A Diamond in the Rough

by Andrea Pickens

  She bit her lip. Actually she had come to see him as much more than that, despite all her previous resolve, and the utter hopelessness of her true feelings.

  'Hugh,” she said in a steely voice. “I have an idea.”

  “And what news is that?” Marquand’s eyes had already returned to the page before him.

  “The devil take it, Adrian, this is deucedly hard to begin.” Ellington ran a finger around his collar. “That was one of Hylton’s servants at the door. He had an extremely urgent message regarding . . .” The words trailed off in some confusion. “Er, perhaps you should read the note that he brought.” His fingers hastily pushed the folded paper across the polished pine table as if it were a hot coal.

  Marquand took it up and, after a cursory look at the handwriting, dropped it by his cup. He began to add some shading around the outlines of a fountain.

  “Good Lord, Adrian!” sputtered the other man. “I really think you had better read the damn thing. I doubt you will be bursting with song when you have learned its contents.”

  The Viscount looked up, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “On the contrary, Tony. I am delighted that Honoria and her Mr. Ferguson have found such happiness with each other. I imagine that by now, they are safely wed and finally free of all interference from her unbearable parents.”

  Ellington’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “Y— you . . . know?”

  “Yes. She told me last night.”

  “And you are not upset?” His voice revealed more than a tad of incredulity. “Or . . . angry at how all your carefully constructed plans have come crashing down like . . . like a house of cards?”

  Marquand’s smile became more pronounced. “Well, I suppose I have learned myself the foolishness of counting on cards to do one’s bidding.”

  His friend shook his head. “Is there something bewitching in the Scottish air? Or has Hecate and her cronies added some special potion to your tea? You hardly sound like the same fellow I left London with.”

  “Perhaps I am not,” he said softly, surprising himself as much as his friend.

  Philp stroked a callused hand along his jaw. “You think it possible?”

  Derrien gave a nod.

  “Well, it’s worth a try.”

  The two of them slipped out through the damaged door into the small alleyway behind the shop. Making their way through the swirling fog, they followed one of the narrow cobbled streets down to the harbor at the mouth of Kinness burn. The weather had caused a number of fishermen to delay their departure, so despite the early hour, the tavern next to the docks was far from empty.

  “Wait here,” ordered Philp as he turned to enter the place.

  “But—” Derrien decided not to argue on seeing his expression, but it was with great impatience that she paced over the slick stones while he was inside. After what seemed like an age, Philp finally reemerged from the smoky confines of the public room, two hulking fellows trailing in his wake.

  “Charlie Kidd, ye say, Hugh? Aye, I know where we’re most likely ta find the scamp.” One of the men flexed his bulging biceps as he spoke. “Ye think he’s mixed up in sommink havey-cavey with Lord Hertford?” When Philp nodded, the man’s broad mouth twisted in a ferocious frown. “Then Angus and me will have it out of him, see if we don’t.”

  “It’s the clubs we want, Jock, not just his deadlights darkened,” piped up Derrien. “Remember to give them the purse, Mr. Philp.” As the leather sack exchanged hands she went on. “You find that coins will work even better than threats with Charlie. Use both, and I’m sure he can be convinced to tell us where they are.” She paused for a fraction. “Of course, they might have been tossed in the Bay, but I don’t think so. Not yet.” “That’s right smart of ye, Derry me lad,” growled the one called Jock. “I’d wager as well that the clubs haven’t been destroyed, even if that’s wot the Marquess ordered. Charlie would figger they’re too valuable not to stow away for some future profit.”

  “We appreciate your help, Jock. Somehow I think you and Angus will manage to be a tad more persuasive than myself and Master Derry.”

  Angus gave a short guffaw and shifted his prodigious weight from foot to foot. “Aye, don’t ye worry. We members of the Society of St. Andrews Golfers must stick together, especially when someone dares go up against the likes of you, Hugh. Go on now, you and the lad head back te yer shop. Wee Charlie will turn over them sticks if he has ’em, or he’ll at least tell us wot he knows. Count on it.” A quick grin flickered over his meaty features. “What say ye ta owing us each one of those bonny long-nosed putters ye make if we find yer man’s clubs?”

  Philp returned the grin. “Auch, with pleasure.”

  “Now the scamp has no chance of wiggling out of trouble,” said Jock. He turned to his companion. “Nor do ye, Angus, me friend. With such a magic wand as Hugh’s club in my hand, you’ll not best me again on the links.” “Ha! If you think . . .” The two men tramped off, their barbed teasing about each other’s golf game soon muffled by the thick mists still blowing in from the North Sea.

  “That was bonny thinking, lassie, to enlist the two of them to help out,” said Philp as they started back up the hill toward the shop.

  “You heard Angus—golfers stick together. And they are the biggest golfers I could think of, not to speak of being the toughest fellows around the docks. Why, the only men who dare getting in a fight with them are each other.” Her nose crinkled in some satisfaction. “It would serve Charlie right if they wring his traitorous little neck.”

  “Let us simply hope that they return with Lord Marquand’s clubs.” After another few steps, he spoke again. “I have been thinking—Roxburghe is of a size and build with the Viscount. If the missing clubs do not turn up, we could send word to Floors Castle and I’m sure the Duke would gladly lend us the set I made for him.” “Don’t worry, Hugh. I have a feeling we shall not have to resort to that.”

  Sure enough, not an hour had passed before Jock and Angus appeared at the shop door, a large bundle wrapped in oilcloth carried between them.

  “Nary a scratch on them, Hugh,” said Jock in a low voice as he handed the clubs over.

  “You could almost say the same for Charlie,” added his companion with a short chuckle. “He’s taken off to pay a wee visit to his aunt in Dunfirmline. Decided the climate would be a bit better for his health, didn’t he?” “Aye, you could say that.” He returned the purse to Philp. “We didn’t need to make use of this.”

  “Well done, my friends.” Philp began to unwrap the wet cloth and wipe the beads of moisture from the varnished hickory. “Come around in a week’s time for your putters. However you both must promise me they won’t end up knocking up against each other’s skulls.”

  “Auch, no, Hugh. A club fashioned by your hand is far too valuable to risk damaging in that way,” replied Jock with a grin. “Gud luck in besting Lord Hertford. We had best be getting down to the boats now that the weather looks to be breaking.”

  Derrien came over to help inspect the Viscount’s clubs as the two men headed back down to the harbor. They were indeed undamaged, save for a slight tear in one of the sheepskin grips which could easily be repaired in the space of a quarter of an hour. Philp went to trim up a piece of new leather. When he returned to his bench, he found that she had already cut the old one away and was carefully rewrapping the underlisting.

  “Don’t wind yourself too tight, Derry,” he cautioned, taking in the pinch of worry on her face. “There is really nothing more you can do now, save going out and helping him play a good round tomorrow.”

  “I know that, Hugh.” She looked up, her blue eyes darkened by the crosscurrents of concern and some other, more unfathomable emotion. “But it . . . means so much to him.”

  “And to you, lassie. Does it mean so much to you, now?”

  Derrien ducked her head without answering.

  “Hold the shaft firm while I apply a layer of glue,” he said after a moment’s pause. Though he pressed here no furthe
r, his expression became quite grave, though he, too, bent low to hide his thoughts.

  The work was nearly done when Marquand walked into the shop. His hair was damp from the lingering mist, drops clinging to the raven locks that curled over his brow and against the collar of his upturned jacket. Derrien had to force her eyes away from his chiseled profile, away from how the fine wool clung to his broad shoulders, and how his buckskin breeches molded to the contours of his muscled thighs.

  Fool! she chastised herself. She must get a grip on such wayward thoughts. It wouldn’t do to see the Viscount as aught but a golfer who needed her skill and expertise, unclouded by any sort of emotional distraction. No, she must never show that she . . . loved him.

  Her fingers tightened around the tapered shaft with such force that her knuckles went white. There—she had finally admitted it, if only to herself. She had done the unthinkable and fallen in love with the English lord, despite all her resolve to the contrary. It made no sense at all, but suddenly the mere sight of him was enough to set her heart to pounding and her breath to coming in ragged gulps, no matter that her feelings would never be reciprocated. But somehow she must keep yet another secret hidden away, for one more day at least. That should not be so impossible—after all, she had a good deal of practice in the art of disguise.

  “Is something amiss?” Marquand’s gaze shifted from Philp’s drawn features to Derrien’s rigid shoulders.

  “A slight accident, but nothing to be concerned about, my lord.” Philp finished applying a wrapping at the butt of the shaft. He held the club out at arm’s length and inspected his handiwork. “It’s already fixed,” he added with a curt nod of approval.

  “Good, for I should like to get in one more round of practice before tomorrow.” His lips curled into a faint smile. “That is, if it is agreeable to you, Master Derry?” “Of course,” she mumbled, turning to gather up the rest of his clubs from one of the other workbenches.

  “Mr. Philp,” continued the Viscount. “I wondered whether you might have the direction of Mrs. Edwards and her niece, as I have been given to understand that you are a friend of the family?”

  A long spoon clattered to the floor.

  “Er, yes, I am . . .” Philp took a moment to light his pipe.

  On seeing the older man’s furrowed brow, Marquand added an explanation. “Miss Edwards was taken ill last night, and I thought I might inquire as to how she is feeling when I am finished here.”

  “Oh, as to that, I happened to stop by their home on my way to the shop this morning so I can assure you that Miss Derrien is fully recovered,” he replied in some haste. “Enough that she has . . . gone out for the day. I don’t believe she is likely to return much before dusk.” “I see.” He shrugged. “Well, I’m happy to hear it is nothing serious.”

  Nothing serious, thought Derrien as she opened the door. Perhaps it was true, and that as soon as the dratted man returned to London, her heart would indeed fully recover. But somehow she doubted that the image of his piercing eyes and lean face would be quite so easy to banish as a bout of sniffles.

  As he lingered in conversation with Philp, she ventured another surreptitious look at his face, searching for some sign of his own bruised emotions. Ferguson had sent word that he and Miss Dunster had slipped away before dawn, so surely the Viscount would have heard of it by now. However, far from exhibiting any brooding sighs or mooning eyes, Marquand looked to be in excellent spirits as he traded one last quip with the master. Her brow furrowed. It was odd—he certainly was not acting like a gentleman whose heart had just been broken.

  She shifted the clubs on her shoulder and resolved to keep her thoughts from straying off the fairway. Golf, for all its maddening nuances and frustrations, was at least a game whose rules she understood.

  Marquand surveyed the terrain that lay between him and the distant flutter of cloth. “Ditch skirting the right side fairway, those two bunkers, The Spectacles, guarding either side of the far approach, and a tricky swale sloping off behind the flag,” he muttered under his breath. After tossing up a few blades of grass in order to better gauge the direction of the breeze, he turned to Derrien with a furrowed brow. “I should think the best play is to lay up with the heavy iron and count on the bafflng spoon to get me close on the next shot.”

  She handed over the club with a bob of her head. “Very good, sir. You are beginning to think like a true golfer.”

  He chuckled. “High praise indeed, Master Derry.” Having finally elicited some reaction other than a curt yea or nay, he was now trying to pry a smile from the lad, but to no avail, it appeared. The young caddie merely lowered his head in the face of the gusting wind, the floppy tweed cap hiding even more of his smudged face than usual, and hurried off toward the ball. Marquand followed at a more leisurely pace, thinking not for the first time what an odd fellow the lad was. Well, it was of no great concern, he told himself, for at the moment his thoughts were not the lest inclined to dwell on a boy, odd or otherwise.

  Quite the opposite.

  Though he knew it was important to stay focused on his golf, it was deuced difficult not to let the image of an unruly profusion of golden curls come to mind. Or a pert freckled nose. Or a most interesting set of lips, no less expressive for all their softly rounded curves. The devil take it, he found his blood was beginning to heat, and not from the exertion of the game. This would never do—he must banish all thoughts of that intriguing face, at least until after tomorrow.

  And then? With a harried sigh, he forced such a question out of his head as well. It was the state of his golf swing that should be of utmost concern at the moment, not the mysteries of his heart.

  The ball lay just where he meant to place it, perfectly positioned for an easy chip over the bunker and a gentle roll down to the flag. His caddie was already holding out the baffing spoon. Taking a deep breath to steady his concentration, Marquand stepped up, studied the distance, and let fly with an easy stroke. The stitched feath-erie arced up over the hazard and came to earth on the fringe of the green, its spin pulling it to within a scant foot of the hole.

  The Viscount repressed a wry grimace—perhaps he should let his mind wander after all!

  “I hope you are saving a few of those for the morrow,” Derrien said rather gruffly.

  He strolled over to his ball and tapped in for his par. “Never fear, Master Derry, I am beginning to feel as if Lady Luck is not such a fickle harlot after all.”

  It seemed that a strange look flickered over the caddie’s half-hidden features. “That’s a strange sentiment, coming from a gentleman whose intended bride has just run off with another man,” she blurted out.

  There was dead silence for a moment, then his lips quirked upward. “Yes, I suppose it is.” He handed the putter over and slowly took the scorecard from his pocket. “You seem to be as skilled at ferreting out information as you are in driving one of Mr. Robertson’s featheries. But be that as it may, the subject is not one I intend to discuss with a mere child.”

  “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.