Page 148

With all the precision of a skilled architect, he had drafted a plan for his future, sketching in the exact measurements of its main components with an eye to making an impregnable structure.

His bride-to-be could not fit in more perfectly, and yet somehow, as his friend forced him to stand back and scrutinize the whole, the proportions of what he had wrought were looking slightly out of kilter.

He shook his head, as if a slight jiggling could serve to straighten everything back to its proper place.

But still, he couldn’t seem to erase the feeling that the foundations were not as sturdy as he imagined.

Perhaps his uncharacteristic moodiness since their departure from London had as much to do with his own flawed choices as those of his father, and he was just too afraid to admit it.

A muscle of his jaw twitched ever so slightly.

Surely his engagement had been fashioned with a steady hand?

Lady Honoria was the perfect material for a wife—cool and lovely as the finest marble, and just as unlikely as that sublime stone to display any sudden shifts from her proper place.

Yet Rafael's gentle criticisms had given him pause for thought.

He, of all people, knew the difference between a work where all the angles were correct, resulting in a perfect hard-edged beauty that all might admire, and a creation that stirred a more... passionate response.

One was craft, the other was art.

Would he truly be satisfied with mere correctness in his personal life— something that he would never settle for in his professional affairs?

His eyes strayed to the decanter on the sideboard, and for the first time he could remember, he felt a strong temptation to drain the entire contents.

But a glance at the clock on the mantel reminded him that tomorrow promised to be as long —and no doubt as trying— as the past afternoon.

Honor bound him to give his best effort in meeting any challenge.

And as he was not quite ready to surrender, he put aside his glass, then took himself off to his desk. He still had a great deal to do before he could allow himself the luxury of some sleep.

"You must remember to shift your weight to your right foot when you take the club back, sir, and then fire through, as if you were throwing a rock toward that patch of gorse.

" Philp took the club from Adrian's hands and dropped a ball from his pocket onto the grass.

The hickory shaft came back and then forward in one fluid motion, sending the small leather orb in a soaring arc through the light fog. "Like that."

He dropped another ball at the viscount’s feet. "Try again."

Jaw clenched, Adrian took up his stance.

"Try not to grip the club as if you were going to smash someone over the head with it," came a low snicker from behind his back.

Adrian restrained the urge to do exactly that to his caddie.

"Ahem!" The caution from Philp was clear.

"But he doesn't seem to be listening to anything you tell him," protested Derrien, as she shifted the group of clubs from one arm to another.

Philp fixed her with a stern look. "That's hardly fair la—lad. You know very well golf is not something that is learned in a day. His Lordship is progressing quite nicely."

She ducked her head in mute contrition. He was right, of course.

But it was irritating in the extreme to watch the stiff-rumped English lord approach the ball as if it were something he could hammer into submission—no doubt that was what he was used to!

Still, she must remember that much as she disliked him, his upcoming opponent was an infinitely worse sort.

Her attempts at advice should, as Philp had just hinted, be couched in a more positive manner.

After all, she had promised that she would do her best to help.

Philp turned back to the viscount. "Now sir, go ahead."

Adrian set his feet once again, then drew the long shaft back in the sweeping motion.

The club paused for a fraction at the top of the swing, then started down, gathering speed as it descended toward the ball.

The head of the long spoon made clean contact, and with a sweet thwock , the feathery flew up and landed in the middle of the fairway not far from Philp's drive.

"Well struck, sir!" exclaimed his teacher.

"Good shot," allowed Derrien, though she couldn't help but add under her breath, "It's about time you got the hang of it."

A slow smile lit up Adrian's face. "So that's how it's done," he murmured to himself, unable to mask the note of elation in his voice." It seemed so effortless. I hardly felt any impact at all and look at how far a distance the ball traveled."

Derrien had to admit that when the viscount unbent enough to show aught but a look of icy hauteur upon his rigid features, he could appear almost attractive.

That is, if one favored tall, broad-shouldered gentlemen of title with no apparent skills other than the ability to shuffle a deck of cards or knot an intricate cravat.

Which, of course, she most certainly did not.

Philp also chose to indulge in an uncharacteristic show of emotion, going so far as to clap Adrian on the shoulder. "We'll make a golfer of you yet, milord."

The viscount's smile broadened, revealing a boyish enthusiasm Derrien wouldn't have guessed possible.

He further surprised her by breaking into a most unlordly trot in his haste to reach his ball.

"The middle spoon," he called, waving at her with undisguised impatience.

"Stop dawdling, lad." He nearly snatched the club out from under her arm as she approached.

"What say you, seventy yards to the flag? "

Derrien squinted to make out the flutter of bright cloth through the mist. "Nay, the distance is deceiving in this weather.

It's more like eighty." She stood quite still for a moment, gauging the feel of the swirling breeze.

"Add another ten for the wind." Her hand reached out and pulled the middle spoon from his grasp. "You'll need the heavier club."

"The devil I will." Adrian ignored the proffered handle. "Give me the middle spoon."

She clamped the club in question even more firmly under her arm. "You'll hit what I tell you to hit." There was a deliberate pause before she added, "sir." Even a half-wit could not have mistaken the sneer in her tone.

Philp hastily interposed himself between the two of them to ensure that the next swing of a club was not directed at Derrien's head. "What's the trouble here?"

Adrian pointed a finger at his scowling caddie. "This impudent little wretch won't give me the deuced club I asked for."

"Of course I won't, Mr. Philp, because it isn't the right shot to attempt." Her chin jutted out with a defiant tilt. "You said as I was to try and teach him something about the game, but if he insists on being a total gudgeon..." Her words trailed off, but not without another snort of contempt.

"Hmmm." The older man looked slowly from lord to lad, "How far do you hit a middle spoon, milord?"

"You just saw. It was eighty yards at least."

"Aye, and a bonny shot it was. The best you've struck so far." He paused for a fraction. "How often could you do it again, sir? Nine times in ten? Seven in ten? Or perhaps only two in ten?"

Adrian's lips compressed.

"Now, do you know what lies in front of the green? Or behind it?"

"Of course he doesn't," interrupted Derrien.

"He didn't know enough to ask." She turned a look of withering scorn on the viscount.

"There is a sharp gully cutting in front of the hole, while behind it, the ground rolls off in a gentle incline.

If you hit your ball short, it will take several strokes to recover, while there is little penalty for hitting it long.

It's quite simple, really. One way you give yourself a chance to win the hole, while the other?—"

"Thank you, Derry. I believe you've made the point sufficiently clear.

" Philp slowly let out a gusty sigh. "Golf is a mental game as well as a physical one, Lord Marquand.

Especially match play. Think of it this way —you will soon be going into battle against a tough opponent.

You would do well to consider yourself a general of sorts.

You must weight risk, understand your own capabilities —and those of your foe— in order to devise a strategy that will give you the best chance of success. "

A muscle twitched on the viscount's jaw. He reached out his hand. "The scraper, if you please."

Derrien gave it over without a word.

Adrian took his stance over the ball, taking care to set his feet at the proper distance.

He gave the club a waggle or two, then let go with a prodigious swing, powerful, yet controlled.

The ball shot off, as if fired from a cannon, and ripped through the fog to land a scant five yards past the flag.

Without so much as a look at Derrien's face, he flipped the club in her direction, then stalked off toward the green.

"Well, well. So His Lordship has some competitive fire beneath that icy exterior." The fine lines around Philp's eyes crinkled in humor as he gave a low chuckle. "Derry, my dear, I think our man might just have a chance."

"How did the lesson go today?"

Adrian tossed his jacket over the arm of the sofa and sat down with a sigh.

" Philp seems to think I am making some progress.

And it does appear that the ball is beginning to go vaguely in direction that I am aiming.

" His lips pursed. "Though it is still up in the air as to whether I shall be able to refrain from throttling that irritating little caddie before the match with Hertford. "

After a moment's reflection, he gave a rueful grimace. "However, I suppose I had better keep my hands wrapped around the club, for despite his egregious manners, the damn brat does seem to know a good deal about the game."

Rafael laughed. "Well, you did imply at one time that you thought the game would be child's play." He tossed a thick vellum card onto the viscount's lap on his way to pour himself a glass of Madeira.

"Don’t forget, we are invited to an evening musicale at Sir Joseph Twining's residence tonight.

It is to be our introduction to local society, so I'll not hear of you trying to cry off," he added on seeing the look of incipient mutiny that crossed the Adrian's features.

"Jamie has gone to a good deal of trouble to arrange our welcome here, and it would be most rag-mannered of us to ignore such efforts. "

He took a sip from his glass. "Did you not notice there was also a note on the tray downstairs for you? It arrived only an hour or two ago."

Adrian pulled a face. "I can’t imagine who it might be from. I have no acquaintance with anyone in town."

"Well, that may no longer be the case, Adrian. I saw a traveling coach pass down Market Street when I was out earlier, and if I am not mistaking the crest upon the door, it appears the lovely Lady Honoria and her parents have arrived in St. Andrews."

A muttered oath slipped from Adrian's lips.

Now what the devil was Lady Honoria and her family doing here, he wondered?

A sudden vision of Lord Hylton's corpulent face came to mind, and how the man's greedy eyes had blinked in rapid succession on hearing the request for his daughter's hand, as if they were the beads of an abacus adding up the possible assets of such an alliance.

His mouth tightened in grim line. Whatever was in the note that awaited him, he could already read between the lines. It was clear that he was not the only one with an interest in the fate of Woolsey Hall.

It shouldn't be of any great surprise, he told himself.

After all, hadn't he voiced the opinion that a match should be based on a purely rational assessment of the benefits?

Still, he found himself feeling rather like a stud being led out at Tattersall's, to be watched intently by the prospective buyers as he was put through his paces.

And he found himself chafing at the bit.

"I would have expected a slightly more joyous reaction on learning that your bride-to-be and her family have journeyed such a great distance to lend support to your endeavor."

"If Hylton is to lend anything, you may be sure he expects a handsome return on his investment." The words were barely audible but they caused his friend to frown.

Rising abruptly, Adrian took up his jacket, still heavy with the salt air. "If you will excuse me, Rafe, I have a number of things to attend to before we must make our appearance tonight."