly choked on his last bite. “How?” “He . . . guessed.” She hoped her cheeks were not as flaming as they felt. “I think he said it had something to do with m—my lips. But it doesn’t matter. I convinced him he had no choice but to keep me as his caddie for today.” She essayed a note of humor. “At least Master Derry shall take his leave of St. Andrews with a grand flourish—and hopefully with a much plumper pocket.” The master carefully folded the napkin so as to keep the remaining scones warm. “Derry, I hope that—”

  His words were interrupted by the arrival of the Viscount. He shook a few drops of rain from his jacket as he stepped inside and latched the door. “Good morning,” he called, rubbing his hands together to ward off the early morning chill. “A bit of a squall has blown in, but it looks to be clearing off shortly.” As he approached the workbench, he paused to sniff the air. “That smells delicious, Miss Edwards, I hope that you are going to share some of your treats with me ...” A tinge of color rose to his cheeks as he realized how his easy banter might be interpreted. “Ahhh, that is, what I mean is—” Philp saved him from further embarrassment. “I should hope you’ve taken more than a bit of scone for your breakfast, sir. It’s going to be a long day.”

  “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 whi
sper. “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.