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Adrian had already hit and Brewster had begun to stomp in some impatience by the time Hertford appeared, followed by his whey-faced caddie who was moving in such a gingerly fashion that every few steps drew a bark of rebuke from the marquess.

The long spoon already in his hand, he took a practice swing, casting a murderous look at Derrien as the club cut a swath through the low stubble, before stepping up to make his drive.

The ball bounced off into the low rough, but the viscount's effort had not been one of his better shots so neither man had the advantage.

It remained that way over the course of play.

Adrian's second shot found a pot bunker on the left, but Hertford failed to capitalize on the error by putting his own ball in a cart rut near the edge of the road.

Both gentlemen took a shot to recover, so they reached the green all square.

Two putts later, it remained that way, so the hole was halfed.

And so they marched on to the 18th hole, the match tied.

Though it was Adrian who should have shown signs of unraveling, given the magnitude of the stakes, it was Hertford whose nerves had begun to show signs of fraying.

Over the inward nine, his play had steadily deteriorated.

His experience, which should have allowed him to pull away from a less seasoned player, was proving no advantage.

Indeed it was Adrian who appeared the cooler, calmer of the two.

As they crossed the ancient Roman footbridge over Swilkan Burn, the marquess was muttering to himself when not snarling at his caddie, and a sheen of sweat had appeared on his forehead despite the increasing chill in the air.

Both gentlemen took an extra moment to swing their clubs through the air before Brewster, as was his wont before each hole, announced the score and called for play to begin.

Adrian hit first, his drive nothing spectacular but one that stayed safely out of any hazard. Hertford followed with one of his better shots of the day, and for the first time in a long while, the sneer came back to his lips as his ball landed a good distance past that of his opponent.

Catching sight of the grim set of Adrian's mouth, Derrien gave him a not too gentle nudge in the ribs on her way up the fairway.

"It is the next shot you must be thinking on, not the last one.

Remember, you do not have to play perfectly, just one stroke better than your opponent," she reminded him in a low whisper.

Her brows drew together in mock anger. "Now hit a good one, will you? I don't want to have carried these sticks around all morning for naught."

The quick rebuke coaxed a reluctant chuckle from him. "Ahh, now that is the Derry I have come to know and love."

Her heart gave a little lurch. Her words had proved a distraction, as she had hoped. But so had his! She knew his quip was as meant to be as teasing as her own, so there was no reason for her feet to suddenly feel tangled or her pulse to race.

"The middle spoon, don't you think?"

It took her a moment or two to recover her wits. She squinted at the distant flag, then gauged the wind by tossing a bit of grass in the air. "Take the scraper."

He hesitated. "But?—"

She silenced him with a withering look.

"The scraper it is," he said with a twitch of his lips.

For an instant after the ball left the club, it looked to be flying too far, not only clearing the near hazard with ease but threatening to carry all the way into far bunker.

Then a gust of wind kicked up to alter its trajectory and it fell to earth perfectly positioned for the next shot into the green.

Without comment, Derry reached for the club and put it back on her shoulder.

Up ahead, Hertford demanded a club and, ignoring a squeak of dissent from his caddie, let fly.

The same swirling wind quickly caught his shot, toying with its progress before causing it to land a bit short of where the viscount's ball lay.

Seeing he had lost his initial advantage in distance by the wrong choice of club, the marquess flung it aside, nearly dealing the unfortunate lad another blow to a very tender spot of his anatomy.

Nerves seemed to be affecting both men. Neither hit a particularly good third shot, and a tense murmur ran through the spectators as they took up position to watch the next shot, speculation mounting with each moment on who would manage to eke out victory.

It was Adrian's turn to hit first, since he was farthest from the flag. A tricky swale, the Valley of Sin, made his the far more difficult shot, but on Derry’s advice, he took the baffing spoon and knocked a nicely lofted shot up onto the green.

A chorus of muted whistles greeted the result—it was clear with whom the crowd's sympathies lay.

Face white with suppressed fury, Hertford stalked forward to hit his own shot.

Despite his glowering expression, he still held a big edge, with a lie and angle that allowed him to take dead aim at the hole.

But whether from anger or tension, his wrists remained too stiff, causing him to hack at the ball.

The featherie popped up, and instead of heading toward the flag it hooked left in a wobbly arc before dropping to earth and rolling weakly for several feet.

Derry stared with disbelief as the ball finally came to rest. "Stymied!" she exclaimed softly. "Of all the cursed bad luck!"

A collective groan sounded as the murderous expression on the marquess's face turned to one of unmitigated glee. Though Adrian didn't understand the term she had just used, it took no more than a few seconds to see that the situation was not good.

Hertford's botched shot had stopped within eight inches of his own, but it lay directly in his path to the hole.

Brewster hurried over and hunched down to examine the position of each ball. "Since the balls cannot be judged to be touching, Lord Marquand is not allowed move his opponent's shot," he announced, with what sounded like some regret.

"Shouldn't we fetch a ruler, to be sure?

" demanded Derry, though without much conviction.

At Adrian's questioning glance, she added in a low voice, "If the distance between the balls were less than six inches, the rules would deem them to be touching, and you would be able to move Lord Hertford's shot. "

The judge shook his head. "The span of my hand fits between them and it is well more than six inches, lad." He stepped back. "I'm afraid you must play it as it lies, sir."

As the viscount was required to go first, because he was farther away from the hole, there was little choice but to comply. He took his time circling the balls, careful to study every angle, then returned to where Derry was standing.

"Hell's teeth, I see no alternative but to give my ball a tap sideways, even though it means losing a stroke, and quite likely the match," he whispered.

Her nose wrinkled in concentration. After a moment, she motioned for him to follow her back to the far edge of the green where she turned around and crouched down.

The viscount did the same.

The only sounds were the rustlings of the tall grass and the whoosh of the wind blowing in from the North Sea.

"What are we looking at?" asked Adrian softly, his cheek inches from hers as they both leaned forward on their hands and knees.

"The slope of the ground, the height of the grass and the grain—remember, the ball always tends to roll toward water."

"But Derry, how can it matter? I cannot go through his ball."

"No, you cannot go through it, sir. You are going to go over it."

"The deuce take it, Brewster, make him play," demanded Hertford in a petulant voice. "He's taking entirely too long over this." A malicious smile stole over his features. "In any case, it's clear that he is only putting off the inevitable defeat for an extra few minutes."

The judge waved off the whining. "Quiet, sir. That may be so, however the viscount is well within his rights to take a reasonable amount of time to decide what shot he wishes to attempt."

The sharp rebuke wiped some of the smugness from the marquess's face, but nearly all of the lines of doubt were gone as well, smoothed away by the assurance that victory was his at last. Turning to several of his cronies standing nearby, he began to make plans for a celebratory ale at one of the nearby taverns.

"Over it," repeated Adrian. "How the devil?—"

She put a hand on his chest, and he could feel both the softness of her fingers and the hard edge of the silver charm. "You take the short iron, lay the face open to add loft and hit down on the ball."

A spark of rare intensity had kindled in her eyes, reminding him of the glow that came over her features when she studied his sketches or explained her own concepts.

He drew in his breath, struck again by the depth of her character, the boldness of her imagination, the courage of her spirit when faced by adversity.

He nearly laughed aloud realizing that for all the time he had spent amid silk and splendor searching for the perfect Countess for Woolsey Hall, she had magically walked into his life sporting a floppy tweed cap and baggy breeches.

"It's simple, really. Just land the ball there—" She pointed to a spot four feet away where a slight undulation rolled away toward the flag,"—and the slope will carry it right into the hole."

He looked at the ball, then the ground, then her face. "Do you know, I think you would like Woolsey Hall very much. The land behind the gardens also slopes down?—"

"Milord!" Her elbow caught him smack in the ribs. "What on earth are you babbling about? You are supposed to be thinking on the shot. And only the shot."

His mouth quirked upward. "Yes, yes. The chip. Up and over you say? Can it truly be done?"

She gave him a smile that caused his heart to skip a beat. "Come now, surely the man with the vision to create the plans for Highleigh Manor has the imagination to see how easily such a thing can be done."