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P hilp took one look at Derrien’s face and put his file down. "Tommy, run along to Robertson's shop and pick up the box of featheries he has ready for me." As soon as the lad had scampered off, he turned back to her. "What's wrong, lassie?" he asked in a low voice.

She took a seat on the corner of his workbench and ran a finger along the hickory shaft he was shaping. "N-nothing?—"

"Don't try to gammon me, Derry." He reached out and tilted her chin up so that he was able to peer beneath the brim of her tweed cap and see her reddened eyes.

A lock of hair fell across her cheek and she reached up to brush it away. "I'm sorry, Hugh. I didn't mean—it's just that things have gotten... so confusing."

"Hmmm." He took up his pipe and without a word slowly tamped down the fragrant tobacco, patiently waiting for her to go on.

She toyed with a small pile of wood shavings, reducing it to mere dust. "He likes gardens!" she finally blurted out.

Philp didn't have to ask whom she meant. "Ah." The flint struck up a spark. "I should have thought that would not be a mark against him." A puff of smoke obscured his expression. "Indeed, I would have expected you to like him better for it."

"But I don't want to like him!"

"Hmmm. Well, I suppose that is perfectly understandable." He bent down to sight along the length of wood. "But the problem is that you do, don't you?"

Derrien jammed her hands into her pockets, suddenly aware of how childish her outburst must have sounded… and how hollow. With the unerring accuracy of one of his golf shots, her friend had hit on the very essence of her dilemma.

A flush spread across her features and for the second time that day she had the unsettling notion that perhaps her own feelings were not quite as sure as she might have liked.

"You have only to say the word, you know." Philp didn't look up. "If you wish to quit?—"

"I gave you my word, Hugh! I won't go back on it, no matter what."

"No matter what?" He picked up the file and began to smooth out a miniscule bump in the straight grain.

"I should think about that very carefully, Derry.

Maybe you should go home today and let me take His Lordship out for his lesson.

" He sighed as he regarded the unfinished club.

"I imagine Mac Allister can wait until the morrow for his new putter. "

"That isn't necessary," she muttered. She got up and went to get the viscount's set of clubs.

Philp pushed the silver spectacles back up to the bridge of his nose.

"I take it that it is Miss Derrien Edwards who has been discussing gardens with Lord Marquand.

" When she nodded, he drew in another mouthful of smoke and slowly let it out.

"Auch, be careful, lassie. Whatever else you think, he is no fool. "

She tugged at the front of her cap. "Don't worry, Hugh.

I keep myself well hidden, and what with the smudges on my face, he'll not notice any resemblance.

" Her voice dropped to a deeper tone. "And you yourself say I've become a dab hand at disguising my voice.

So there's little to fear on that score.

" Hefting the clubs to her shoulder, she turned and started for the door.

"Is there?" he whispered softly, his lined face crinkling in concern as he wondered whether he had made a serious mistake in involving her with the English lord. "Tis a dangerous game you're playing, lassie."

The ball rolled nearly four feet past the hole. With a rather loud expletive, Adrian, turned and held out his hand for another one. "And I warn you, brat, keep any snide comments to yourself. I'm in no mood for them this afternoon."

She shoved her hands in her pockets and moved to the fringe of the green. His next putt came up at least a yard short. Another curse followed. Without waiting for the order, she tossed another ball at his feet.

"You might want to consider loosening the tension in your shoulders, sir. And your hands. Try to, well, feel the ball going into the hole," she murmured as he set up again in his putting stance.

He shot her a black look. "What I feel is like heaving this damnable club—and all the rest of them—into the Bay."

Derrien avoided meeting his eyes. "Aye, golf is a hard game.

What Mr. Philp advises is that one must learn to deal with the anger and frustration that inevitably occur over the hours of play.

He who can do that best has a leg up on winning.

If something is upsetting you, try to put it from your mind.

Focus on the task at hand." She kicked at a loose clod of dirt.

"At least, that is what Mr. Philp says. But if you wish, we can quit for the day. "

Adrian bit back another snarled retort as he realized how badly he was behaving. No matter that his mood matched the grey, choppy waters crashing onto the rocky strand, the lad had done nothing to deserve having to endure several hours of his foul humor.

He stepped back from the ball for a moment and took a few deep breaths, then once more took up his stance, carefully aligning his feet toward the hole.

His whole body did seem more relaxed and his shoulders initiated a motion that swung the club back and then forward with a fluid precision, much like the pendulum of a long case clock.

With equal precision, the ball rolled in a straight line, its momentum dying just as it reached the lip of the hole, and dropped with a satisfying plonk .

Derrien didn't say a word as she took several more balls from her coat pocket and tossed them on the green. With exactly the right combination of speed and aim, Adrian proceeded to sink each of them.

He stood straight up after the last one and rubbed at his jaw, his face betraying a mixture of emotions. "May Lucifer's wings be singed," he muttered. "So that's how it's done."

Eyes still averted, she went to retrieve all the stitched featheries. "Do you wish to keep putting, sir, or would you prefer to move onto something else?"

"Shall we play a few holes?"

A slight shrug of her shoulders, indicating the choice was up to him, was her only reply. She replaced the flagstick, gathered up the rest of the clubs and looked to him for indication of where to proceed.

"Let us play seventeen and eighteen."

With another wordless shrug, she turned and began to walk off toward the left.

Adrian caught up with her after several strides. He slanted a puzzled look at top of her tweed cap as they skirted a large clump of gorse and veered around a deep pot bunker. "Oh, go ahead and say it," he finally growled with a harried sigh.

Her head twitched though her gaze remained locked on the tops of her boots." Say what... sir?"

The viscount gave a rueful grimace. "Whatever cutting set-down you wish to make over my display of stubborn pique."

When she didn't answer, his expression turned to one of faint bemusement. "I should hope I'm not too much of an ass not to be able to admit when I've acted like a fool. Once again, you've proved yourself the wiser of us two, lad. My thanks for the advice."

Derrien shifted the clubs on her shoulder and quickened her stride.

Adrian couldn't help but wonder at his caddie's uncharacteristic reticence.

"Is something amiss with you today, Master Derry?

You are unusually silent—and unusually tactful.

I have come to expect a more barbed assessment of my shortcomings rather than such measured restraint.

" A low chuckle escaped his lips. "Could it be that you are feeling ill? "

"There is getting less and less to criticize, sir," she mumbled.

"You are making quite a bit of progress.

" They had reached the start of the penultimate hole and she held out his long spoon, then bent down to build a small mound of sand for his ball.

“Aim at that patch of tall grass in front of the fence post,” she said quickly, as if anxious to change the subject.

He glanced at the proposed target, then back at her. "But that is way off the fairway! If I hit it there, it will take me several extra strokes to reach the hole."

"Feel the wind—your ball won't go there. If you aim straight ahead, you'll end up in that thicket of gorse and will have to take a penalty for it."

His eyes swept over the course. For a moment he looked ready to mutiny, but despite his expression of doubt, he put his head down and drove the ball toward the spot she had indicated.

It flew up in a high arc, looking at first to be headed straight for the stubbly rough on the right.

A gust caught it in mid-flight and its direction veered sharply, curving down and sideways until it fell to earth in the center of the fairway.

A bounce and a hop brought it to a near perfect angle from which to take aim at the fluttering flag.

Adrian shook his head in amazement. "How the devil can you know exactly where to hit it?"

Derrien shrugged. "Through experience." She slanted a look at his furrowed brow. "Don't be too hard on yourself, sir. It's not something you can learn in a week or two. It's the sort of knowledge that can only be gained by playing the course over countless rounds."

They started walking toward his drive. "Don't worry.

Sir. As long as you can hit the ball where I say, you have a decent chance of beating Lord Hertford.

Actually, a more than decent chance, as long as you keep putting as you did back there.

" There was a brief hesitation before she added, "The stakes must be very high for you to have journeyed here from London. "

"High?" He gave a harsh laugh. "Aye, you might say that, as the Linsley ancestral home is riding on my ability to put the deuced ball where you tell me to."

"Lord, how can anyone be so stupid as to risk one’s ancestral home on the turn of a card!" she blurted out. "You must have been truly jug-bitten."

His jaw set. "No, I—" he started to say, somehow caring more than he should about what his young companion might think of him.