Behind him, the dull thwock of the putter head caused the heel mark to become a good deal deeper.
The Marquess was not the only one venting his anger. The spectators had already moved ahead with Brewster to the next hole, leaving the players and their caddies to follow along, so when Marquand rounded a tall stand of prickly whin, there was no one to witness that the much larger Jimmy had the collar of Derrien’s jacket wrapped in his fist.
“Try sommink like that agin, an’ I’ll pound yer gob so deep in the mud, ye’ll be picking sand outter yer eyeballs fer weeks, Dirty Derry,” he growled. He had dropped all of his clubs but one, which cut through the air in threatening swipes, coming closer and closer to Derrien’s head.
Marquand started forward at a run, but before he could interfere, Derry’s knee came up with lightning quickness, catching the other caddie flush in the groin. With a high-pitched squeak, he dropped to the ground as if struck by a bolt from the heavens.
“If you are trying to keep my thoughts from dwelling too heavily on my game, you are doing an excellent job,” quipped the Viscount as his own hand took hold of her and hurried them past the whimpering lad. “Where on earth did you learn that?”
“Ahhh, Charles thought it might be a useful thing for me to know, seeing as I have occasion to wander the moors alone.”
Marquand found his estimation of Ferguson rose another notch. “Very useful indeed. But pray, stay close to me for the rest of the match. My physical prowess is being tested quite enough without having to excavate you from a bunker or fish you out of the sea.”
“I can take care of myself,” she snapped defensively. He stifled a chuckle. “Yes, I can see that, but still, let us not chance it. You see, I would really hate to have to lug around my own clubs.”
A grin chased away the lines of tension pulling at her mouth. “It’s only two more holes,” she teased back. “I’m sure you could manage by yourself.”
His hand gave her arm a quick squeeze. “Go it alone? No, I don’t think I care to try. For whatever it’s worth, we are in this together. Until the very end.”
It was worth a great deal. More than he would ever realize. She made a show of shifting the clubs from one shoulder to the other so that he would not notice the spasm of emotion his casual words had elicited. He could not know how much it meant to her that he, too, saw the two of them as a team, at least for next little while. Her throat suddenly tightened. And after that?
It didn’t bear thinking on.
She set her jaw, determined to heed her own advice about concentrating on the task at hand rather than thinking on the past or the future. There would be time enough for long reflection when he was gone from her life. But now, they had a match to win.
Marquand had already hit and Brewster had begun to stomp in some impatience by the time Hertford appeared, followed by his whey-faced caddie, who was moving in such a gingerly fashion that every few steps drew a bark of rebuke from the Marquess. The long spoon already in his hand, he took a practice swing, casting a murderous look at Derrien as the club cut a swath through the low stubble, before stepping up to make his drive. The ball bounced off into the low rough, but the Viscount’s effort had not been one of his better shots so neither man had the advantage.
It remained that way over the course of play. Marquand’s second shot found a pot bunker on the left, but Hertford failed to capitalize on the error by putting his own ball in a cart rut near the edge of the road. Both gentlemen took a shot to recover, so they reached the green all square. Two putts later, it remained that way, so the hole was halved.
And so they marched on to the eighteenth hole, the match tied.
Though it was the Viscount who should have shown signs of unraveling, given the magnitude of the stakes, it was Hertford whose nerves had begun to show signs of fraying. Over the inward nine, his play had steadily deteriorated, his once-smooth swing turning jerky, his choice of shots questionable. His experience, which should have allowed him to pull away from a less-seasoned player, was proving no advantage. Indeed it was Marquand who appeared the cooler, calmer of the two.
As they crossed the ancient Roman footbridge over Swilkan Bum, the Marquess was muttering to himself when not snarling at his caddie, and a sheen of sweat had appeared on his forehead although the chill gusts had not abated. Both gentlemen took an extra moment to swing their clubs through the air before Brewster, as was his wont before each hole, announced the score and called for play to begin.
Marquand hit first, his drive nothing spectacular but one that stayed safely out of any hazard. Hertford followed with one of his better shots of the day, and for the first time in a long while, the sneer came back to his lips as his ball landed a good distance past that of his opponent.
Catching sight of the grim set of Marquand’s mouth, Derrien gave him a not-too gentle nudge in the ribs on her way up the fairway. “It is the next shot you must be thinking on, not the last one. Remember, you do not have to play perfectly, just one stroke better than your opponent,” she reminded him in a low whisper. Her brows drew together in mock anger. “Now hit a good one, will you? I don’t want to have carried these sticks around all morning for naught.”
The quick rebuke coaxed a reluctant chuckle from him. “Ahh, now that is the Derry I have come to know and love.”
Her heart gave a little lurch. Her words had proved a distraction, as she had hoped. But so had his! She knew his quip was meant to be as teasing as her own, so there was no reason for her feet to suddenly feel tangled or her pulse to race.
“The middle spoon, don’t you think.”
It took her a moment or two to recover her wits. She squinted at the distant flag, then gauged the wind by tossing a bit of grass in the air. “Take the scraper.”
He hesitated. “But—”
She silenced him with a withering look.
“The scraper it is,” he said with a twitch of his lips. For an instant after the ball left the club, it looked to be flying too far, not only clearing the near hazard with ease but threatening to carry all the way into the far bunker. Then a gust of wind kicked up to alter its trajectory and it fell to earth perfectly positioned for the next shot into the green.
Without comment, Derrien reached for the club and put it back on her shoulder.
Up ahead, Hertford demanded a club and, ignoring a squeak of dissent from his caddie, let fly. The same swirling wind quickly caught his shot, toying with its progress before causing it to land a bit short of where the Viscount’s ball lay. Seeing he had lost his initial advantage in distance by the wrong choice of club, the Marquess flung it aside, nearly dealing the unfortunate lad another blow to his anatomy.
Nerves seemed to be affecting both men. Neither hit a particularly good third shot, and a tense murmur ran through the assorted followers as they took up position to watch the next shot, speculation mounting with each moment on who would manage to eke out victory.
It was Marquand’s turn to hit first, since he was farthest from the flag. A tricky swale, the Valley of Sin, made his the far more difficult shot, but on Derrien’s advice, he took the baffing spoon and knocked a nicely lofted shot up onto the green.
A chorus of muted whistles greeted the result, and from the number of barely suppressed smiles that appeared throughout the small crowd, it was clear with whom their sympathies lay. Face white with suppressed fury, Hertford stalked forward to hit his own shot. Despite his glowering expression, he still held a big edge, with a he and angle that allowed him to take dead aim at the hole. But whether from anger or tension, his wrists remained too stiff, causing him to hack at the ball, rather than swing through with a clean stroke. The featherie popped up, and instead of heading toward the flag it hooked left in a wobbly arc before dropping to earth and rolling weakly for several feet.
Derrien stared with disbelief as the ball finally came to rest. “Stymied!” she exclaimed softly. “Of all the cursed bad luck!”
A collective groan sounded as the muderous expression
on the Marquess’s face turned to one of unmitigated glee. Though Marquand didn’t understand the term she had just used, it took no more than a few seconds to see that the situation was not good.
Hertford’s botched shot had stopped within eight inches of his own, but it lay directly in his path to the hole.
Brewster hurried over and hunched down to examine the position of each ball. “Since the balls cannot be judged to be touching, Lord Marquand is not allowed to move his opponent’s shot,” he announced, with what sounded like some regret.
“Shouldn’t we fetch a ruler, to be sure?” demanded Derrien, though without much conviction. At Mar-quand’s questioning glance, she added in a low voice, “If the distance between the balls were less than six inches, the rules would deem them to be touching, and you would be able to move Lord Hertford’s shot.”
The judge shook his head. “The span of my hand fits between them and it is well more than six inches, lad.” He stepped back. “I’m afraid you must play it as it lies, sir.”
As the Viscount was required to go first, because he was farther away from the hole, there was little choice but to comply. He took his time circling the balls, careful to study every angle, then returned to where Derrien was standing.
“Hell’s teeth, I see no alternative but to give my ball a tap sideways, even though it means losing a stroke, and quite likely the match,” he whispered.
Her nose wrinkled in concentration. After a moment, she motioned for him to follow her back to the far edge of the green, where she turned around and crouched down.
The Viscount did the same.
The only sounds were the rustlings of the tall grass and the whoosh of the wind blowing in from the North Sea.
“What are we looking at?” asked Marquand softly, his cheek inches from hers as they both leaned forward on their hands and knees.
“The slope of the ground, the height of the grass and the grain—remember, the ball always tends to roll toward water.”
“But, Derry, how can it matter? I cannot go through his ball.”
“No, you cannot go through it, sir. You are going to go over it.”
“The deuce take it, Brewster, make him play,” demanded Hertford in a petulant voice. “He’s taking entirely too long over this.” A malicious smile stole over his features. “In any case, it’s clear that he is only putting off the inevitable defeat for an extra few minutes.”
The judge waved off the whining. “Quiet, sir. That may be so, however the Viscount is well within his rights to take a reasonable amount of time to decide what shot he wishes to attempt.”
The sharp rebuke wiped some of the smugness from the Marquess’s face, but nearly all of the lines of doubt were gone as well, smoothed away by the assurance that victory was his at last. Turning to several of his cronies standing nearby, he began to make plans for a celebratory ale at one of the nearby taverns.
“Over it,” repeated Marquand. “How the devil—”
She put a hand on his chest, and he could feel both the softness of her fingers and the hard edge of the silver charm. “You take the short iron, lay the face open to add loft and hit down on the ball.”
A spark of rare intensity had kindled in her eyes, reminding him of the glow that came over her features when she studied his sketches or explained her own concepts. He drew in his breath, struck again by the depth of her character, the boldness of her imagination, the courage of her spirit when faced by adversity. Never had he met another person, let alone a female, who not only seemed able to understand his own hopes and fears but whose passion and determination matched his own. He nearly laughed aloud realizing that for all the time he had spent amid silk and spendor searching for the perfect Countess for Woolsey Hall, she had magically walked into his life sporting a floppy tweed cap and baggy breeches.
“It’s simple, really. Just land the ball there”—she pointed to a spot four feet away where a slight undulation rolled away toward the flag—“and the slope will carry it right into the hole.”
He looked at the ball, then the ground, then her face. “Do you know, I think you would like Woolsey Hall very much. The land behind the gardens also slopes down—” “My lord!” Her elbow caught him smack in the ribs. “What on earth are you babbling about? You are supposed to be thinking on the shot. And only the shot.” His mouth quirked upward. “Yes, yes. The chip. Up and over you say? Can it truly be done?”
She gave him a smile that caused his heart to skip a beat. “Come now, surely the man with the vision to create the plans for Highleigh Manor has the imagination to see how easily such a thing can be done.”
A good number of the spectators craned their necks to see what was going on at the sound of Marquand’s amused laugh.
“Easy you say? Precious little has proved easy around you, my dear Derry, but I suppose that is what has made it so interesting—” he murmured.
“My lord!”
“I know, I know, the shot. Well, I should hate to think of disappointing my caddie, so I guess there is nothing to do for it but try.” He paused for a moment. “You know, there is something I should like to tell you—” “Good Heavens, whatever it is, it can wait!” She went over to where she had laid the clubs and picked up the short iron. “Here,” she said in a fierce whisper when she had returned. “Now will you kindly shut up and make the plaguey shot so we can all go home? I have no desire to traipse another hole with your sticks on my shoulder.” Several gasps of surprise punctuated the buzz of excitement that ran through the crowd as they realized what Marquand intended to do. The noise quickly died away as he stepped up to his ball and made a practice swing, taking care to lay the face open just as Derrien had advised. The club came back for real, in a short, steep backswing, then he brought it through with just the right touch, soft, but still firm. The ball hopped into the air, sailing over the other featherie with ease and coming to land within inches of where Derrien had indicated. The slope and spin caused it to gather speed when it hit the short grass. Off it rolled, turning left, then right, then at the last moment left again. For an instant it hung on the lip of the hole before dropping in.
A cheer erupted from the small crowd and they surged forward a step or two before Marquand waved them back. With an impassive countenance, he turned to his opponent. “You can still tie if you make your putt, Hertford.” His hand came up to rub at his jaw. “But I must say, I wouldn’t want to be faced with such a devilishly tricky shot. Can’t for the life of me decide whether it breaks left or right.” It was only when he turned to face Derrien that he gave a quick wink and a grin.
The Marquess could only gape in stunned disbelief. “Of all the bloody luck, you poxy son of a dog,” he snarled under his breath. “That was an impossible . . .” His words trailed off in a flurry of impotent curses. Hands shaking, he attempted to study his line, but effort proved to no avail. As soon as he struck the ball it was clear he had pulled it badly. It rolled well left of the hole.
“Goddamn it, I—I’ve been cheated!” Hertford whirled, the club clenched in his hand, and glared at Brewster. “Marquand’s shot was not a fair one! I demand the match be forfeit—”
“As Captain of the St. Andrews Society of Golfers, may I remind you that I am well acquainted with the rules of golf.” The other man stood his ground, his expression as stony as Scottish granite. “And there is nothing in them that prohibits such a play.” A crack of a smile appeared. “Indeed, it was one of the bonniest bits of shotmaking I’ve seen in all my years on the links.”
“I swear, it was only foul play that allowed—”
“Have a care how you go on, Hertford,” interrupted Marquand softly. “Or do you wish to meet on a different patch of grass tomorrow morning? I have a good deal more practice with executing that type of shot, so it would prove an even more interesting match of skills.” The Marquess’s mouth hung open for a moment, then shut with a near audible gnashing of teeth.
“Don’t care for that sort of challenge?” Marquand’s lips cu
rled up. “Didn’t think so, as it is well known that you don’t play any game unless the odds are thoroughly stacked in your favor. Today, however, was not your lucky day.” He held out his hand. “I believe you have in your possession a number of things that now rightly belong to me.”
Defeated on all counts, Hertford wrenched out a fistful of crumpled vowels from his coat pocket and threw them to the ground. In the same motion, he turned and with a vicious heave sent his putter flying in a high arc out toward the rocky strand. A string of curses trailing after it, he stalked from the field amid a chorus of low whistles and jeers.
“My God, Adrian, you did it!” cried Ellington, pounding his friend on the back as well-wishers flooded onto the green. “Against all odds, you really did it!”
“You showed grit, Marquand. And heart. My congratulations,” added Bowmont.
Philp sucked at his pipe and merely smiled.
“What a relief! It’s hard to believe it is finally over and we may finally think of taking ourselves home,” continued Ellington. “Lord, I am looking forward to the comforts of London, despite the rather quirky charms of Scotland. And you must be even more eager to be gone from here, Adrian, now that you have accomplished all you set out to do.” He took a moment to consult his pocketwatch. “Why, it’s only noon. With dusk not falling until well into the night, we could have a number of hours on the road if we choose to leave this very afternoon.”
Marquand’s eyes were glued on a lone figure, fast disappearing along the edge of the first fairway. “Actually, there is one thing still unsettled, Tony.” His lips twitched into a wry expression. “Would that I knew the score on that account . . .” He cleared his throat. “I shall see all of you back at the house shortly and we will crack a bottle of champagne to celebrate. But right now, I’m afraid you must excuse me.”
He caught up to her along the rocky shore. The gusting wind had freed several golden curls from the confines of the tweed cap and they danced across her freckled cheek, obscuring the expression on her face.
A Diamond in the Rough Page 23
