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

disliked him, his upcoming opponent was an infinitely worse sort. Her attempts at advice should, as Philp had just hinted, be couched in a more positive manner. After all, she had promised her mentor that she would do her best to help.
    Philp had turned back to the Viscount. “Now, sir, go ahead.”
    Marquand set his feet once again, then drew the long shaft back in the sweeping motion he had been taught, goaded by Derrien’s caustic reminder to keep his hands well relaxed. The club paused for a fraction at the top of the swing, then started down, gathering speed as it descended toward the ball. The head of the long spoon made clean contact, and with a sweet thwock, the feath-erie flew up into the damp morning air, landing in the middle of the fairway not far from Philp’s drive.
    “Well struck, sir!” exclaimed his teacher.
    “Good shot,” allowed Derrien, though she couldn’t help but add under her breath, “It’s about time you got the hang of it.”
    A slow smile lit up Marquand’s face. “So that’s how it’s done,” he murmured to himself, unable to mask the note of elation in his voice. “Lord, it seemed so effortless. I hardly felt any impact at all, and look at how far a distance the ball traveled.”
    Derrien had to admit with a grudging sniff that when the Viscount unbent enough to show aught but a look of icy hauteur upon his rigid features, he could appear almost attractive. That is, if one favored tall, broad-shouldered gentlemen of title with no apparent skills other than the ability to shuffle a deck of cards or knot an intricate cravat. Which, of course, she most certainly did not.
    Philp also chose to indulge in an uncharacteristic show of emotion, going so far as to clap Marquand on the shoulder. “We’ll make a golfer of you yet, my lord.” The Viscount’s smile broadened, revealing a boyish enthusiasm Derrien wouldn’t have guessed possible. He further surprised her by breaking into a most unlordly trot in his haste to reach his ball. “The middle spoon,” he called, waving at her with undisguised impatience. “Stop dawdling, lad.” He nearly snatched the club out from under her arm as she approached. “What say you, seventy yards to the flag?”
    Derrien squinted to make out the flutter of bright cloth through the mist. “Nay, the distance is deceiving in this weather. It’s more like eighty.” She stood quite still for a moment, gauging the feel of the swirling breeze. “And another ten for the wind.” Her hand reached out and pulled the middle spoon from his grasp. “You’ll need the heavier club.”
    “The devil I will.” Marquand ignored the proffered handle. “Give me the middle spoon.”
    She clamped the club in question even more firmly under her arm. “You’ll hit what I tell you to hit.” There was a deliberate pause before she added, “sir.” Even a half-wit could not have mistaken the sneer in her tone.
    Philp hastily interposed himself between the two of them to ensure that the next swing of a club was not directed at Derrien’s head. “What’s the trouble here?” Marquand pointed a long elegant finger at his scowling caddie. “This impudent little wretch won’t give me the deuced club I asked for.”
    “Of course I won’t, Mr. Philp, because it isn’t the right shot to attempt.” Her chin jutted out with a defiant tilt.
    “You said I was to try and teach him something about the game, but if he insists on being a total gudgeon . . Her words trailed off, but not without a decided snort of contempt.
    “Hmmmm.” The older man looked from lord to lad, then slowly removed the pipe from his pocket and took his time in tamping down the fragrant tobacco. Several puffs of smoke curled up into the gusting breeze before he spoke. “How far do you hit a middle spoon, my lord?”
    “You just saw. It was eighty yards at least.”
    “Aye, and a bonny shot it was. The best you’ve struck so far.” He paused for a fraction. “How often could you do it