A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1) (26 page)

“I’m not a child—” she cried hotly, before her jaw clamped shut and she bent over to retrieve the ball.

“Come, let’s keep our attention on golf and not bran-gle with each other,” he said lightly. “We’ve only to endure each other’s company for another day. Surely we can do that without the usual fireworks.”

Derrien didn’t answer. Shouldering the clubs with an exaggerated hitch, she turned and stalked off toward the next hole without so much as a glance in his direction.

Marquand deliberately finished filling in his score before following her. A low oath, chased by an exasperated sigh, sounded under his breath as he regarded the angry tilt of the shoulders up ahead and the peculiar sway of the slim hips— Hell’s teeth, those hips! What was it about them that seemed so hauntingly familiar?

Suddenly he froze in his tracks. Some mad impulse made him call out the caddie’s name, for the first time omitting the word “master” before it.

“Derry!”

The shout caused Derrien to stumble. The clubs spilled to the ground as she spun around, shock and confusion evident on the set of her lips.

Those lips!

Marquand covered the distance between them in a few quick strides. As his hand closed around the slender arm and his head bent closer to the dazed face, it occurred to him that if he was wrong, what he was about to do was quite likely illegal as well as insane.

It took only an instant to know he was not about to be committed to Newgate—or Bedlam. The lips parting under his were most definitely not those of a lad, nor did the rounded swell of curves pressing up against his chest resemble any part of the male anatomy. The mere touch of them against his own taut form drove him to deepen his kiss, his tongue stealing inside her mouth to taste the faint tang of salt air and an indescribable sweetness. For one long moment, she seemed unsure of how to react, but then her mouth softened in response to his embrace, a bit hesitantly but with an undercurrent of the same hot passion he felt flaring up inside him.

Her fingers came up to his shoulders and at first he thought she meant to shove him away. Then suddenly they were entwined in his long dark locks, pulling him into an even more intimate embrace. A muffled groan escaped his lips as her slim hips arched into his, and his hands tore away the tweed cap so that he, too, might revel in the sensuous silkiness of her curls. His lips broke away to trace the trail of freckles across her cheekbones, leaving her free to nibble at the lobe of his ear and utter the softest of whispers.

The sound of his name shattered whatever was left of his self-control. With a hoarse cry, he sunk to his knees, dragging her, unresisting, down with him. Her arms were still wrapped around his neck and as he leaned forward to cup her softly rounded bottom, his hard arousal rubbed up against her in such a way that he feared he might disgrace himself like the callowest of schoolboys.

He shifted slightly and his hands began roaming toward the inside of her legs. She gave a soft moan and through a haze of desire he realized that had she been wearing skirts they might well have been tossed up around her glorious thighs by now. Perhaps it was just as well that breeches on a woman were beyond his experience, for he was not quite sure that he could bank the flames of passion that her touch, her kisses, her very scent had ignited.

It was the damp chill of the rain-soaked ground that finally brought them both back to earth.

With a sudden squeak of embarrassment, Derrien slithered out from between his knees and scrambled none too steadily to her feet. Marquand rose as well, his own legs betraying a slight wobble. For several moments they stared at each other in awkward silence. It was Derrien who wrenched her eyes away first, and then kicked at the shaft of the long spoon that had fallen close by her feet.

“Damnation!”

Though the tension between them was nearly as thick as the low bank of fog rolling in from Eden Estuary, Marquand couldn’t help but give a twitch of a smile. It was so utterly like her, to react in a way no female of his previous of acquaintance would ever dream of. A month ago he would have been shocked beyond words, he admitted. But now, he found himself wondering why all the perfectly behaved misses from the sparkling ballrooms seemed rather flat and faceless in comparison.

“You know, Miss Edwards, only men are supposed to swear like that, not proper young ladies.”

“Well as you can clearly see, I am hardly a proper young lady,” she replied rather acidly, slapping at a cluster of curls that had fallen over her cheek.

“The sporting of breeches and boots might raise a few eyebrows, I admit,” he said in a low voice. “But let me assure you that other than that, every bit of you is most definitely a real lady.”

Her face turned a dull scarlet as she bit at her lower lip, still swollen with the passion of his kisses. “Th—this wasn’t supposed to happen,” she whispered, struggling to hold back tears.

“But it did.” He raked a hand through his own disheveled locks, hoping the gesture would help restrain the urge to pull her close to his chest once more and soothe the confusion from her pale face. “Lord, it is as if your Scottish witches of yore are making sport of us mere mortals, what with all the misunderstandings and masquerades that have been going on,” he muttered. “The problem is, this little charade certainly changes—” “No!” She forced her eyes back to meet his. For a moment he was awash in the tempest of emotions swirling in their blue depths. “Please, you must not tell! Why, it would ruin everything!”

“Miss Edwards, by all rights, I should be furious at your deception.”

“Why?”

He hesitated and felt himself sinking, as if caught in the shifting sands of the deepest pot bunker. “Well, er—”

“Hugh asked me to do this because I’m the best caddie here.” She bent to pick up her cap. “What does it matter that I’m not a male? Has my advice or guidance been any less valuable?”

It was the Viscount who was forced to contemplate the tips of his boots.

As if sensing that things were turning to her advantage, she pressed on. “Besides, you are hardly in a position to criticize me for disguising my true identity in order to engage in something I’m good at.”

“Miss Edwards, that’s playing dirty, to use my—”

She played her trump card. “Look, you want to win, don’t you?”

He drew in a deep breath. “So you are suggesting we continue as if . . . none of this has happened?”

“As you said yourself, it’s only for another day, then we can both forget about the entire thing. I’ve already agreed with Hugh that it is time for Master Derry to disappear from St. Andrews.”

Marquand tried to fathom her expression, but once again her features were submerged in shadows due to the replacement of the damn cap. Would she really find it so easy to forget their time together? His jaw tightened as he shifted his gaze from the subtle contours of her face to the myriad nuances of the linksland, with its rolling fairways, sandy bunkers, tall grasses, and hearty gorse. Here they had traded taunts, shared laughter, endured frustration, made mistakes, and sweated through hard work in order to celebrate some small measure of progress. At times it hadn’t been easy, but they had somehow managed to see it through together. He knew it would be no simple matter for him to simply excise these few weeks from his mind, as one would tear an unsatisfactory page out of a sketchbook, crumple it up, and toss it away.

But perhaps she did not care for the broad strokes and delicate shadings of their relationship. After all, he knew quite well what her sentiments were regarding titled English lords.

What he wished he knew more clearly were her sentiments regarding him.

“And anyway,” she continued in a halting voice, “I... ' I imagine that what just happened was only due to the fact that you are overset over . . . Miss Dunster.”

“You think I kissed you because I was thinking of Miss Dunster?”

Derrien swallowed hard. “W—why else? She is a perfect picture of a fine, highborn lady—beautiful, poised, and n—not a hair out of place.” Her fingers fumbled to tuck another errant ringlet up under the wool brim. “While I am an outspoken country ... brat in breeches.” Once again it took all of the Viscount’s considerable self-discipline not to sweep her up into his arms and continue where he had left off until she could make no mistake about whom he was thinking. Instead, he took several steps closer so that he could reach out and cup her chin. “Miss Honoria Dunster may be beautiful, poised, and perfectly groomed, but she cannot swing a long spoon, loft an errant shot out of the briars, or knock the ball to within a foot of the flag on the eighteenth hole. Pick up the clubs, brat. We have work to do.”

It was barely past dawn, and yet Derrien had already let herself into Philp’s shop. By the dim light of a single oil lamp, she inspected each of the Viscount’s clubs for any minute flaw which might affect play. Once assured that none of the grips were loose or cordings frayed, she ran a cloth dampened with a mixture of linseed oil and pine spirits over the hickory shafts and shaped hawthorn heads to remove any residue of salt or dried mud.

Having passed the scrutiny of both master and caddie, a dozen new featherie balls lay on the adjoining workbench, waiting to be pocketed for play. She tucked them in her jacket, along with a pouch of sand, then looked around. There was really nothing else that needed to be done, but to keep busy she began to polish the forged heads of the irons, even though there was not; a trace of dirt to be seen on them. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she worked. It was not difficult to find something to occupy her fingers, but it was not nearly so easy to keep her mind engaged on any of the mundane tasks she tried to appoint for it.

Her thoughts kept straying to things she knew were best forgotten, like the feel of Marquand’s lips on hers, a warm gentleness underlying the searing passion, or the intoxicating scent of him, a subtle mixture of woodsy spice with ovemotes of bay rum and leather which even now, in mere memory, were doing strange things to her breathing. Her fingers tightened on the cold iron. After today, all she would have of the Viscount were memories. She would have to picture in her mine’s eye the way the salty gusts ruffled his hair against the upturned collar of his shirt, the way damp linen clung to the corded muscles of his back.

No, that was not entirely true, she realized. There was one tangible remainder of his brief presence in her life in the carefully folded sheet of drawing paper that lay tucked away inside her sketchbook. The thought of it was nearly her undoing, and it took all of her self-control to keep from sobbing aloud. It was something she would always treasure. Those deft lines and shadings, so simple yet so eloquent, showed more than just a masterful talent for mixing color, texture, and shape. They revealed the toplofty English Viscount to be, in reality, a true artist, passionate and sensitive as well as boldly original in his thinking.

They also drew a picture of someone who was kind and generous. That he had taken the time to study her paltry efforts and offer such meaningful suggestions showed him to be far different from the cold, selfish aristocrat she had expected, just as his surprising personal revelations had shown him to be far more vulnerable than she had ever imagined. He was just the sort of man she had secretly given up hope of ever meeting—one whose intellect and imagination were matched by his compassion and his sensitivity. One for whom she could feel nothing but utmost respect and regard.

The club dropped into her lap. Who was she trying to fool? What she felt for Marquand was something much more than respect or regard. Her lip curled into a mocking grimace. Lord, she had really made a mull of things, for despite all her resolve to the contrary, she had fallen in love with an English lord. She supposed she deserved the dull ache that now settled in her breast for thinking, with all the hubris of youth, that she was immune to the intricacies of the human heart.

A sound nearby caused her head to come up. Philp took a seat at his workbench and slowly unfolded a heavy linen napkin on its scarred pine top. “You had best eat something, lassie. You are going to need your strength.” He held out a hot scone, refraining from any comment on the faint trace of a tear or two on her pale cheek.

“Thank you, Hugh.” Derrien managed a bite of the rich, raisin-studded pastry and found to her surprise that she was indeed hungry. The rest of it disappeared rather quickly.

A small smile played on his lips. “That’s a good sign, you know, that you aren’t so nervous as to have lost all appetite.” He broke off a bit for himself. “So, have you confidence that you and your man have a chance?”

A part of the scone was reduced to crumbs between her fingers. “What Lord Marquand lacks in experience he makes up for in determination, Hugh. And this match is of the utmost importance to him. So, yes, I think we can win. We shall no doubt need a little luck as well as skill, but it can be done.”

“I think his lordship is not the only one with pluck,” murmured Philp. “Now best put on that cap of yours before he arrives—”

“He knows, Hugh.”

“What?” Philp nearly choked on his last bite. “How?” “He . . . guessed.” She hoped her cheeks were not as flaming as they felt. “I think he said it had something to do with m—my lips. But it doesn’t matter. I convinced him he had no choice but to keep me as his caddie for today.” She essayed a note of humor. “At least Master Derry shall take his leave of St. Andrews with a grand flourish—and hopefully with a much plumper pocket.” The master carefully folded the napkin so as to keep the remaining scones warm. “Derry, I hope that—”

His words were interrupted by the arrival of the Viscount. He shook a few drops of rain from his jacket as he stepped inside and latched the door. “Good morning,” he called, rubbing his hands together to ward off the early morning chill. “A bit of a squall has blown in, but it looks to be clearing off shortly.” As he approached the workbench, he paused to sniff the air. “That smells delicious, Miss Edwards, I hope that you are going to share some of your treats with me ...” A tinge of color rose to his cheeks as he realized how his easy banter might be interpreted. “Ahhh, that is, what I mean is—” Philp saved him from further embarrassment. “I should hope you’ve taken more than a bit of scone for your breakfast, sir. It’s going to be a long day.”