A Diamond in the Rough (Dangerous Liaisons #1)

Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

I t soon became evident that the viscount's observation had more than a grain of truth to it. Beneath the cocky sneers and smug grins, 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.

Adrian 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 assumed 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.

If he could keep up his own level of play, he was sure the marquess would soon be sunk.

Derry seemed to sense his thoughts. "Just stay relaxed, sir," she counseled, 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. 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.

His breath caught in his throat as he realized that 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 all feeling all right?"

"Couldn't be better, actually."

Her brows tweaked up in skepticism, but she forbore making her usual tart rejoinder and simply reminded him once again to keep his mind on the next shot.

Ha! 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.

At once he knew he was going to win, not because of his superior skill but because he was feeling, well, inordinately lucky.

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. Adrian's 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 just 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 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 bowed 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.

Adrian 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." Derry 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 the 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, milord," 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 stifle amusement off his face, he turned to Derrien and waggled a stern 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, Adrian 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.

"Terribly sorry, Hertford," murmured Adrian on brushing past the other man. "Don't know how my caddie was so clumsy as to interfere with your shot." He let out a mournful sigh. "Bad luck."

Behind him, the dull thwock of the putter head caused the heel mark to become a good deal deeper.

The marquess was not the only one venting his anger. The spectators had already moved ahead with Brewster to the next hole, leaving the players and their caddies to follow along, so when Adrian rounded a tall stand of prickly whin, there was no one to witness that the much larger Jimmy had the collar of Derrien's jacket wrapped in his fist.

"Try sommink like that agin, an I'll pound yer gob so deep in the mud, ye'll be picking sand outter yer eyeballs fer weeks, Dirty Derry," he growled. He had dropped all of his clubs but one, which cut through the air in threatening swipes, coming closer and closer to Derrien's head.

Adrian started forward at a run, but before he could interfere, her knee came up with lightening quickness, catching the other caddie flush in the groin.

With a high-pitched squeak, he dropped to the ground as if struck by a bolt from the heavens.

"If you are trying to keep my thoughts from dwelling too heavily on my game, you are doing an excellent job," quipped Adrian as he took hold of her and hurried them past the whimpering lad. "Where on earth did you learn that?"

"Charlie thought it might be a useful thing for me to know, seeing as I have occasion to wander the moors alone."

He found his estimation of Ferguson rose another notch. "Very useful indeed. But pray, stay close to me for the rest of the match. My physical prowess is being tested quite enough without having to excavate you from a bunker or fish you out of the sea."

"I can take care of myself," she assured him.

He stifled a chuckle. "Yes, I can see that, but still, let us not chance it. I would really hate to have to lug around my own clubs."

A grin chased away the lines of tension pulling at her mouth. "It's only two more holes," she teased back. "I'm sure you could manage by yourself."

His hand gave her arm a quick squeeze. "Go it alone? No, I don't think I care to try. For whatever it's worth, we are in this together. Until the very end."

It was worth a great deal. More than he would ever realize. She made a show of shifting the clubs from one shoulder to the other so that he would not notice the spasm of emotion his casual words had elicited. He couldn’t begin to imagine how much it meant to her that he, too, saw the two of them as a team—at least for the next little while.

Her throat suddenly tightened.

And after that?

It didn't bear thinking on.

She set her jaw, determined to heed her own advice about concentrating on the task at hand rather than thinking on the past or the future. There would be time enough for long reflection when he was gone from her life.

But now, they had a match to win.

Adrian had already hit and Brewster had begun to stomp in some impatience by the time Hertford appeared, followed by his whey-faced caddie who was moving in such a gingerly fashion that every few steps drew a bark of rebuke from the marquess. The long spoon already in his hand, he took a practice swing, casting a murderous look at Derrien as the club cut a swath through the low stubble, before stepping up to make his drive. The ball bounced off into the low rough, but the viscount's effort had not been one of his better shots so neither man had the advantage.

It remained that way over the course of play. Adrian's second shot found a pot bunker on the left, but Hertford failed to capitalize on the error by putting his own ball in a cart rut near the edge of the road. Both gentlemen took a shot to recover, so they reached the green all square. Two putts later, it remained that way, so the hole was halfed.

And so they marched on to the 18th hole, the match tied.

Though it was Adrian who should have shown signs of unraveling, given the magnitude of the stakes, it was Hertford whose nerves had begun to show signs of fraying. Over the inward nine, his play had steadily deteriorated. His experience, which should have allowed him to pull away from a less seasoned player, was proving no advantage. Indeed it was Adrian who appeared the cooler, calmer of the two.

As they crossed the ancient Roman footbridge over Swilkan Burn, the marquess was muttering to himself when not snarling at his caddie, and a sheen of sweat had appeared on his forehead despite the increasing chill in the air.

Both gentlemen took an extra moment to swing their clubs through the air before Brewster, as was his wont before each hole, announced the score and called for play to begin.

Adrian hit first, his drive nothing spectacular but one that stayed safely out of any hazard. Hertford followed with one of his better shots of the day, and for the first time in a long while, the sneer came back to his lips as his ball landed a good distance past that of his opponent.

Catching sight of the grim set of Adrian's mouth, Derrien gave him a not too gentle nudge in the ribs on her way up the fairway. "It is the next shot you must be thinking on, not the last one. Remember, you do not have to play perfectly, just one stroke better than your opponent," she reminded him in a low whisper.

Her brows drew together in mock anger. "Now hit a good one, will you? I don't want to have carried these sticks around all morning for naught."

The quick rebuke coaxed a reluctant chuckle from him. "Ahh, now that is the Derry I have come to know and love."

Her heart gave a little lurch. Her words had proved a distraction, as she had hoped. But so had his! She knew his quip was as meant to be as teasing as her own, so there was no reason for her feet to suddenly feel tangled or her pulse to race.

"The middle spoon, don't you think?"

It took her a moment or two to recover her wits. She squinted at the distant flag, then gauged the wind by tossing a bit of grass in the air. "Take the scraper."

He hesitated. "But?—"

She silenced him with a withering look.

"The scraper it is," he said with a twitch of his lips.

For an instant after the ball left the club, it looked to be flying too far, not only clearing the near hazard with ease but threatening to carry all the way into far bunker. Then a gust of wind kicked up to alter its trajectory and it fell to earth perfectly positioned for the next shot into the green.

Without comment, Derry reached for the club and put it back on her shoulder.

Up ahead, Hertford demanded a club and, ignoring a squeak of dissent from his caddie, let fly. The same swirling wind quickly caught his shot, toying with its progress before causing it to land a bit short of where the viscount's ball lay. Seeing he had lost his initial advantage in distance by the wrong choice of club, the marquess flung it aside, nearly dealing the unfortunate lad another blow to a very tender spot of his anatomy.

Nerves seemed to be affecting both men. Neither hit a particularly good third shot, and a tense murmur ran through the spectators as they took up position to watch the next shot, speculation mounting with each moment on who would manage to eke out victory.

It was Adrian's turn to hit first, since he was farthest from the flag. A tricky swale, the Valley of Sin, made his the far more difficult shot, but on Derry’s advice, he took the baffing spoon and knocked a nicely lofted shot up onto the green.

A chorus of muted whistles greeted the result—it was clear with whom the crowd's sympathies lay. Face white with suppressed fury, Hertford stalked forward to hit his own shot. Despite his glowering expression, he still held a big edge, with a lie and angle that allowed him to take dead aim at the hole. But whether from anger or tension, his wrists remained too stiff, causing him to hack at the ball. The featherie popped up, and instead of heading toward the flag it hooked left in a wobbly arc before dropping to earth and rolling weakly for several feet.

Derry stared with disbelief as the ball finally came to rest. "Stymied!" she exclaimed softly. "Of all the cursed bad luck!"

A collective groan sounded as the murderous expression on the marquess's face turned to one of unmitigated glee. Though Adrian didn't understand the term she had just used, it took no more than a few seconds to see that the situation was not good.

Hertford's botched shot had stopped within eight inches of his own, but it lay directly in his path to the hole.

Brewster hurried over and hunched down to examine the position of each ball. "Since the balls cannot be judged to be touching, Lord Marquand is not allowed move his opponent's shot," he announced, with what sounded like some regret.

"Shouldn't we fetch a ruler, to be sure?" demanded Derry, though without much conviction. At Adrian's questioning glance, she added in a low voice, "If the distance between the balls were less than six inches, the rules would deem them to be touching, and you would be able to move Lord Hertford's shot."

The judge shook his head. "The span of my hand fits between them and it is well more than six inches, lad." He stepped back. "I'm afraid you must play it as it lies, sir."

As the viscount was required to go first, because he was farther away from the hole, there was little choice but to comply. He took his time circling the balls, careful to study every angle, then returned to where Derry was standing.

"Hell's teeth, I see no alternative but to give my ball a tap sideways, even though it means losing a stroke, and quite likely the match," he whispered.

Her nose wrinkled in concentration. After a moment, she motioned for him to follow her back to the far edge of the green where she turned around and crouched down.

The viscount did the same.

The only sounds were the rustlings of the tall grass and the whoosh of the wind blowing in from the North Sea.

"What are we looking at?" asked Adrian softly, his cheek inches from hers as they both leaned forward on their hands and knees.

"The slope of the ground, the height of the grass and the grain—remember, the ball always tends to roll toward water."

"But Derry, how can it matter? I cannot go through his ball."

"No, you cannot go through it, sir. You are going to go over it."

"The deuce take it, Brewster, make him play," demanded Hertford in a petulant voice. "He's taking entirely too long over this." A malicious smile stole over his features. "In any case, it's clear that he is only putting off the inevitable defeat for an extra few minutes."

The judge waved off the whining. "Quiet, sir. That may be so, however the viscount is well within his rights to take a reasonable amount of time to decide what shot he wishes to attempt."

The sharp rebuke wiped some of the smugness from the marquess's face, but nearly all of the lines of doubt were gone as well, smoothed away by the assurance that victory was his at last. Turning to several of his cronies standing nearby, he began to make plans for a celebratory ale at one of the nearby taverns.

"Over it," repeated Adrian. "How the devil?—"

She put a hand on his chest, and he could feel both the softness of her fingers and the hard edge of the silver charm. "You take the short iron, lay the face open to add loft and hit down on the ball."

A spark of rare intensity had kindled in her eyes, reminding him of the glow that came over her features when she studied his sketches or explained her own concepts.

He drew in his breath, struck again by the depth of her character, the boldness of her imagination, the courage of her spirit when faced by adversity.

He nearly laughed aloud realizing that for all the time he had spent amid silk and splendor searching for the perfect Countess for Woolsey Hall, she had magically walked into his life sporting a floppy tweed cap and baggy breeches.

"It's simple, really. Just land the ball there—" She pointed to a spot four feet away where a slight undulation rolled away toward the flag,"—and the slope will carry it right into the hole."

He looked at the ball, then the ground, then her face. "Do you know, I think you would like Woolsey Hall very much. The land behind the gardens also slopes down?—"

"Milord!" Her elbow caught him smack in the ribs. "What on earth are you babbling about? You are supposed to be thinking on the shot. And only the shot."

His mouth quirked upward. "Yes, yes. The chip. Up and over you say? Can it truly be done?"

She gave him a smile that caused his heart to skip a beat. "Come now, surely the man with the vision to create the plans for Highleigh Manor has the imagination to see how easily such a thing can be done."

A good number of the spectators craned their necks to see what was going on at the sound of Adrian's amused laugh.

"Easy you say? Precious little has proved easy around you, my dear Derry, but I suppose that is what has made it so interesting—" he murmured.

"Milord!"

"I know, I know, the shot. Well, I should hate to think of disappointing my caddie, so I guess there is nothing to do for it but try." He paused for a moment. "You know, there is something I should like to tell you?—"

"Good Heavens, whatever it is, it can wait!" She went over to where she had laid the clubs and picked up the short iron.

"Here," she said in a fierce whisper, placing it in his hands. "Now will you kindly stop talking and make the plaguey shot so we can all go home? I have no desire to traipse another hole with your sticks on my shoulder."

Several gasps of surprise punctuated the buzz of excitement that ran through the crowd as they realized what Adrian intended to do. The noise quickly died away as he stepped up to his ball and made a practice swing, taking care to lay the face open just as Derrien had advised. The club came back for real, in a short, steep backswing, then he brought it through with just the right touch, soft, but still firm. The ball hopped into the air, sailing over the other featherie with ease and coming to land within inches of where Derrien had indicated. The slope and spin caused it to gather speed when it hit the short grass. Off it rolled, turning left, then right, then at the last moment left again. For an instant it hung on the lip of the hole before dropping in.

A loud cheer erupted from the small crowd and they surged forward a step or two before Adrian waved them back. With an impassive countenance, he turned to his opponent.

"You can still tie if you make your putt, Hertford." He gave a mournful shake of his head. "But I must say, I wouldn't want to be faced with such a devilishly tricky shot. I can't for the life of me decide whether it breaks left or right."

It was only when he turned to face Derry that he gave a quick wink and a grin.

The marquess could only gape in stunned disbelief. "Of all the bloody luck, you poxy son of a dog," he snarled under his breath. "That was an impossible..."

His words trailed off in a flurry of impotent curses. Hands shaking, he attempted to study his line, but effort proved to no avail. As soon as he struck the ball it was clear he had pulled it badly. It rolled well left of the hole.

"Goddamn it, I-I've been cheated!" Hertford whirled, the club clenched in his hand, and glared at Brewster. "Marquand's shot was not a fair one! I demand the match be forfeit?—"

"As Captain of the St. Andrews Society of Golfers, may I remind you that I am well acquainted with the rules of golf." The other man stood his ground, his expression as stony as Scottish granite. "And there is nothing in them that prohibits such a play." A crack of a smile appeared. "Indeed, it was one of the bonniest bits of shotmaking I've seen in all my years on the links."

"I swear, it was only foul play that allowed?—"

"Have a care how you go on, Hertford," interrupted Adrian softly. "Or do you wish to meet on different patch of grass tomorrow morning? I have a good deal more practice with executing that type of shot, so it would prove an even more interesting match of skills."

The marquess's mouth hung open for a moment, then shut with a near audible gnashing of teeth.

"Don't care for that sort of challenge?" Adrian's lips curled up. "I didn't think so, as it’s well known that you don't play any game unless the odds are thoroughly stacked in your favor. Today, however, was not your lucky day."

He held out his hand. "I believe you have in your possession a number of things that now rightly belong to me."

Defeated on all counts, Hertford wrenched out a fistful of crumpled vowels from his coat pocket and threw them to the ground. In the same motion, he turned and with a vicious heave sent his putter flying in a high arc out toward the rocky strand. A string of curses trailing after it, he stalked from the field amid a chorus of low whistles and jeers.

"My God, Adrian, you did it!" cried Rafael, pounding his friend on the back as well-wishers flooded onto the green. "Against all odds, you really did it!"

"You showed grit, Marquand. And heart. My congratulations," added Bowmont.

Philp sucked at his pipe and merely smiled.

"What a relief! It's hard to believe it is finally over and we may finally think of taking ourselves home," continued Rafael. "Despite the rather quirky charms of Scotland, I am eager to return to London for a last few weeks of relaxation with Jack and my uncle before we leave for the Continent And you must be even more anxious to be gone from here, now that you have accomplished all you set out to do."

He took a moment to consult his pocket watch. "Why, it's only noon. We could could be on our way this very afternoon."

Adrian's eyes were glued on a lone figure, fast disappearing along the edge of the first fairway. "Actually, there is one thing still unsettled, Rafe." His lips twitched into a wry expression. "Would that I knew the score on that account…"

He cleared his throat. "I shall see you back at the house shortly, and we will crack a bottle of champagne to celebrate. But right now, I'm afraid you must excuse me."

Rafael followed his gaze, looking confused.

“I will explain things more fully later,” whispered Adrian, as the crowd moved away from him and friend. “But Master Derry is actually Miss Edwards. I owe her my victory.” And hopefully my future happiness.

Rafael let out a grunt of surprise, but then his expression turned pensive. "An unusual young lady—and one who's roused your passions, I see." He smiled. "That's good. It must be a singular feeling..." His voice trailed off.

"It is," said Adrian. "When it strikes, it... well, it defies description."

Rafael made a wry face. "God only knows if I will live long enough to experience it—which makes me doubly happy to wish you the best." He gave Adrian a little shove. "Now go. Love is worth chasing."

He caught up to her along the rocky shore. The gusting wind had freed several golden curls from the confines of the tweed cap and they danced across her freckled cheek, obscuring her face.

"Just where do you think you are going?"

"As you no longer need a caddie, sir, I am free to return to my own concerns. Just as you are finally free to return to London. And Woolsey Hall."

"Yes, I'm free. Quite free."

She swallowed hard, seemingly confused by his odd words. "I didn't have a chance to offer my congratulations back there, sir. You showed great courage and determination on the course today, and I'm very happy for you. I know how much this victory means to you."

Her voice seemed to be ebbing away." I should like to see what you have in mind for the improvements you mentioned," she added in a near whisper. "Perhaps one day, you might have time to send me a sketch."

"A sketch? Is that all you would like?"

Not trusting her voice, Derrien looked out to sea.

"You know, I have been thinking..." He reached out and gently turned her chin toward him. "It seems a great shame to break up such a successful partnership." There was a wetness on her cheeks that could have been flecks of salty spray, or perhaps tears. "I could use a hand if I am to finish the designs for the duke on time."

"But... that's utterly impossible!"

"Why?"

"You can't really mean that you would consider hiring a female to help on one of the most important commissions in all of England. It would cause an uproar if it were to be known."

"By now you should realize I pay little heed to the strictures of convention. What matters is that you have a rare talent and imagination. I should very much like you to consider... the position."

"But I've never seen the duke's estate in person, so I could hardly be of much help. Besides, you must return to London right away and I have the plans for Rossdhu House to think about it and must arrange a visit there. So, you see, it is quite out of the question."

"Ah, a logistical problem?"

She nodded.

Adrian paused. "Well, then it is a good thing we are in Scotland and have no need of reading the banns or even of a special license. If we marry tonight, we could pass by Loch Lomond on our honeymoon before journeying south."

Derrien blinked. "But you can't possibly think of marrying me!"

"Why ever not?" he asked. "Is the position of wife so very less appealing than that of caddie or assistant designer? "

Her gaze dropped to the toes of her scuffed boots and when she answered, her voice was barely audible. "You know quite well the reason."

"You think you don't fit into my world? Well, neither do I fit into the silly strictures of Polite Society."

He hesitated. "But perhaps what you meant was that the idea of a titled English lord for a husband is still repugnant to you. I had hoped you wouldn't hold that against me."

She dared raise her eyes. "You mean..."

"I mean that we make a smashing team, my dear Derry. What say you to continuing the partnership?"

She hesitated for a heartbeat and then threw her arms around him, trying not to cry. "You mean it? You are sure you don't prefer a lovely lady in silks rather than a brat in breeches."

"I have never been more sure of anything in my life. London may glitter with all manner of polished ladies, but I have found my true Diamond here in the rough of St. Andrews."

He hugged her close and his mouth came down to capture hers in a kiss that left no room for question as to how deeply his passion ran. His hands twined in the silky splendor of her curls, knocking the cap to the ground for the last time.

"In fact, you must be sure to wear breeches often in the privacy of our home," he murmured. "Though I shall insist that they be cut a good deal snugger than these." Then he kissed her again with a searing urgency.

To his elation, she responded with an equal ardor.

Fortune had indeed smiled on him the day his carriage had headed north. By taking the biggest gamble of his life, he had won something infinitely more precious than any tangible treasure.

"Does Woolsey Hall have a golf course nearby?" she asked after his lips had finally come away from hers.

Adrian's eyes danced with laughter. "Actually there is a splendid tract of pasture land along the river that I have been eyeing." He sketched a few lines in the sand with his boot. "If we move some earth, carve out a series of pot bunkers and plant a few trees to create..."

Her mouth came up to stifle any further words. "I should love to see a sketch of it, Adrian," she said between kisses. "But perhaps it could wait until later."