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She was most grateful that he didn't demand a translation of her initial confused mumblings, but his look made it clear he expected something more to follow.

"N-no. B-But what I was wondering was... what it is like to be in... l-love."

It was the viscount's turn to stutter. "Er, well as to that..." He cleared his throat, but it was several more moments before he made a reply. "Marriage is a good deal more complex than mere emotion, Master Derry. Especially for one in my position."

Her mouth went a bit dry at the carefully worded answer. Suddenly it was very important for her to know the truth as to his feelings for Lady Honoria. "But surely you must feel some sort of... regard for the lady, to think of tying yourself to her for the rest of your life?"

His lips twisted in a strange sort of smile. "Of course I feel a regard for Lady Honoria. She possessed beauty, intelligence, poise and charm. All the qualities that a man could wish for in a wife."

Derry felt a sudden flood of relief! His words expressed the highest praise for his intended—but surely no more. It seemed that for whatever reasons the viscount had made his declaration, none of them were because his heart was irrevocably attached.

Lord Marquand does not love Lady Honoria , she repeated to herself.

Why was it that the words flowed as sweet as wild heather honey over her tongue?

She swallowed hard, trying to find some rational explanation for the reason for the sudden pounding in her chest. She was simply relieved, she told herself, because she didn't wish to see him hurt. She had come to see him as a sensitive, caring individual rather than a cold, unfeeling aristocrat.

In short, she had come to see him as a friend.

A slight cough interrupted her thoughts. "Does that answer your question, Master Derry?"

She didn't dare look at him. " I think I understand what you mean, sir." She fumbled with the hickory shafts resting on her shoulders. "Uh, it's the baffing spoon you'll be wanting next, sir. See that steep bunker you must clear? Well, it is wider than it appears and behind it..."

The viscount didn’t look at all unhappy to be leaving the questions of his personal affairs behind.

He took the club and executed the shot she suggested.

"Now, I imagine I should take my heavy iron and chip the ball toward that crest on the right.

The slope of the green will then cause it to roll close to the hole. "

Derrien nodded.

He finished up and made a note of his strokes. "I am playing rather well," he murmured.

"Don't start thinking of your score, sir," she cautioned. "There is plenty of time to tally up the strokes once we are finished. It's best to keep your mind well away from such thoughts while still out on the course."

She was soon ruing such sage words of advice when, after knocking a decent drive at the start of the 16th hole, he handed back the long spoon and started to follow her down the fairway.

"So, Master Derry," he began. "You've asked of my lady.

What of you? Have you someone who has set your heart aflutter?

" He grinned. "Someone whose sweet lips you dream of tasting? "

She nearly choked. "I... No!"

"No?" His grin widened. "Come now, don't be shy, lad.

Surely you Scots are as wont to discuss the ladies among yourselves as we Englishmen.

And as I have a bit more experience in that field than I do at golf, I might even be able to offer you some advice on how to coax a wee kiss from the object of your affection.

" He reached out and took playful hold of her chin, tilting her head up toward him.

"Though I would think, lad, you would have no trouble winning a lassie’s regard. "

She twisted out of his grasp. "Sir!" Her voice very nearly slipped into a squeak. "This was not exactly the sort of topic I had in mind when I said to think of something other than the score."

Adrian let his arm fall to his side. "Since such teasing appears to make you uncomfortable, Master Derry, I shall?—"

His words cut off abruptly as she rubbed at her chin, and his gaze suddenly locked on her lips with an intensity that caused her to take a step back.

"W-what is it?"

It was a moment before he spoke. "Nothing," he muttered, letting out a harried sigh. "It's just that at times, you remind me of someone, but I can't for the life of me figure out who." Then he shrugged. "It's of no importance, I suppose."

They had come up to his ball and Derrien was grateful for the excuse to look away into the distance. "Take the middle spoon,” she said, “and aim for the church spire.”

He did as he was told and the shot landed on a slight rise, just left of the sloping bunker on the left.

“Excellent placement, Lord Marquand!” came a voice from behind a thicket of tall gorse.

Both of them started as Philp stepped out from the flickering shadows. “I thought I might come out and check on what sort of progress you have been making, sir,” he continued after taking several puffs on his briar pipe.

It might have been Derry’s imagination, but it seemed the older man's gaze lingered first on the viscount and then on her for a touch longer than necessary.

“But I see there is nothing to worry about. You are making great headway.”

“Due in no small part to my caddie.”

Derry felt her face growing warm at the viscount's praise.

“I have to admit that your Master Derry has taught me a thing or two,” continued Adrian. “Though honesty compels me to confess that when we started, I would not have thought it possible. The lad has turned out to be a diamond in the rough.”

A decided twinkle came to Philp's eyes. “Yes, Derry has quite a number of hidden facets.”

She restrained the urge to kick him in the shins. “Come, sir, we had best start play if we are to finish the 18th hole before the rain returns.”

“Yes, it was, shall we say, a rather amusing performance.” Hertford tapped the ash from his cigar and a smug smile formed on his lips.

“Perhaps, as Lord Marquand appears to have a fondness for sand, he should consider taking himself off to Jamaica, where the beaches are said to be quite extensive.” As he paused to take another glass of champagne from a passing waiter, a harsh chuckle bubbled up from the depth of his throat.

“And after I add Woolsey Hall to what I've won from his father, the poor fellow may have no choice but to seek his fortune in the New World, for there will be precious little of the Linsley inheritance that will not be in my possession.”

Derrien couldn't help but overhear the last of the marquess's words as her walk through the garden brought her close to the far end of the terrace, where a group of gentlemen had gathered to blow a cloud without disturbing the ladies.

She came to a halt in the shadows of the pergola and drew in a sharp breath to keep from making an angry retort.

Several of Hertford's cronies who had come up with him from London laughed at the barbed quip, but the locals, having no fondness for their English neighbor, remained silent.

The unseemly bragging appeared particularly offensive to Sir Joseph, who fixed the marquess with a basilisk stare. “You seem quite sure of victory, milord.”

A trail of smoke rings drifted out toward a row of espaliered pear trees, followed by a mocking chuckle. “As you said yourself, golf takes years to master.”

"Indeed." The baronet exhaled slowly. "But Lord Marquand does not have to master the game, merely acquire enough skill to be able to post a credible score for one round. And from what I have heard, his efforts are beginning to add up."

The number that he mentioned caused Hertford to choke on a mouthful of smoke.

"Not bad for a neophyte," continued Sir Joseph with a nonchalant shrug. "Not bad at all. It seems that this contest may prove to be more interesting than anyone imagined."

More than one flinty smile appeared among the Scotsmen.

Derrien, too, found her scowl replaced by a look of grim satisfaction as she watched Hertford drop the stub of his cigar and grind it out under his heel with a show of bravado.

"Any beginner may manage to put together a few lucky shots in practice," he drawled.

"It would take a player of far greater expertise than the viscount to give me cause to doubt the outcome of the real match.

" The smirk, however, had disappeared from his face, replaced by a certain tautness at the corners of his mouth.

Without another word, he turned abruptly and stalked off down the steps leading to the gardens.

Trapped by his sudden approach, Derrien had no choice but to shrink farther into the shadows and hope that he might pass without noticing her presence.

His gaze, however, seemed to catch on the gently swaying climbing roses entwined around the weathered wood.

To her dismay, he halted, then drew closer to the fragrant blooms.

"Why, Miss Edwards, out for a stroll by yourself? Your interest in gardens must be great indeed." He lounged up against one of the thick posts and raked his eyes over her rigid features. "I, too, am fond of pretty blossoms, especially ones that have a show of color to them."

"As I’ve told you, sir, your likes and dislikes are of no earthly interest to me," replied Derrien.

"No?" His brow rose in mock surprise. "But I was so looking forward to cultivating an acquaintance. Of all the local flora, you are quite the most intriguing."

"And of all the local fauna, you are quite the most despicable." She made a move to go around him, but he shifted to block her path.

"A prickly little thing, aren't you," he continued in a low voice. "But I have a great deal of experience and skill at plucking?—"

"Surely you would not be thinking of disturbing even a petal in Playfair's garden?" said a voice from behind them. "I don't imagine he would look kindly on that sort of thing."

Hertford spun around. "Marquand, you are becoming a?—"