A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1) (13 page)

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 cursed 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?”

“Aye,” she muttered. “He’s not half bad. If he continues to improve as he has been, we should have a sporting chance at besting Hertford.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He looked up for a moment, his gaze sharper than she would have liked. “And you are sure the task is not proving too odious?”

Derrien couldn’t help but think of the chiseled strength of the broad shoulders as they whipped through a golf swing, and the rather dazzling smile those finely molded lips were capable of when the ball was well struck. She swallowed hard, hoping Philp would not notice the faint stain of color creeping to her cheeks. “It doesn’t matter what I feel. I told you, I mean to see it through.”

“So you did.” He reached for his pipe and a flint. “Well, then you had best fetch Lord Marquand’s baffing spoon and rewrap the underlisting. I noticed that the grip has shifted somewhat. Oh, and take some of the new cord in back and replace the whipping of his putter.” “Yes, sir.”

“The next time you two go out, you had best begin work on his short game.” A puff of smoke drifted up among the racks of unfinished clubs. “Word has it that Lord Hertford arrived in town last night.”

Marquand swore under his breath, something he found he was doing with increasing frequency these days. The sketch failed to capture the exact perspective he was looking for, and so he tucked it away in the back of the small leather portfolio at his side and withdrew a fresh sheet of paper. This time his pencil moved over the surface with a surer hand, the crisp lines and delicate shading rendering a picture much more to his liking. Brow furrowed in concentration, he started to fill in the details. It was only when the clock in the nearby church tower began to chime the hour that his head shot up in consternation.

“The devil take it,” he muttered with some force. He was promised for a nuncheon with Honoria and her parents. Given his egregious lack of manners in not making an appearance at the last evening’s musicale, it would be unforgivable to let this engagement slip his mind as well. And he was already in danger of being late.

Several more choice words slipped out as he quickly gathered the rest of his papers that were strewn over the weathered bench and crammed the pile inside the stiff Moroccan covers. With a last, lingering look of regret at the unusual gazebo and circular plantings behind it, he forced himself to his feet. He would simply have to ask Mr. Davies if he might return another morning to finish making his sketches. Why, he hadn’t even had time to take more than a cursory look at the formal herb garden set off to the right of the main house.

The sound of the bells faded away, giving further warning that he must make haste. Tucking his work under his arm, he set off down the path at a rapid clip. He had nearly reached the wrought-iron gate that led out to the quiet side street when the graveled walk took a sharp bend around a high hedge of clipped boxwood. His own hurried steps had masked the sound of anyone else approaching, and so as he rushed through the turn, his momentum made it impossible to avoid colliding with the figure who was approaching from the opposite direction.

Marquand managed to keep the other person from being knocked to the ground, but his portfolio went flying, the papers scattering across the neatly trimmed grass.

“Hell and damnation,” he exclaimed, unable to contain his dismay at seeing all his precious work and reference drawings in danger of being ruined. He took an involuntary step toward the fluttering sheets before realizing he still had hold of the other person’s arm. “I beg your pardon”—his irritation only increased at seeing it was a young lady he had in his grip—“Miss Edwards. For both my unseemly haste and language.” His gaze remained locked on the sketches rather than on her face. Of all the deuced luck, he couldn’t help but fume, to make a cake of himself by bumping into this particular young lady. “I’m afraid I was in a bit of a hurry.”

“So it would seem,” answered Derrien rather coldly, wrenching her elbow from the Viscount’s fingers. “I should have been more on guard if I had any notion that another person would be prowling around in Mr. Davies’s gardens at this hour—especially you, my lord, though it does seem you are partial to strolls in gardens. However, I would not have expected that a fine London gentleman rose before noon.”

Marquand was already on his knees, regardless of the effect the damp earth was having on his immaculate dove gray breeches, and starting to gather up his work. “I imagine there is a great deal that you wouldn’t expect about me,” he muttered, his ill humor further piqued by her barbs as well as his uncharacteristic clumsiness.

Her own gaze strayed to the papers on the ground and she could not help but notice that they were drawings.

“What are those?” she added, after a moment, curiosity winning out over reserve.

When he didn’t answer, she bent down as well and began to pick up some of the sheets that were threatening to fly off into the row of rosebushes. “Why, this is a sketch of one of the temples at Stourhead!” she blurted out, on regarding the first image to come to hand. She looked at the ones beneath it. “And this is from Payne Knight’s design for Downton Castle. And this . . .” Her freckled nose crinkled in thought. “It looks to be the work of Chitley, but I don’t recognize the commission.” Marquand’s hands had frozen in their task at her first words, then his head came up with a jerk, “Y—you are familiar with garden designs and their creators?” he exclaimed in undisguised amazement.

“Yes,” she replied with some defensiveness. “Does that strike you as so . . . odd?”

“It’s not that. It’s just, well, I suppose it’s just that I wouldn’t have expected such extensive knowledge from a . . .” His words trailed off as he grabbed at another piece of paper about to be carried off by a gust of wind.