Page 150

Derrien ventured a peek at the tall, flaxen-haired beauty whose hand he was bringing to his lips.

The young lady was dressed in an elegant gown of pale grey watered silk, cut to accentuate the svelte curves of her feminine form.

The candles danced over the shimmering material, and with her pale coloring, frozen features and the knot of pearls at her throat she looked exactly like an icicle—a vision of cold, sharp perfection.

Derrien couldn't repress a smirk. What a couple! The lady was undeniably beautiful, and despite her instinctive dislike for the viscount, she couldn’t deny that he was an extremely attractive man, with his dark curling hair, piercing grey-green eyes and sculpted features of a classical Greek hero.

That was just it— the two of them appeared to have no more heart or soul than the works chiseled out of stone.

She brushed an errant curl back from her cheek.

The viscount's exterior might be flawless, but she knew the faults that lay beneath the surface.

He was a reprobate, a gamester —and no doubt worse.

Of the young ice lady's shortcomings Derrien could only imagine.

But judging from the beauty's rigid features, she was like all other ladies of the English ton , puffed up with a sense of her own consequence and concerned with naught but money and social position.

Yes, the two of them were eminently suited to each other.

With one last disdainful look in their direction, Derrien slipped back into the tiny alcove hidden by the leafy palm and picked up the book on gardening that she had been eagerly perusing before the professor's unwelcome interruption.

It was a work with which she was unfamiliar, and the diagrams were most intriguing, so at least the evening was not going to be a complete waste of time.

"I thought I might play along with you on your round this afternoon." Rafael speared another piece of kippered herring. "That is, if my presence won't distract you from your lesson with Mr. Philp. I know that you have little time to spend with him these days."

Adrian looked up from the piece of paper on which he was busy scrawling some diagrams. "Er, no, you are welcome to see how I am faring." His attention immediately returned to his jottings.

His friend craned his neck to peer over the pitcher of cider. "Notes on strategy?"

"Ahhhh." The sheet was folded and hastily stuffed in his pocket. "Actually, some notes on a garden I passed this morning," he admitted with a sheepish grin. "The arrangement of rhododendrons and Norfolk pines was most interesting and I wished to remember how they were placed."

Rafael smiled in return, taking in the dark circles under Adrian's eyes. "Knowing you, half the night was spent filling your notebooks with such scribblings as well. How can you still think of your work, given the circumstances?"

"I hardly think of it as work, Rafe. For me it is..." He paused, struggling to put his feelings into words.

"A passion?" suggested his friend.

"That seems a bit melodramatic. I'm not a very passionate fellow.

It's just that when I pick up my sketchbook or look at a patch of dirt and begin to envision a plan, I can forget all else.

My imagination can soar as high as the clouds—" His voice cut off, a look of embarrassment stealing over his features.

"Not a passionate fellow? Why, you've become a poet as well as an artist." Rafael gave a low chuckle. "Lud, there's hope for you yet, Adrian."

A faint tinge of color rose to the viscount's cheeks.

Rafael took a long draught of his cider. "And what does your intended bride think of this... work of yours?"

"I told you, she isn't aware of it— yet."

His friend's brows waggled.

"I shall tell her, of course," he added defensively. "Not that it will make any difference to our... arrangement."

"No, of course not," murmured Rafael softly. "It shouldn’t matter a whit to Lady Honoria or her family that the future Earl of Chittenden is engaged in trade."

Adrian didn't answer. Groping in his pocket for a handful of coins, he stood up abruptly and tossed them on the table to pay for their meal. "Come, we mustn’t be late for our game with Mr. Philp."

The master and caddie were waiting at the first hole, Philp tamping a pinch of fragrant tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, while Derrien swung one of the tapered hickory clubs in some impatience.

Her eyes narrowed at the sight of the tall English lord and his friend approaching.

He wore the same grim expression she had come to expect, but today, there was also a look of fatigue etched around his eyes.

Out gaming all night , she thought, repressing a snort of disgust. Or indulging in one of the other activities that rakes and wastrels found alluring.

"I hope you do not mind if I play along?" asked Rafael. "I should like to try out the new long spoon I purchased from you."

Philp gave a friendly wave of his hand. "You're more than welcome to join in, sir. Shall I send up to the shop for the rest of your clubs and another caddie?"

"Nay, no need for that. I'll make use of Marquand's new sticks." He gave an appreciative glance at the finely tapered heads and neatly corded wrappings. "A lovely set they look to be."

"Let's get on with it," muttered Derrien under her breath as she readied a club. A sharp look from Philp pricked her conscience, reminding her she was here for a reason other than to antagonize their pupil. "Your club... sir," she said in a louder voice, striving for a less hostile tone.

Adrian took the proffered long spoon without so much as a look at her and waited for her to finish building the small pile of sand on which his ball was to be placed.

Aware of three pairs of eyes on his back, he took an extra few moments in his set up.

His arms finally drew back a bit stiffly, then swung forward at a rapid clip.

However, the timing was a touch off. The leather-covered sphere sliced low through the breeze, drifted right, then came to rest in the middle of a patch of tall grass, not more than fifty yards from where it had been struck.

A low oath escaped from the viscount's lips.

His friend quickly averted his eyes and appeared to be studying the progress of a gull out over the strand.

"Throw down another, Lord Marquand," advised the master.

He did so and swung again. The results were nearly the same, only this time the ball arced even farther right.

"I assure you, I have been hitting it better than that of late, Rafe," growled Adrian.

Derrien stared pointedly at the two wayward shots. With an exaggerated sniff, she handed him a lofted iron. "You'll need this one to get out of that sort of trouble."

Adrian stalked after her without a word. Once the first ball had been located in the rough, he sought to find some sort of stable footing in the tangled grass. Despite all his efforts, he could gain no more than an awkward stance, which allowed him nothing but an off-balance hack at it.

The ball didn't budge.

He swung again, this time even harder. It popped forward maybe three inches but still remained deeply embedded in the rough.

Derrien bit back a grin. "Perhaps you should just use your foot, sir."

The viscount looked less than amused at her jibe. His grip tightened around the sueded sheepskin grip and it appeared as though his next swipe might do damage to more than a mere blade of grass.

Philp gave a discreet cough. "You may count that as the first of your lessons for the day, milord.

All beginners play badly when performing before their first audience.

Don't fret on it. With some practice, you will soon get used to it.

It's important to just relax and forget about the presence of any onlookers.

Now pick up your ball and we will move on to the second hole. "

From the expression on Adrian's face, Derrien was fully ready to see him explode in a fit of pique at the blow to his pride.

Instead his lips slowly curled in a rueful smile. "I take your meaning, Mr. Philp. I have seen countless green cubs at Manton's or Jackson's Boxing Saloon make fools of themselves by trying too hard. I suppose I must have looked equally as ridiculous. It's a mistake I'll try not to repeat."

Her brow furrowed at the unexpected response. However unlikely, it appeared the starchy English lord could actually laugh at himself. Grudgingly, she found her opinion of him rising just a notch. Perhaps he was not as totally lacking in sensibility as she had thought.

The next several holes went more smoothly. With a few additional pointers from Philp, Adrian began managing quite a number of credible shots. By the ninth hole, he even bested his more experienced friend in putting the ball in the hole, drawing an appreciative whistle.

"A round of ale says you will not beat me on the back nine," grinned Rafael as they turned to start making their way back toward the town.

"Done."

The two of them began a match of teasing words as well, the bantering growing more lively as the match remained close.

From beneath the brim of her floppy tweed cap, Derrien observed the animation of the viscount's face, further surprised by the boyish enthusiasm of his grins and the flash of spirit in his eyes.

Relaxed in the company of his friend, he appeared a completely different person from the one who set her hackles up, His wit was engaging, his laughter infectious.

He even had the taciturn Philp grinning at some of his more pithy sallies.

The fellow was proving to be human after all— and a rather interesting one at that. For some reason, she found that to be a most unsettling discovery. It was much easier to despise a block of stone.

When the round was finished, Philp congratulated his pupil on his progress.

"Well played, sir. You are at the stage now where practice is more important than further instruction.

" He made a show of adjusting the silver spectacles perched on his nose.

"For the next little while, I shall leave it up to you and Derry to work together, just the two of you, on the course. "

The viscount and his caddie exchanged scowls.

"I trust you will find a way to make some progress." Philp regarded both of them with a meaningful look.

"I don't suppose I have any choice," growled Adrian.

"Not if you wish to have any hope of success, milord."