Free A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1) by Andrea Pickens

back there. It’s absurd to let some muddy-faced urchin with a tongue as loose as that floppy tweed cap on his head get under my skin.” He walked on for a few more steps before another snort escaped his lips. “Hmmph! The notion that a pipsqueak of a lad could teach me anything . . His words trailed off into an unintelligible grumble that went on until they turned the corner. Suddenly the Viscount stopped in his tracks. “This Mr. Philp seems to have some decidedly odd ideas. You do not think he is truly out to make a monkey of me?” he demanded.
    Ellington pursed his lips. “I cannot think Bowmont would suggest him if he was. Jamie wants to see Hertford beaten nearly as badly as you do, and it’s clear he thinks very highly of Mr. Philp. No, I believe we may trust this man.” He slanted a sideways glance at Marquand’s frowning face. “Adrian, I also believe that you are going to have to get used to a number of odd notions here in Scotland, if you wish to have any hope of securing your future ... happiness.”
    The Viscount’s expression darkened to match the low clouds scudding in from the sea. “I shall do my best, you may count on it.” Under his breath he added, “But that doesn’t mean I shall like it in the least.”
    That evening a weary Marquand couldn’t help but wonder if his best was going to be anywhere near good enough. Easing his lanky frame into the overstuffed chair by the banked fire in the library, he rubbed absently at his aching shoulder while contemplating the lunacy of embarking on such a cork-brained quest. Not only had he looked like a monkey for the past several hours, but he had felt like the verriest of fools. Why, he must have appeared a complete cawker, with his ungainly movements and precarious balance.
    He winced on recalling his more awkward cuts at the little ball lying on the turf. Good Lord, he had actually missed it outright on several occasions, and it wasn’t even moving! It was a wonder he hadn’t ended up on his rump, for he had nearly lost his footing on a number of swings. How his friends would have whooped with laughter to see one of London’s leading Corinthians stripped down to his shirtsleeves, flailing furiously at a perverse little sphere of stitched leather that refused to budge from the stubbly grass.
    But worse than merely looking like an idiot was the disquieting feeling that perhaps he was not up to meeting the challenge, both physical and mental. Excelling at such sporting endeavors as riding, boxing, shooting, and cricket had always been easy for him, so he supposed he had taken it for granted that he would learn golf with little difficulty. The past afternoon had been a rude awakening. He had been awful. Truly awful. That the game looked so maddeningly simple only exacerbated his sense of frustration.
    Hell’s teeth. What was he going to do?
    If things didn’t improve rapidly, he might as well slink home with his proverbial tail between his legs, for ignominious defeat, and with it the loss of his beloved Woolsey Hall, seemed inevitable. With a bitter grimace, he raked a hand through his still-damp locks, then rose a bit stiffly and went to pour himself a generous glass of the local spirits. As the heat of the whiskey rolled over his tongue, he couldn’t help but feel in danger of being drowned by a fear far deeper than failure.
    Was he a coward as well? A number of Ellington’s recent words echoed in his ears. Much as he wished to deny it, his friend’s sharp observations had begun to chop away at the carefully constructed walls that guarded his true feelings. He had always prided himself on the ability to keep all emotions locked safely away, but perhaps, as Ellington hinted, he had only created a prison rather than a place of refuge. His hands came up to rub at his temples and he found the fiery brew was having little effect on the cold knot that had settled in the pit of his stomach.
    With all the precision of a skilled architect, he had