A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1) (12 page)

“I am here,” said the Viscount, stepping in through the open doors. “What is the matter?” His gaze traveled from Lady Dunster to Sir Twining to the face of his intended bride, still white as a sheet. “Good Lord, Honoria,” he said, hurrying to her side. “You look as if you have seen a ghost.”

“Ghost!” Lord Hylton elbowed his way through the ring of people who had gathered near his daughter’s chair. “Don’t be absurd, man! Never heard of a ghost who dared make an appearance in a room full of flesh-and-blood people—”

“I was merely indulging in a bit of hyperbole, sir,” murmured the Viscount.

“Eh?” The other man eyed him with some suspicion. “Well, see that you don’t make a habit of the stuff,” he muttered. “I’ll not tolerate any show of dissolute behavior. Can’t have you turning out like the present Earl.” A frown puckered his jowly face as he turned his attention back to Honoria.

“A grim fate indeed, to end up resembling one’s father.” Marquand spoke so softly that Hylton took no notice of his words, but Honoria cringed, her shoulders pressing hard against the back of the slatted chair.

“Hear now, missy, what’s all this sprattle about ghosts and such?”

“It’s nothing, Father. I’m feeling much better now.” She essayed a smile but managed only a wan twitch of her lips.

“Hmmph! Not at all the thing, to have an evening of entertainment where a proper young lady is subject to such dashedly odd happenings,” he grumbled. “Your mother and I are taking you home without delay. I’ll not have your delicate constitution overset with farrididdles about apparitions and spirits.”

“Yes, Father,” she said in a small voice. “But truly, it is just a case of the room being a trifle . . . crowded. You know very well I am not so much of a silly widgeon to be spooked by mere talk of specters from the past. Any sensible person knows there are no such things as ghosts.”

Yet as she rose, her expression looked nothing short of haunted.

The lord and the lad regarded each other with thinly veiled mutual suspicion. Philp, his head bent low over his workbench, never once looked up from the delicate task of shaping the curve of the baffing spoon’s head. “I must have this set of clubs finished by tomorrow for Laird McAllister, else I risk losing an important patron. So the two of you will go out alone this afternoon. Now, Lord Marquand, I want you to work on your drives for an hour, concentrating on placing the ball in the fairway. Your distance is fine, but you must try to correct your tendency to slice the ball—Derry will explain what I mean. Then on the morrow, I would have you start playing a few holes as you would in a match. You must get used to the notion of working together as a team.”

Neither of them budged.

“Well?” The master put down the file and pushed the spectacles back to the bridge of his nose. “His lordship’s set is stored in the same rack as usual, lad,” he murmured. “A box of new balls has arrived from Mr. Robertson’s shop. Grab a handful when you leave and see what you think of their performance on the course.”

Derrien, the hint well taken, shuffled off to retrieve Marquand’s golf clubs.

The Viscount’s jaw set. “Mr. Philp, I do not mean to question”—the man had already returned to scraping the edge of the fine-grained hawthorn wood—“your expertise, but—”

“It’s getting late, my lord. Are you aware that if you arrive more than five minutes past your agreed-upon starting time in a match, you will be penalized?” The file moved back and forth in methodical fashion. “While you are walking toward your ball, you might ask Derry to go over the thirteen rules of the game. They were drawn up in 1744 by the Company of Gentlemen Golfers in Edinburgh and adopted here in St. Andrews ten years later. For a beginner they can be very confusing, but the lad understands their nuances quite well.” He paused to locate a small razor. “Was there anything else, my lord?”

Marquand shoved his hands in his pocket and made for the door.

A stiff breeze was blowing in from the strand as they approached the first hole and the sun dodged in and out of a low bank of clouds. Several players were visible up ahead on the third hole, but other than such distant play, the course was deserted, save for an elderly woman and two children walking along Granny Clark’s Wynd, the narrow path that cut along the eighteenth and first fairway. Derry took out the new balls and carefully inspected each one, discarding several in the process. These she placed in the left pocket of her oversized jacket while the others, save for the last, went into the right pocket. This one she tossed onto the stubbled grass, then handed the Viscount his long spoon. Not a word had passed between the two of them since leaving the shop, and as she stepped back and tucked the rest of the set under the crook of one arm, she showed no inclination for breaking the awkward silence.

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 like 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.