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

again, sir? Nine times in ten? Seven in ten? Or perhaps only two in ten?”
    Marquand’s lips compressed, and much to his chagrin he felt a tinge of color creeping to his cheeks.
    “Now, do you know what lies in front of the green? Or behind it?”
    “Of course he doesn’t,” interrupted Derrien. “He didn’t know enough to ask.” She turned a look of withering scorn on the Viscount. “There is a sharp gully cutting in front of the hole, while behind it, the ground rolls off in a gentle incline. If you hit your ball short, it will take several strokes to recover, while there is little penalty for hitting it long. It’s quite simple, really. One way you give yourself a chance to win the hole, while the other—”
    “Thank you, Derry. I believe you’ve made the point sufficiently clear.” Philp slowly let out another ring of smoke and watched it drift toward the waves breaking upon the strand. “Golf is a mental game as well as a physical one, Lord Marquand. Especially match play. Think of it this way—you will soon be going into battle against a tough opponent. You would do well to consider yourself a Wellington of sorts. You must weigh risk, understand your own capabilities—and those of your foe— in order to devise a strategy that will give you the best chance of success.”
    A muscle twitched in the Viscount’s jaw. He was sorely tempted to use Philp’s advice to justify an immediate retreat to his residence, and then back to London. If he could be outwitted and outmaneuvered by a mere schoolboy, surely he had no chance up against a canny veteran like Hertford. He drew in a long breath, feeling the master’s appraising eyes on him. But it was the veiled look of triumph in the caddie’s eyes that decided his course of action. Why, it was just what the imp expected of him, to explode in a fit of pointless pique or quit the field in a huff.
    He reached out his hand. “The scraper, if you please.” Derrien gave it over without a word.
    Marquand took his stance over the ball, taking care to set his feet at the proper distance. He gave the club a waggle or two, then let go with a prodigious swing, powerful, yet controlled. The ball shot off, as if fired from a cannon, and ripped through the fog to land a scant five yards past the flag. Without so much as a look at Derrien’s face, he flipped the club in her direction, then stalked off toward the green.
    “Well, well. So his lordship has some competitive fire beneath that icy exterior.” TTie fine lines around Philp’s eyes crinkled in humor as he gave a low chuckle. “Derry, my dear, I think our man might just have a chance.”
    “How did the lesson go today?”
    Marquand tossed his jacket over the arm of the sofa and sat down with a sigh. “Philp seems to think I am making some progress. And it does appear that the ball is beginning to go in the vague direction that I am aiming.” His lips pursed. “Though it is still up in the air as to whether I shall be able to refrain from throttling that irritating little caddie before the match with Hertford.” After a moment’s reflection, he gave a rueful grimace. “However, I suppose I had better keep my hands wrapped around the club, for despite his egregious manners, the damn brat does seem to know a good deal about the game.”
    Ellington laughed. “Well, you did imply at one time that you thought the game would be child’s play.” He tossed a thick vellum card onto the Viscount’s lap on his way to pour himself a glass of Madeira. “Do not forget, we are invited to an evening musicale at Sir Twining’s residence tonight. It is to be our introduction to local Society, so I’ll not hear of you trying to cry off,” he added, on seeing the look of incipient mutiny that crossed the Viscount’s features. “Jamie has gone to a good deal of trouble to arrange our welcome here, and it would be most rag-mannered of us to ignore such efforts.” He took a sip from his glass. “Did you not notice