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

drafted a plan for his future, sketching in the exact measurements of its main components with an eye to making an impregnable structure. His bride-to-be could not fit in more perfectly, and yet somehow, as his friend forced him to stand back and scrutinize the whole, the proportions of what he had wrought were looking slightly out of kilter. He shook his head, as if a slight jiggling could serve to straighten everything back to its proper place. But still, he could not seem to erase the feeling that the foundations were not as sturdy as he imagined. Perhaps the uncharacteristic moodiness that had colored his behavior since their departure from London had as much to do with his own flawed choices as those of his father, and he was just too afraid to admit it.
    A muscle of his jaw twitched ever so slightly. Surely his engagement had been fashioned with a steady hand? Miss Dunster was the perfect material for a wife—cool and lovely as the finest marble, and just as unlikely as that substance to display any sudden shifts from her proper place. Yet Ellington’s gentle criticisms had given him pause to think.
    He, of all people, knew the difference between a work where all the angles were correct, resulting in a perfect hard-edged beauty that all might admire, and a creation that stirred a more . . . passionate response. One was craft, the other art. Would he truly be satisfied with mere correctness in his personal life, something which he would never settle for in his professional affairs? He couldn’t help but recall his reaction to kissing his intended. Even then, he hadn’t been able to repress a vague notion that despite all his meticulous planning, some crucial element had been left out that would doom his marriage to being no more than mediocre.
    The thought was chilling.
    His eyes strayed to the decanter on the sideboard, and for the first time he could remember, he felt a twinge of understanding for those whose inner demons drove them to drown self-doubt in a deluge of drink. He felt a rather strong temptation himself to drain the entire contents, but a glance at the clock on the mantel reminded him that tomorrow promised to be as long—and no doubt as trying—as the past afternoon. Honor bound him to give his best effort in meeting any challenge. And as he was not quite ready to hoist the white flag over his ramparts, he put aside his glass and rose with some stiffness, then took himself off to his desk. He still had a great deal to do before he could allow himself the luxury of some sleep.
    “You must remember to shift your weight to your right foot when you take the club back, sir, and then fire through, as if you were throwing a rock toward that patch of gorse.” Philp took the club from Marquand’s hands and dropped a ball from his pocket onto the grass. The hickory shaft came back and then forward in one fluid motion, sending the small leather orb in a soaring arc through the light fog. “Like that.” He dropped another ball at the Viscount’s feet. “Try again.”
    Jaw clenched, Marquand took up his stance.
    “Lord, try not to grip the club as if you were going to smash someone over the head with it,” came a low snicker from behind his back.
    Marquand restrained the urge to do exactly that to the speaker.
    “Ahem!” The caution from Philp was clear.
    “But he doesn’t seem to be attending to anything you tell him,” protested Derrien, shifting the group of clubs from one arm to another.
    The older man fixed her with a stem look. “That’s hardly fair la—lad. You know very well golf is not something that is learned in a day. His lordship is progressing quite nicely.”
    She ducked her head in mute contrition. He was right, of course, she allowed to herself, but it was irritating in the extreme to watch the stiff-rumped English lord approach the ball as if it were something he could hammer into submission—no doubt that was what he was used to! Still, she must remember that much as she