A Diamond in the Rough Page 10

  Marquand took several practice swings, well aware of the pair of eyes boring into his back, then stepped up to the small featherie and let it fly. It started off in a nice arc, but then began tailing badly to the right, coming to land in one of the cart ruts that skirted the edge of the strand. Hand on his hip, he watched its flight, muttering a low oath under his breath as it bounced along the rocky ground.

  “Your wrists, sir. Too stiff by half.”

  His head jerked around. “But Philp said the grip must be firm—”

  “Aye, firm, but not as if they were made of iron. They must release at the moment of impact.” She dropped all the clubs but one and took an easy swing. “Like so.”

  “Again, if you please.”

  Derrien swung once more. “Here,” she said as the sole of the spoon brushed along the grass. “See how the wrists turn over? It squares the clubface and thus allows the ball to fly in a straight line.”

  His brow furrowed slightly.

  She tossed another ball on the ground. “Try again.”

  He took up the proper position, but as he drew the club back, it was clear that her explanation had only served to confuse his efforts. His movements became jerky and rather than catch the ball with a clean blow, the long spoon merely grazed the top of the stitched leather, causing it to dribble no more than a few yards from his feet.

  Derrien choked back a guffaw and threw down yet another.

  On the next try, the head of the club missed the ball entirely, gouging out a large piece of sod several inches behind it.

  This time the bark of laughter was unrestrained.

  He retrieved the divot and put it carefully back in place, pressing around the edges with the toe of his boot. With the tip of his club, he moved the ball to an unscarred patch of grass, but rather than set up for another swing, he suddenly turned on his heel and walked over to where Derrien was standing, coming to a halt squarely in front of her nose.

  “Is it me in particular, Master Derry? Or are you merely an ill-mannered brat in general, childish enough to find another man’s honest efforts a source of cruel amusement?”

  The curl of contempt disappeared from Derrien’s lips.

  “I am heartily sick of your attitude, lad. If you have a quarrel with me, give voice to it, rather than snort in derision and mutter snide gibes. That is how real gentlemen behave.” Marquand’s eyes had become as stormy as the chop kicking up out in the bay, flecks of green awash in a sea of slate. “Now, I am going to try again, and if you don’t care to make a constructive comment you may simply drop the clubs and take yourself off. Philp seems to have nothing but praise for you, but of yet, I’ve seen naught but a snotty-nosed brat too full of misplaced arrogance to share whatever knowledge he is supposed to possess.”

  He stalked back to his place, leaving Derrien mute with shock, not just from the force of his words but from the realization of how richly she deserved them. When she had promised to help Philp, she had made a commitment to do her best, and of yet, she had failed miserably in keeping her word. She had allowed her own personal prejudices to interfere with the task at hand, something she had assured Philp would not happen. The English lord was right—her attitude had been inexcusable. Philp had been dropping gentle reminders but it appeared that what she had needed was a good kick in the tail.

  Well, she had certainly gotten it, so surely and swiftly delivered that she could almost feel the physical sting of it.

  She ventured a peek at Marquand’s tall form taking a stance over the ball. The wind had blown his long hair in disarray, and it tumbled over his forehead and around his ears as his head came forward. The tangle of dark locks could not, however, obscure the intensity of his eyes as they locked onto the small leather orb at his feet. Even at a distance she could sense the determination there, mirrored in the tilt of his broad shoulders, the set of his lean hips, the grip of his strong hands around the slender shaft of hickory.

  For a moment her breath was quite taken away by the sight of such raw masculine power. Good Lord, had she really called him bloodless?

  In the next moment, the club cut a swath through the salt air, and with a dull thwock, the ball lofted into the breeze. Again, it started off straight, only to take a turn to the right. The slice was not quite so bad as the first but the ball still landed well off the fairway.

  “It’s still in the wrists,” she said softly while his back was still toward her. Her voice still had an edge, but not nearly as sharp as before.

  He turned halfway around. “Show me what you mean.”

  Derrien stepped forward. “Look here.” She took one club between her slender fingers and held it out in front of her. “If I keep my wrists locked as straight as a piece of iron, they are wont to drop the head of the club behind them. See what that does to the clubface?”

  He regarded her hands, then ran his eyes along the length of the shaft to where the head of the club angled off to the right. “Ahhh,” he murmured. “Now I begin to understand. The ball cannot help but go in that direction since that is where the clubface is pointing when it is struck.”

  “Precisely, sir.” She relaxed her grip and flicked the club back and forth. “See how if I let my right wrist turn over my left, the clubface becomes square?”

  “Yes.”

  She propped the club on her shoulder. “Now you try it.”

  He held out his hand for a ball.

  “No. First take several swings without trying to hit anything, just to get the feel of what you are trying to do.”

  Marquand looked as if to argue, but then pursed his lips in a rueful grimace and did as he was told. After a couple of tries, he stopped and with a muttered oath removed his jacket, pausing to roll the sleeves of his white linen shirt back to the middle of his forearms. It took a bit more practice before she was satisfied. At last, however, she removed a ball from her pocket and tossed it at his feet.

  He set his stance. “One more thing,” he said, his head coming up slightly. “Why were you inspecting the balls so carefully? And why are some in your right pocket and some in your left one?”

  “I was looking at the seams and the stitching. Just as the angle of the club can impart a spin to the ball, causing it to move left or right, so, too, can any unevenness or raised welt affect its flight. Mr. Philp is a stickler for such detail. He says attention to such little things can mean the difference between winning and losing just one hole. And that can decide a match. So, although Mr. Robertson is by far the best maker of featheries, he knows to expect a return of those that don’t meet our standards.” She patted her left pocket. “These have enough flaws so that they must go back.”

  The Viscount’s mouth quirked up at the use of the word “our,” but it was evident that the master trusted his young caddie’s expertise in such things. He quickly ducked his head to hide the smile, unwilling to break their tentative truce by appearing to laugh at the lad. His next drive landed just on the fringe of the green, not perfect but a decided improvement over the others. “That’s getting better, but you need more snap.” “Snap?”

  “Yes.” She pantomimed a movement. “Snap.”

  He tried it himself, drawing a shake of her head. “Not quite. Your right wrist must not jerk through the motion, but roll more naturally.”

  “Snap but not jerk,” he repeated under his breath, setting up for another swing.

  His next effort still did not meet with her approval. “You must try to relax the”—Derrien heaved an exasperated sigh—“oh, the deuce take it! Here, let me show you what I mean.” She came over to him and took hold of his wrists. The heat from his bare skin fairly singed her fingertips and she felt her own pulse suddenly quicken in tandem with the steady beat that had been raised by his own physical efforts. She drew in a sharp breath, only to feel slightly light-headed at the faint scent of bay rum and male exertion that wafted from his person.

  Good Lord, she thought, what was wrong with her this afternoon that her senses were bouncing hither and yon l
ike an errant drive knocked out onto the rocky strand? She must get control of her emotions and keep them aimed straight down the fairway, away from all hazards. She was here simply to teach the dratted man golf. Alignment, aim, angles—those were the only sorts of things she should be thinking about.

  With a tad more force than necessary, she gave his arms a shake. “Let them loose! You are not about to plant someone a facer—”

  “Ouch! I might be forced to, if you do not loosen your nails from my flesh.” His lips gave a slight quirk upward. “I am aware that you would like to spill my blood, but I would prefer not being clawed to ribbons by a feisty little alley cat.”

  She dropped his arms as if they were hot coals, her face flushing scarlet with embarrassment.

  “Don’t fly into the boughs, I was merely teasing,” said Marquand, his face twisting in a quizzical expression. “I vow, you are the oddest lad—one would think you’ve never been subject to the normal teasing and taunts that boys are wont to give each other.” He rubbed absently at the red marks above his thumbs. “However, that is none of my affair. May we try again if I forbear from further comment? I would like to understand exactly what it is you are trying to show me.”

  With a deep breath, Derrien gingerly took hold of his wrists once more. This time, she guided them slowly through the full motion. “Do you feel the way the right one should roll?” She made him go through it again, then a third time.

  A slow smile spread over his face. “Aye, I do.” He repeated the swing, then added a bit more pace to it. His smile deepened in a broad grin. “Snap.”

  Derrien couldn’t help but allow a faint smile to steal over her own lips. “Snap.”

  Their eyes locked for an instant, sharing the moment of enlightenment. Then, suddenly aware that the beat of her heart had quickened considerably at the sight of his lean features alight with a rakish grin, she ducked her head and began to fumble in one of her pockets to mask her momentary confusion. Her odd reaction wasn’t making any sense at all! Hadn’t she remarked just the night before that no person with a pulse could possibly find the stiff-rumped English lord of any interest?

  Well, she most definitely had a pulse. And one that was now racing fast enough that surely he must hear the thumping of her chest.

  She stepped away abruptly. It was one thing to decide to tolerate the man’s presence in order to fulfill her promise to Hugh, but it was quite another to find that he had a number of admirable qualities to him—not the least of which were a dazzling smile and penetrating gaze that seemed to do all manner of strange things to her insides. Even worse was the realization that she might actually come to . . . like him! Her right hand jerked out of the rough wool and threw down the rest of the balls that remained in her pocket.

  “See if you can manage to keep these on the fairway while I go fetch the others,” she snapped curtly.

  Marquand’s brows drew together as he watched her jog off in a stiff trot. The young caddie’s moods seemed even more unpredictable than the flight of the golf ball. For a brief while, it had seemed that the tension between them had eased, yet then, for no apparent reason, the mood had taken another sudden veer, and seemed to have landed back in the rough. He shrugged and after another moment of reflection turned his attention to collecting the balls lying scattered at his feet. He had enough important matters to occupy his thoughts without becoming overly concerned over the quixotic character of a mere lad.

  The next hour passed with the steady thwock of leather on wood uninterrupted by any conversation, save an occasional curt pointer or correction from Derrien answered by a nod or brief question from the Viscount. When finally she acknowledged that enough had been accomplished for the day, Marquand was not sorry to toss the club down from his chafed fingers. However as they trudged back to the shop, he couldn’t help but puzzle at the silence—nearly as thick as the fog drifting down from Eden Estuary—that shrouded their steps. Once a time was set for the morrow’s lesson, he watched with further consternation as without so much as a glance in his direction, she stowed the clubs in their allotted

  rack and, cap pulled low over her face, hurried off down the cobbled street to fast disappear in the swirling mist.

  The dense grayness had managed to shroud his own thoughts by the time he arrived back at his town house, leaving him with barely enough energy to peel off his damp garments and order up a hot bath. A sigh escaped his lips as he sunk beneath the steaming suds. It was not the physical exertions of the day that was wearing heavily on his shoulders. If anything, the ache of his muscles felt satisfying, as if tangible testament to the fact that he had actually achieved some measure of progress in reward for his efforts.

  He wished he could say the same for the other concerns that weighed on his mind. As he took up a pitcher and let a stream of hot water wash through his locks, he had to admit that rather than engender any sort of enthusiasm in his breast, the arrival of his intended bride had left him feeling strangely flat. Was it his imagination or had Honoria’s smile become more brittle during their time apart, her manner even more measured than before? Or was it that Ellington’s careful criticisms had sown some seeds of doubt in his mind as to the wisdom of his choice?

  His jaw set. Damn Tony—there was no kernel of truth to his words. It was merely that he was experiencing a bout of low spirits.

  Marquand ran the sponge over his weary shoulders. And damn the impudent brat! For some reason it bothered him more than he cared to admit that, despite his progress in physical skills on the golf course, he had made little headway in breaking through the young caddie’s obvious aversion to his person. Oh, for a moment there had been a camaraderie of sorts between them. He had sensed it for an instant in the lad’s touch as he made to show the nuances of the wrist snap, but the feeling had disappeared just as quickly as the odd, wistful smile on the smudged face of—what was the moniker he had overheard one of the other boys whisper? Dirty Derry?

  The Viscount’s mouth pursed in a rueful grimace. A strange lad indeed. Though why it should irk him that a

  ragged, sharp-tongued imp held him in dislike was just as puzzling as the caddie’s undisguised attitude. He knew he should simply dismiss Master Derry’s surly scowls, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the fleeting expressions he had managed to glimpse beneath the oversized tweed cap were caused by something more complex than mere bad manners. But as of yet, he had no inkling as to what it was.

  It seemed that an understanding of people was proving just as elusive as the intricacies of the golf swing.

  With a snort of frustration, Marquand rose and reached for the towel. No doubt a good part of the reason for his depressed state of mind was due to the fact that he had not made nearly enough progress on the design for his latest commission. Ignoring the twinge in his back, he tugged on his dressing gown and resolved to spend a few hours at the desk in the library before retiring for the night.

  It was sometime later that the heavy oak door opened a crack and Ellington ventured a glance at the figure of his friend hunched over a sketchpad. “Do you mean to starve yourself of sustenance as well as company?” Marquand’s head came up with a jerk. “What? Oh, er . . .” His eyes darted to the clock on the mantel. “Lord, I hadn’t realized it was so late.”

  Ellington slowly walked over to the banked fire and stirred the embers to life. “I told McTavish to bring a cold collation up here for you. Had you forgotten that you—as well as Miss Dunster and her parents—were invited to the Playfair’s musical recital this evening?”

  A sharp oath cut through the air.

  “I thought as much,” he replied dryly. “I made your abject apologies, explaining that your efforts on the links had left you rather exhausted.” His gaze lingered on the dark smudges under the Viscount’s eyes. “In truth, Adrian, I am becoming concerned for you. Are you sure you are not trying to tackle too much?”

  It was just the question that he had been asking himself of late.

  “Oh, Hugh! Of all the curse
d luck!” Derrien kicked at a pile of wood shavings on the floor of the workshop. “To think that Jock MacKenzie has actually asked me to help him design a plan for a series of lochside gardens at Rossdhu House and . . .” Her voice trailed off as the toe of her boot scuffed along the rough planks.

  Philp looked up from the laborious task of tapering a hickory shaft by hand. “And?” His shaggy brows arched in question above the silver rims of his spectacles. “I should think you’d be elated, lassie.”

  She ducked her head in some contrition, suddenly aware of the import of her complaint. “I—I am. It’s just that, well, I won’t have quite as much time as I might wish to work on my ideas.”

  “Ah. Because of Lord Marquand’s lessons.” He went back to work with the fine blade. “If you wish to give up this endeavor, I would well understand it. This whole masquerade will have to come to an end soon in any case. It may as well be now.”

  “Why, what do you mean?” she cried.

  A ghost of a smile played on his lips. “My dear Derrien, a small child has grown into a lad without attracting undue notice, but what is to happen to the lad? Lads eventually grow up. You cannot remain a downy-faced boy forever, my dear.”

  Her eyes betrayed the sudden shock of awareness his gentle words had caused. “I—I hadn’t thought of that, Hugh, but . . . but I suppose you are right.”

  “As I said, I can write to Peter McEwan for—”

  “No! I gave my promise. I’ll see it carried out before ‘Dirty Derry’ disappears, and that’s all there is to it.” The razor-sharp blade shaved away another thin curl of wood. “Very well, I know better than to argue with you when you have made up your mind like this, lassie.” He slowly and methodically turned the shaft around to the other end and began the same meticulous process. “Tell me, how do you think his lordship is doing? Have we any hope?”