Page 164

" N o, no, milord. You mustn't set that foot as if it were stuck in a bowl of porridge.

" Philp took up a stance and demonstrated what he meant.

"Still, your swing is looking greatly improved.

" He placed another ball upon the ground.

"Now, seeing as we are ready to make the turn, we will play the inward nine as if it were a real match. Your honors, sir."

Adrian stepped up and knocked a credible drive considerably past where Derrien was standing to keep watch on where the shot fell.

"A bit over one hundred sixty yards," remarked Philp with gruff approval as they caught up to her. "Excellent, sir, excellent. If your caddie has helped you make the same improvements in your short game, I, for one, should not care to bet against you."

"I believe Master Derry has done his best to whip me into shape," replied the viscount dryly.

Philp gave a short chuckle. "What say you, Derry? Are you satisfied with your man's progress?"

"Aye, Mr. Philp," muttered Derrien, ducking her head even lower to hide her reaction to the master's comment. "He has a chance."

Why was she blushing like a schoolgirl at his unintended reference to the viscount as 'her man?

' He was nothing of the sort! Though it was true that she no longer held him in low regard.

That he was intelligent, compassionate and not afraid of hard work to achieve his goals were qualities that had forced her to reevaluate her initial dislike.

And of course, his interest in gardens was a decided mark in his favor.

After all, any man who knew the difference between hydrangea macrophylla and hydrangea aspera couldn't be all bad!

"An iron or the baffing spoon?"

Derrien looked up at Adrian's question. She took her time in eyeing the distance and the slight swell of hill in order to force her attention back to the game. "The spoon," she announced and handed him the club.

"Hmmm. I would have chosen the iron," he murmured, but took it without dissent.

"And then you would have risked not clearing that patch of tall grass at the crest,” she replied. “On this hole, it is better to be long than short."

Adrian studied the terrain for a moment before nodding in agreement. "Ah. I see what you mean."

Philp watched the brief interchange and chewed thoughtfully on the stem of his pipe.

The viscount set up, and after Derrien had murmured a reminder to keep his wrists firm but not stiff, his next shot rolled within several yards of the flag.

Taking the proffered putter, he stepped to the ball and knocked it in the hole for his par.

"Well done, indeed, sir. We'll make a Scot of you yet."

They walked on to the next hole. "Now just aim down the center of fairway, for it is wide enough to be forgiving," said Philp.

Adrian stepped up to his ball and swung—but a bit indecisively.

The ball arced up in a weak hook, landing in one of 'The Beardies,' a group of pot bunkers off to the left.

"Hell and damnation," he said through gritted teeth.

"I don't know what happened—I've been hitting so much better than that of late. "

The master exchanged a knowing smile with Derrien. "Though you had it mastered, did you? Well, be assured that as soon as you begin to brim with such hubris, the golfing gods will take great pains to humble such pretensions. That is the one surety in the game."

At the viscount's sheepish expression, he laughed outright.

"Now, I should like to see you marshal your thoughts and get out of that hazard.

If you can learn to recover from a lapse of concentration, it will be a lesson of more value than any of the others you have learned so far.

" Philp fell in beside the viscount and after they had walked a few paces, he added, "I believe you are beginning to see that golf is quite a bit like life itself. "

Adrian pulled a face. "Come now, Philp, it's just a bloody game."

"Yes, but one in which you must learn to face with both triumph and disaster without letting either affect you too greatly.

You must be willing to weather adversity and not let a bad bounce or serendipitous gust distract you from your long-term goals.

Just as you must not let a few good shots convince you that you will sail through the rest of the round without mishap.

Golf requires patience, imagination, resolve and, above all a sense of humor.

" He paused to fiddle with his pipe. "As does life. "

"Hmmph." The viscount made a noncommittal grunt, but his expression was rather thoughtful.

They reached the bunker and as Adrian stepped gingerly into the shifting sand, he couldn't help but note that a foursome of other golfers had hit their own shots on another hole and were moving to their balls, all of which had landed not far from where he was stuck.

He set his jaw, intent on following Philp's advice to ignore any outside distraction.

He reached for a lofted iron, then studied the height of the bunker's lip and the lie of his ball, trying to determine with just how much force and angle he had to swing in order to get clear of the steep side.

"This should be rather amusing," said the gentleman nearest to him, in a voice quite clearly meant to be heard.

The viscount couldn't help but look up.

Lord Hertford was leaning casually on the hickory shaft of his long-nosed club.

"Oh, sorry, Marquand. Didn't mean to disturb you," he murmured in mock contrition, then directed a sly grin toward his caddie.

The fellow was a lad several years older than Derry, much broader in the shoulders and possessed of a squinty gaze that even now had locked on her.

"Hey there, Dirty Derry! Care to make our own wager on the outcome of the coming match—my gentleman against yours?" He gave a pointed look at the viscount's predicament and tittered.

"I'll gladly take your bet, for whatever stakes you care to name!" answered Derrien. "Now shut your gob, Jimmy, and let His Lordship play."

Seething with anger despite all his resolve to stay focused on the task at hand, Adrian took a vicious swing at his ball. The club bit deep into the sand several inches behind the ball, sending up an explosion of grains, but having little effect on the ball.

"The mines at Newcastle could use a man of your talents, Marquand," jested the Marquess. "You seem rather adept at digging holes."

His other companions gave a bark of laughter.

"But don't be too discouraged. Golf is an extremely difficult skill to master and I imagine that if you keep working on it, in a few years you shall be able to play a decent round." Another chorus of chuckles followed the veiled taunt.

"Perhaps you might show a bit of courtesy and stay quiet for a moment so we can continue our play, Lord Hertford," interrupted Philp.

"Of course." Hertford bowed his head in deference to the golf master, but not before allowing a smug snicker to slip from his lips.

Adrian took a deep breath and swung again. This time the ball popped straight up. It looked that it would at least clear the bunker, but at the last second it caught the edge of the lip and rolled back down the steep pitch, coming to rest not a foot from its original spot.

"Open the face of the club, sir, by shifting your grip to the right," murmured Derrien.

With that advise, he made yet a third try, and this time the ball sailed out and onto the fairway.

"That's a good out," said Philp quietly. "From there you can get home in one."

Adrian struggled out of the soft sand, well aware of how foolish he looked with his coat and hair dusted with a shower of fine grains.

"Five guineas," called Hertford's caddie after the marquess had lofted a perfectly struck drive that landed on the distant green. "What say you to those stakes?"

It was a staggering amount for two lads to wager, but Derrien showed not a whit of hesitation. "Done," she called. "And bring it in coin, for I'll not accept any promises from the likes of you."

The other caddie gave a jeering whistle as he turned to follow his man.

"That's a very brave wager, lad. Or a very foolish one," said Adrian softly. "I can't imagine you have five shillings let alone five guineas to your name."

"I don't intend to lose to that smarmy weasel." She lifted the clubs to her shoulder. “Do you?"

He chuckled. "It seems as if we are a well-matched team, Master Derry—indeed I do not!"

"Good. Then let's get back to work."

The fiddles sang out a lively country tune and the dancers capered through the steps with laughing abandon, their faces flushed with exertion and good cheer.

Adrian stood off to one side, amazed that Honoria had agreed to partake in anything quite so rustic.

He had to admit that with Ferguson's arm to guide her, her steps never seemed to falter.

In fact, she appeared to be enjoying herself more than he would ever have guessed possible.

"Lady Honoria seems to showing a real knack for the Scottish reel," murmured Rafael as he placed a glass of champagne in his friend's hand.

Would that she would show such spirited animation with him, thought the viscount glumly as he watched her spin by yet again, looking up at the young professor with a glowing smile.

"If you will excuse me, Rafe, I think I shall steal a look at the botanical prints Mr. Cheape has in his library. He is said to possess an excellent collection of the local flora, including a number of rare species."

Rafael looked at him with a hooded gaze. "Suit yourself. However, I think I shall try my luck in asking that pretty redhead for the next dance."