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hill onto the rocks.
    A smirk lifted one corner of Harlan’s mouth. “So sorry, old boy. You can’t expect to become proficient overnight. Golf ’s new to you, I see.”
    Jack clenched the handle of his club. Lord, give me patience. Don’t let me swing at this supercilious fool . Jack answered through gritted teeth, aware he must look like a gargoyle, but unwilling to soften his expression. “I learned how to play at St. Luke ’s. But you’re right, I’m a bit rusty.” Golf was a gentleman’s game of leisure, but he noticed other men mixed business with pleasure at the golf links. He had little time for hobbies and only a modicum of patience for such a slow, plodding pursuit.
    Harlan squinted as he gauged the distance to the hole. “That should be an easy putt. I enjoy playing in Newport, but my favorite course is St. Andrews.” He paused. “In Scotland.”
    Jack bit back a smart retort. There was no point in taking umbrage or bickering with Santerre. He watched Harlan’s ball roll right into the hole. After years of practice, Harlan played well and, Jack suspected, he played to win.
    “I believe I’m finished for the day,” Jack said. He gathered a few stray balls, hiding a scowl beneath his cap pulled low over his forehead.
    “With practice you’re bound to improve,” Harlan said.
    Jack tried not to react, but his body stiffened. He remembered Harlan’s barbs all too well, as if they were back in school, one the son of privilege, the other the son of poverty. Jack tossed several balls into his bucket.
    “Do you have a chance to coach?” Harlan continued.
    Coaching, indeed. A favorite sport of the rich, racing coaches required an expensive equipage and fine horses, plus time to learn how to drive the thing. Jack shook his head.
    Harlan tapped his ball into the hole. “Miss Westbrook adores coaching. It’s very exciting for a young lady.”
    Jack stifled a chuckle. He couldn’t imagine Lilly finding enjoyment perched high atop a vehicle with only a thin rail to keep her from plunging to the ground. He could picture her. With knuckles and face white with fear, she ’d hold onto her hat and pray for physical deliverance.
    “Well, Harlan, I’m shocked. It seems I don’t know Miss Westbrook as well as I thought.” And you don’t know her at all . Jack smiled to himself.
    “Yes, indeed. She thrives on entertainment only the best society can provide. Sailing, dancing—”
    “That’s odd,” Jack interrupted, the mockery of his frown barely contained. “I thought Miss Westbrook loved books and writing poetry. Perhaps I’m mistaken again. Until today I haven’t spoken to her in many years. Perhaps she ’s changed.” With a reserved, yet strong personality, Jack knew Lilly might adapt to new circumstances but never truly alter.
    “She was brought up in society, so naturally she appreciates its pleasures. Her books and writings are merely a quaint diversion. A hobby, at most.”
    “Of course you understand her quite well.” Jack bobbed his head in a nod.
    “I do, indeed. We spend quite a lot of time together. We ’re very close.”
    Every nerve in Jack’s body sparked. From the smug look on Harlan’s face, he ’d just delivered an important message. Lilly belonged to him.
    “I must be off. Good day, Harlan.”
    Jack strode back to the cottage, annoyed that he ’d allowed Santerre to sour his mood. The man obviously thought he had a lock on Lilly’s affections, but Jack refused to believe she had such bad taste. Only time would tell if he still had a chance to redeem himself.
    Before he ’d come to Summerhill he thought he could win back her love if she forgave him for his stupid and painful desertion. But now he realized he ’d also have to defeat Harlan, a formidable opponent.
    Climbing up the veranda steps two at a time, Jack found George seated on a rocker beside a pot of red geraniums. He dropped his newspaper to his lap. “Nothing much going on at the Reading Room, but I did