A Diamond in the Rough (Dangerous Liaisons #1)

Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

I t was barely past dawn, and yet Derry 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 that 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 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.

A soft sigh escaped her lips as she worked. It was not difficult to find something to occupy her hands, but it was not nearly so easy to keep her mind engaged on the tasks at hand.

Her thoughts kept straying to things she knew were best forgotten, like the feel of Adrian's lips on hers—their warm gentleness underlying the searing passion… or the intoxicating scent of him, a subtle mixture of woodsy spice with overnotes of bay rum and leather. The mere memory of it was doing strange things to her breathing.

Her grip tightened on the cold iron. After today, all she would have of the viscount were memories. She would have to picture in her mind's eye the way the salty gusts ruffled his hair against the upturned collar of his coat or the way his damp linen shirt 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 paper that was tucked 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 picture 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 Adrian was something much more than respect or regard. Her lip curled into a mocking grimace.

Lud, she had really made a mull of things by falling in love with an English lord. She supposed she deserved the dull ache that had now settled in her chest for thinking 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 trace of a tear or two on her cheek.

"Thank you, Hugh." Derry 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. "It's a good sign that you aren't so nervous as to have lost all appetite." He took one of the remaining scones 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."

"Derry, I hope that?—"

His words were interrupted by Adrian's arrival. "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 bite of scone for your breakfast, sir. It's going to be a long day."

"I have," he admitted with a sheepish grin. "My friend Greeley 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 Derry, taking great care to match the viscount's light tone.

"I shall take your word for it." Adrian took a seat next to her—much too close for her own peace of mind.

She quickly looked back down at 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 Adrian in 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 that 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, milord." 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."

Derry's head was still bent, the iron in her hands fast becoming burnished to a silvery glow.

Adrian 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 lady'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 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 his choices among the glittering London Diamonds of the First Water.

"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 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, Rafe 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, and he—well, he and his cousin will be setting out for the war on the Peninsula. And yet, despite all his worries, he chose to come north with me, to offer moral support."

"He sounds like a very nice and brave gentleman. And a loyal friend."

"Aye, he is the very best of men," said Adrian.

They sat for a moment in silence.

"I am sorry we have not had much of a chance to discuss your work, sir," she ventured. "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 looking glass."

"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."

She held out her hand, revealing the thin silver chain cupped in her palm. 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 whisper. "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 for such a forward gesture.

But Adrian 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 he brushed a gossamer kiss to her cheek. Before she could react any further, it 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."

Derry quickly rose. "We had best be going."

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 herself, Adrian mused as he followed her out of the shop. Her quixotic moods seemed to run just as hot and cold regarding him. At times, he was sure she was indifferent to his presence, if not outright annoyed at being forced to endure his company. Yet once in a 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!

Rafe 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 how just how flat his life would have been, legshackled to someone who could not share his passions or his dreams.

He was tired of disguising his true self. He longed to share with Derrien 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 as he recalled some of their run-ins on the golf course. 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, Adrian was not certain of how to convince her of that. He stole a glance at her face as they hurried down Argyle Street. How the devil was he going to win her regard? Perhaps it was a start that she seemed to admire 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 other 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 Rafael and Lord Bowmont, who had arrived in town the night before.

Brewster graced Adrian with a barely perceptible nod. "I see you, for one, are prompt, sir." He pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat, and after a deliberate wait of thirty seconds, he continued with a loud announcement to the gathering. "It is 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, followed by his caddie and several cronies. Handing his walking stick to the one of them, he removed his cloak with a theatrical flourish.

"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 Adrian.

"Gentleman, let us not waste time," interposed Brewster, seeking to keep things from heating up too quickly. "The wager between the Marquess of Hertford and Viscount Marquand is to be decided by a round of golf," 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.

He paused. “After 18 holes, the player 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.

Adrian ignored the other man's sneering tone and gave a nonchalant shrug. "Whatever you wish."

As Derry 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. 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 he drew the club back. 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 180 yards from where it had been struck.

"That should give the dastard something to think about." Derry reached for the long spoon and clapped it over her shoulder, flashing a big grin in his direction.

He 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, 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 see-saw affair, with Hertford's experience balanced by Adrian's raw athleticism and Derry’s sage advice. Neither man could gain a clear advantage, and they reached the fifth hole tied at two, with two draws.

It was there that the first dispute arose. Adrian'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, 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 Derry with some satisfaction as she and Adrian 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 that they heard a cry ring out from the other caddie.

"Here, milord, 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.

Derry 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 dish of haggis," she added with barely contained rage. She fisted her hand on 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.

"An 'H' with a dot below the crossbar—that's our mark," said Hertford's caddie, shooting a sly smirk in Derry’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 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."

Adrian brushed a bit of sand from the sleeve of his jacket. "How extraordinarily lucky, Hertford," he remarked dryly as the marquess make 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 Adrian also recovered from his spot of trouble, the hole ended in a draw.

"Luck my arse," muttered Derrien when play was finished. "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 won’t get away with any more tricks." Her jaw set. "You failed to win the hole because I didn't do my duty well enough."

Adrian wished he could hug her to his chest and tell her 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. Adrian squared it on the next with a wonderful chip to within a foot of the hole, allowing him an easy tap in for par. 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 Bowmont to Rafael as both Adrian and Hertford paused for some refreshment at a wooden crate set out with several earthenware jugs.

"Aye," replied Rafael, noting 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 came up beside them. "You asked me to give Lord Marquand my best, and so I have." He sucked in a breath, then slowly let it out. "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.