A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1) (19 page)

Her friend’s hand came firmly around her elbow. “I believe I saw that the Baronet’s servants are laying out the picnic. Allow me to escort you down to a spot where we may be afforded a good view of the sea.” Without waiting for a reply, he took his leave of Marquand and hastened their steps away from the slanting shadows of the crumbling nave. Derrien had no choice but to follow along, however it took a good measure of self-control to refrain from darting one last look over her shoulder at the Viscount’s tall form.

Marquand forced his gaze away from the lively step of the retreating figure and the way several errant blond curls danced in the breeze, once free of the confining bonnet. “I trust it was not too great an ordeal to endure the learned professor’s company? It is to be hoped that he would exhibit some common sense and limit the topic of his conversation to a trifle less bloodcurdling subject than that of his colleague.”

Honoria stumbled slightly. “No, not at all. That is, I mean yes, he seems ... a very sensible young man.” “Sensible—now that has a rather dry ring to it.” He gave a low chuckle. “Was the fellow truly an insufferable bore? If so, I shall try to make sure you are not trapped in his presence—”

“N—no!” Quickly recovering her poise, she hastened to add, “That is, he was perfectly pleasant company. You needn’t pay it any mind.” She kept her eyes averted from his face. “And you, sir? I hope Miss Edwards was not a nuisance? She looks to be a very headstrong young lady.”

“She wished to . . . inquire about a matter concerning gardens.” He wondered why it was that a slight flush was creeping to his cheeks.

“How odd.”

He bit back a sharp retort. “I have a passing interest in the subject, you know. In fact, one might say I have a modicum of knowledge concerning such things.”

“Oh, yes. I suppose you have mentioned it on occasion,” she replied absently. Her tone was distant, as if her thoughts were as far away as the gulls winging out to follow a distant fishing boat. “I imagine that most gentlemen of property do.”

“Woolsey Hall has some of the most beautiful gardens in England,” he continued, seeing if he might raise a spark of interest in her. “I mean to see what improvements I might add to such magnificent designs.” “Mmmm.”

The sound failed to convey even a hint of enthusiasm, causing the Viscount’s brow to knit in some consternation. Had she always exhibited such a flatness of emotion, or was it only the comparison with a certain other young lady that was making the lovely Miss Dunster appear to have been cut out of pasteboard? His own boot slipped on the rocky path, as if to warn him that such thoughts were in danger of treading on dangerous ground. With a reluctant sigh, he looked searchingly at her half-turned profile. “You are sure something is not amiss, my dear, and that your earlier encounters with these scholarly Scots haven’t in some way overset you?”

She started. “Oh, no,” she repeated, with some force. “I fear I was thinking on ... on why the young lady would feel the need to request a private audience with you to discuss gardens.”

Marquand gave a wry grimace. “I have long since abandoned any hope of understanding the working of the female mind.” His light tone was designed to elicit at least an answering smile, but she remained staring straight ahead, her only reaction to his attempt at humor a slight tremor of her jaw. He gave up trying to probe any further into her state of mind and lapsed into his own moody silence.

It was with some gratitude that he saw Ellington disengage himself from a heated discussion on the merits of salmon fishing on the River Tay and make his way toward them. His friend fell in at Honoria’s other side and the three of them proceeded to where several tables had been set up with a veritable groaning board of food.

“I had best rejoin Mama now,” said Honoria in a low voice, glancing nervously at where Lady Dunster sat off to one side of several couples. “She is not as yet comfortable with the local ladies.”

Was it has imagination, wondered Marquand, or did he detect a note of relief in her tone at finding an excuse to quit his company? “Of course,” he murmured politely. “Shall Tony and I fix a selection for the two of you or do you wish to sit for a bit before partaking in the repast?” “I ... I shall ask Mama what she prefers.”

As they strolled away from the two ladies, Ellington fixed his friend with a quizzing look. “Enjoying yourself? At least you managed to grab a bit of time alone with your intended.”

The Viscount’s gaze flitted from where Honoria sat in rigid correctness next to her mother, hands folded demurely in her lap, to where Derrien was sprawled—none too ladylike—on a blanket laid out on the grass, engaged in what looked to be an animated debate with Ferguson. He drew in a sharp breath, wondering why it was he found himself wishing—

Wishing what?

Marquand frowned slightly. Honesty compelled him to admit that after he fetched a glass of the local ale from a cask set up near the platters of roast pheasant and smoked trout, he would have vastly preferred taking a seat on the ground by the maddening Miss Edwards to heading to the chairs set up for the comfort of the English visitors. He found himself wondering what topic of conversation was bringing such a spark to those flashing eyes. He paused, his hand tightening around the glass that Ellington had just passed to him, and found the sudden trill of laughter from her lips was far more intoxicating than any amount of spirits. The young lady might be outspoken, hot-tempered, and given to decidedly hoy-denish behavior—in short, all the things he did not wish for in a female. But she was also intelligent, sensitive, and undeniably passionate in her opinions.

Damnation, he thought with some vehemence, raising the glass and draining half its contents in one gulp. She was intriguing!

Ellington cleared his throat while taking up an ale of his own. “You might want to essay to wipe the scowl from your face. You are supposed to be putting aside your troubles for the afternoon, remember?” He slanted a sideways glance at Lady Hylton’s pinched countenance, and added, “Though I vow, the prospect of such a mother-in-law might drive me to strong drink.” Marquand growled something unintelligible in reply, but managed to clear the dark expression from his features. His friend hadn’t the slightest notion just which lady it was that was having such an effect on his thoughts, and he intended it to remain that way. “Come,” he said gruffly. “I suppose we had better see which delicacies Honoria and mother would care to sample.”

Plates were fixed for the ladies, and the two gentlemen dutifully took their places next to them. The buzz of voices punctuated the clink of silverware and the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze as everyone settled down to the sumptuous array of food provided by the Baronet. The meal was well under way when the sound of an approaching horse caused a lull in the conversation. An elegantly dressed gentleman appeared at the far end of the ruins and, with a wave of greeting to the group, dismounted from his glossy stallion and began to approach. Removing his curly brimmed beaver hat, he ran his hand through his cropped chestnut locks and inclined an elegant bow in the direction of the host.

“Ah, Lord Hertford! Glad you could join us. I thought I had heard that you had recently arrived in town,” called the Baronet. “Though it seems you have come north a tad earlier than you are usually wont to do.” The gentleman brushed a bit of dust from the sleeve of his immaculately tailored hacking jacket and surveyed the assembled group, his eyes lingering for a second on the Viscount before sweeping by with nary a flicker of acknowledgment. “Yes,” he replied nonchalantly, his lips pulling into an sardonic half smile as he tapped his crop against the polished leather of his Hessians. “I must say, St. Andrews suddenly seemed a much more rewarding place to be than London.” He smoothed at a fold in his starched cravat. “After all, Scotland affords such a wealth of pleasures for a keen sportsman, don’t you think?”

"No, no, my lord. You mustn’t set that foot as if it were stuck in a bowl of porridge.” Philp took up a stance and demonstrated what he meant. “Still, your swing is looking greatly improved.” He placed another ball upon the ground. “Now, seeing as we are ready to make the turn, we will play the inward nine as if it were a real match. Your honors, sir.”

Marquand stepped up and knocked a credible drive considerably past where Derry was standing to keep an eye on where the shot fell.

“A bit over one hundred sixty yards,” remarked Philp with gruff approval as they caught up to her. “Excellent, sir, excellent. If your caddie has helped you make the same improvements in your short game, I, for one, should not care to bet against you.”

“I believe Master Derry has done his best to whip me into shape,” replied the Viscount dryly.

Philp gave a short chuckle. “What say you, Derry. Are you satisfied with your man’s progress?”

“Aye, Mr. Philp,” she muttered, ducking her head even lower to hide her reaction to the master’s comment. “He has a chance.” Why was she blushing like a schoolgirl at his unintended reference to the Viscount as ‘her man’? she asked herself as she shifted the clubs on her shoulder. He was nothing of the sort!

Oh, it was true that she no longer held him in such low regard as before. The Viscount had shown himself to be quite different from the picture she had created in her mind of a privileged English lord—except that he was as sinfully handsome as she had imagined that sort of gentleman would be. That he was intelligent, compassionate, and not afraid of hard work to achieve his goals were qualities that had forced her to reevaluate her initial dislike. And of course, his interest in gardens alone would have been able to sway even the most hardened of prejudices against him. After all, any man who knew the difference between hydrangea macrophylla and hydrangea aspera couldn’t be all bad!

“An iron or the baffing spoon?”

Derrien’s head jerked around at Marquand’s question. She took her time in eyeing the distance and the slight swell of hill in order to force her attention back to the game. “The spoon,” she announced and handed him the club.

“Hmmm. I would have chosen the iron,” he murmured, but took it without dissent.

“And then you would have risked not clearing that patch of tall grass at the crest. Once caught up in that tangle, you could lose two strokes, and maybe more. Better to be long than short.”

Marquand studied the terrain for a moment before nodding in agreement. “Ah. I see what you mean.” Philp watched the brief interchange and chewed thoughtfully on the stem of his pipe. The Viscount set up, and after Derrien had murmured a reminder to keep his wrists firm but not stiff, his next shot rolled within several yards of the flag. Taking the preferred putter, he stepped to the ball and knocked it in the hole for his par. “Well done, indeed, sir. We’ll make a Scot of you yet.” Marquand grinned. “I fear I’d make a rather poor one, for I’ve not acquired any taste for your local spirits.” “No taste for our whiskey!” The other man pretended to be shocked. “Auch, you’ll nay be a real golfer until ye can quaff yer shares of rounds with the laddies after eighteen.”

“If it will help save a few strokes, I shall learn to down a barrel of the stuff.” He paused in readying for his next drive as a foursome crossed the fairway up ahead, then stopped to one side of a patch of gorse.

“You may hit away. The outgoing group must stand aside for those of us coming in,” said Philp. “Now just aim down the center of the fairway, for on this hole The Elysian Fields gives you plenty of room.”

Marquand hesitated, his gaze wavering between the other players in the distance and the ball at his feet. His club went back slowly, but a bit indecisively. The downswing was equally lacking in confidence, and at the last minute he yanked his hand through in order to compensate for the lack of head speed. The ball arced up in a weak hook, landing in one of “The Beardies,” a group of pot bunkers off to the left. “Hell and damnation,” he said through gritted teeth. “I don’t know what happened—I’ve been hitting so much better than that of late.”

The master exchanged a knowing look with Derrien, then turned to counsel his pupil, taking great care to repress the smile that threatened to crease his leathery face. “Thought you had it mastered, did you? Well, be assured that as soon as you begin to brim with such hubris, the golfing gods will take great pains to humble such pretensions. That is the one surety in the game.” He paused, allowing his lips to twitch upward, “The second surety is that the first time you must hit with a group standing by, waiting for you to pass through, you will duff the shot.”

At the Viscount’s sheepish expression, he laughed outright. “Everyone does. Now, I should like to see you marshal your thoughts and get out of that hazard. If you can learn to recover from a lapse of concentration, it will be a lesson of more value than any of the others you have learned so far.” Philp fell in beside the Viscount and after they had walked a few paces, he added, “I believe you are beginning to see that golf is quite a bit like life itself.”

Marquand pulled a face. “Come now, Philp, it’s just a bloody game.”

“Yes, but one in which you must learn to face both triumph and disaster without letting either affect you too greatly. You must be willing to weather adversity and not let a bad bounce or serendipitous gust distract you from your long-term goals. Just as you must not let a few good shots convince you that you will sail through the rest of the round without mishap. Golf requires patience, imagination, resolve, and above all a sense of humor.” He stopped for a moment to fiddle with his pipe. “Sounds rather like life to me.”

“Hmmph.” The Viscount made a noncommittal grunt, but his expression was rather thoughtful.

They reached the bunker and as Marquand stepped gingerly into the shifting sand, he couldn’t help but note that the other golfers had hit their own shots and were moving to their balls, all of which had landed not far from where he was stuck. He set his jaw, intent on following Philp’s advice to ignore any outside distraction. His hand shot out for a lofted iron, then he studied the height of the bunker’s lip and the lie of his ball, trying to determine with just how much force and angle he had to swing in order to get clear of the steep sod.