The duke's frown grew even more pronounced. How dare they imply his was a life of indolent ease! Not all struggles could be measured in physical terms. Not all hardships were marked by sweat and blisters. Sometimes the wounds were far more subtle, and cut far deeper. But that was not something a raw, unrefined country miss and two undisciplined brats might understand.
"Perseus Agamemnon Greeley!"
The sharpness of Zara's tone caused his own head to snap up.
"You should be ashamed of yourself." She had waited until McTavish had returned to his cart before speaking up. "It is both ignorant and ungentlemanly to snigger at someone for trying to learn a new skill, no matter how awkward or amusing the attempts might appear."
The lad's lingering laughter was swallowed in a guilty gulp.
"And despite outward appearances to the contrary, you are a gentleman," she added, slanting an oblique glance at Prestwick.
"S-sorry." As Perry's chin had sunk into the folds of his shirt, the word was barely audible.
"That is hardly a proper apology."
Looking thoroughly chagrined, Perry lifted his head and straightened his shoulders. "Your Grace, I beg your pardon for my behavior. It was not well done of me."
The duke hesitated. The stinging rebuke had surprised him just as much as it had Perry, and for a moment he found himself speechless, knocked slightly off balance by hearing his own inner thoughts given voice by such an unexpected ally. But before he could recover, the young lady turned to him,
"And you, sir, might respond to an expression of contrition with a tad more grace."
Hell and damnation! Once again he had managed to appear a pompous popinjay. The realization caused him to grit out a curt acknowledgement. By her expression, he could see it did nothing to improve her opinion of him. To the Devil with what she thought! Throwing down his spade, he stalked to the basket of food and peered under the checked napkin. With great deliberateness, he tore off a hunk of the warm oatmeal bread and crammed it in his mouth.
"No doubt we are all tired and hungry." Though she pointedly avoided looking in his direction, her nose gave a twitch at the toasty aroma that filled the air. "Let us stop for a bite to eat and some rest. Then perhaps we may return to our work in a more productive frame of mind."
None of the others argued with the suggestion.
A strained silence ensued as Zara spread out the small blanket that McTavish had supplied and laid out the simple collation. The plaid wool smelled strongly of horse, and the cheese had acquired a few stray speckles of sawdust, but there were no complaints.
No one had the inclination or the energy to do more than chew, thought Prestwick wryly as he tipped back the jug of cider, then passed it over to his valet. Including himself. He lay back and closed his eyes, aware that he had just engaged in another blatant display of bad manners. Apparently his sense of propriety had come unraveled, along with the seams of his custom made French cuffs.
Perhaps if he were to doze off for just a moment, he would awake to find this was all a horrid nightmare. There would be Studley, plumping his pillows with a cluck of concern and placing the pot of coffee and lumps of sugar within easy reach...
"Your Grace."
It was not the craggy countenance of his butler that he saw as his eyelids snapped open, but a much more unwelcome face. Drat the chit! Must she plague even his sleeping hours?
"Your Grace," she repeated, emphasizing the urgency in her voice with a shake to his shoulder. "Wake up. We can't afford to dawdle any longer if we wish to finish the job by sundown."
"Arrgh." Prestwick sat up with a groan. On flexing his fingers, he felt as if he had aged ten score in the space of ten minutes. "Surely it makes no difference whether we finish today or tomorrow?" he asked irritably. While he was not at all keen on the idea of passing more than one night in the moldering dampness of the stone barn, neither was he anxious to renew his battle with the damn spade.
"But it does! We have lost too much time as it is. I fear—" The young lady bit at her lip.
Fear? He would not have thought the Admiral of the Amazons would admit to being afraid of anything. Yet the uncertainty that now pooled in her eyes suddenly made her look less like a mythic warrior queen and more like a vulnerable young lady.
"Oh, very well." Ignoring the creaking protests of his sore limbs, Prestwick levered to his feet. "However, if I am to slave on your behalf, I should prefer not be jeered at or insulted every step of the way."
"Fair enough," she agreed.
He reached for the spade, but she snatched it away. "I shall take my turn."
His eyes narrowed and he wondered whether despite her agreement she was making a subtle mockery of his efforts.
The answer was evident in the tilt of her chin. "That is only equitable," she explained. "I made the deal, and fair is fair. I don't expect you to do more than your share of the hard work."
So it was a prickly pride, and not some baser emotion, that had prompted her demand. That presented a ticklish problem. It was, of course, out of the question to allow a female to engage in such backbreaking work, yet further remonstrance would likely do naught but spark another heated quarrel.
Drawing in a deep breath, Prestwick held out his hand. "As the King of Spades, I demand the return of my subject."
A twitch of humor tugged at her lips. "Surely you don't wish a closer acquaintance with—"
"On the contrary. And the Monarch of the Marshes will tolerate no dissent. Hand it over."
A real smile, the first he had seen from her, suddenly appeared as she returned the tool. "Very well, Your Majesty. If you insist."
The change in her face was mesmerizing. The taut wariness disappeared, softening her features and lightening the smudge of shadows beneath her eyes. They were, he noted, quite bewitching—long lashed and luminous, their hard-edged emerald hue having melted into a liquid green, quixotic as the sea. He couldn't help wondering what mysteries lay swirling beneath the surface.
Then her fingers grazed his, sending a strange wave of heat tingling through his arm. Good Lord, what had come over him? It was absolutely impossible that he should feel a spark of attraction for Miss Greeley. She was all steel, while he preferred silk. Her manners were like a blaze of bold color, while he preferred muted pastels, her tone a martial crescendo, while he preferred a dulcet legato.
It was fatigue and the lack of proper nourishment that was having such an odd effect on his senses, he assured himself. That was the only possible explanation for such momentary madness.
His hand jerked away, its grip so tight upon the pitted iron handle that he thought his knuckles might crack. "Let's get to work."
All the sharpness returned to her features. Without a word, she ducked her head and took hold of the barrow.
As he jabbed the blade into the turf, Prestwick felt the prick of his valet's grizzled gaze. Why the Devil was the old fellow cutting up at him with such a censorious expression? He refused to look up, and yet much to his annoyance, he felt the color rise to his cheeks, as if he were some naughty schoolboy.
Hell and damnation! No matter which way he turned, it seemed he ended being a sad disappointment to everyone he encountered.
The wave that washed over him now was not one of sizzling passion but maudlin self-pity. There was not an adventurous bone in his body. He didn't want his hands dirtied or his boots scuffed. In fact, he was sorry he had ever strayed from the opulent comforts of his London townhouse, sorry he had ever caved in to the wheedling pleas of his mother's family, sorry he had agreed to use his ducal influence to help straighten out his rackety uncle's twisted affairs, sorry that he had ever met such a disconcerting clan as the Greeleys.
Sorry, sorry, sorry.
Oh yes, he was a sorry fellow indeed.
* * *
And here she had thought that their august sovereign George III was the only mad monarch in the realm. Ha! Zara gathered up a brick of peat and let it drop into the barrow with a satisfying squish. If all
titled English gentlemen were as queer in the attic as the King of Spades, she was heartily glad she had never been introduced to the drawing rooms of London Society.
She considered herself a fairly shrewd judge of character. Her eye for detail, sharpened over the years by her study of art, had been honed to a fine point by the need to survive. It allowed her to penetrate the veneer of polished smiles and practiced compliments and detect the tiny flaws and hairline cracks that went unnoticed by most other people. But the dratted duke remained cloaked in mystery, despite her attempts to strip away the layers of contradictions surrounding him.
No amount of salt or seaweed could disguise the elegant cut of his clothing or the costliness of their materials. That alone would have given notice of his being a Gentleman of Quality. Yet even without the fine tailoring dressing his person, there was a natural aristocratic bearing about him that made it obvious he had been born to a life of power and privilege. So how to explain the unspoken bond of friendship between the duke and his disabled valet? Even an unsophisticated country miss knew that it was nothing short of extraordinary for a gentleman to allow a servant to behave as an equal.
A muttered growl from the duke caused her brow to furrow. His snippy whining and preening manners bespoke a pampered aristocrat. But along with the sulky sentiments, he had shown hints of having a dry sense of humor. And beneath the surface glare of disgruntled disapproval in his eyes, she had also caught glimpses of deeper, far more complex emotions than mere pique.
Unless she was terribly mistaken, The Duke of Prestwick was far more thoughtful and intelligent than he appeared. Why, she wondered, did he wish to keep such qualities hidden away?
Another slanted glance in his direction showed that he had begun to master the rhythm of shoveling. His boot drove in the blade with authority and a flick of his wrists drew it in a sharp line through the spongy peat, cutting out neat block at nearly the same pace as Nonny. Zara found she couldn't help watching his long, lithe fingers in action. There was nothing indolent or lazy about their graceful movement. Surely they were used for something more meaningful than knotting his cravat in a Trone d'Amour or Mathematical.
Almost of its own accord, a blunt question slipped out from her lips. "You have unusual hands. Pray, where did you acquire such a dexterous touch?"
The tip of the spade hovered in mid-air for a moment, then slowly lowered to earth. "I play the pianoforte." His expression seemed to challenge her to laugh.
Music? Although she possessed only a rudimentary talent of her own, she admired all forms of the art, from the stirring chords of a symphony to the lilting notes of a sonata. "What sort of music do you favor?" she asked, the lump of sod in her hands forgotten. "The harmonious precision of Haydn? The cerebral symmetry of Mozart? Or the more untamed emotions of Beethoven?"
He looked at her as if she had been speaking in Cantonese. "Y—you are familiar with the nuances of such composers?"
"You may find it difficult to countenance, sir, but we were not raised as wild savages," she replied tartly.
"I—I meant no offense. It's just that it is rare to encounter anyone who actually knows the difference between a fugue and a fandango."
"Surely even someone tone deaf could differentiate between those two," quipped Zara with a faint smile.
"You would be surprised." She was gratified to note that his voice held the same dry note of humor as her own. "I have friends—intelligent friends—who would swear that an aria from Purcell's The Fairy Queen could be sung by the chickens in a barnyard."
The wry comment actually made her laugh. "Well, I do not claim to understand the nuances of opera, sir, but I am tolerably well-versed in the works of the German composers, for I prefer their works above all others."
"Indeed?" Again, his expression betrayed how unexpected her words were. But mingled with the surprise was an unmistakable enthusiasm that, in an instant, transformed his whole face. His jaw relaxed, his eyes lightened and his mouth was no longer set in a grim line. "I, too, feel they have been creating the most interesting compositions, at least for the past half century. One must, of course, give Haydn credit for his profound influences on modern music. He changed the way we listen to symphonies by bringing a certain order to chaos. However, I find I prefer the unbridled emotion of Beethoven, though, to be sure, he is not to everyone's taste."
"Oh, how can one not respond to such a powerful expression of feeling? His music is so individual, so poetic!" Finding it impossible to contain her own enthusiasm on the subject, she rushed on. "As for Haydn, you are not of the same opinion as Goethe, who said that his works are the ideal language of truth... "
Swept up in the exchange of ideas, Zara was unaware of how long the discussion had lasted until Perry tapped her on the elbow. Looking up, she saw that Nonny was leaning on his spade, regarding her with a quizzical look, while her younger brother was trying to steady the mountain of peat that was now looming above the sides of the barrow.
"Come, why are we all standing around wasting time?" she snapped brusquely, brought back to earth by the sight of the precarious pile. Disappointment at having the lively interchange of ideas come so suddenly to an end caused her tone to turn more brittle. "We can't afford to dally in idle conversation, not if we are to get the job done. Stump, perhaps you could take one handle and help me wheel the barrow to the shed while Perry takes your place tracing out more bricks of the peat."
"It is my fault for distracting you," murmured the duke. His spade flashed through the air. "Here, let me get back to work."
Distracting, indeed! Zara found herself watching the play of taut muscle through the thin fabric of his shirt. The show of strength was a subtle rippling rather than a beefy flex, and once again she realized that the appearance of his lithe frame, like much about the rest of him, deceptive—it was not nearly so undeveloped as she had supposed at first.
"Don't be dallying, Nonny," she said, though the mumbled rebuke was meant more for herself than her sibling. Ducking her head, she grabbed hold of the barrow handles as if they might afford her some grip on her wayward thoughts. As if in concert with such sentiments, a warning note reverberated in her head. What in the name of Hades was she doing, discussing such dangerous topics as passion and emotion with a total stranger?
Zara Greeley was pragmatic, not passionate, she sighed. She really couldn't afford to be anything else, not with all the responsibilities that had fallen upon her shoulders. With an inward sigh and a heave of her knees, she helped the duke's valet set the wooden wheel to bouncing over the mud and rocks.
Clack, clack, clack.
The staccato sounds were a loud reminder of the down-to-earth reality of her situation. Still, at times, she couldn't help indulging in a symphony of girlish fantasies—what it would be like to dance to the heady melody of a Viennese waltz, to wear frothy silk ball gowns and smile at smitten suitors.
If. If her father had possessed a modicum of common sense to go along with his adventurous spirit. If her grandmother had not been a spiteful dragon. If her distant relatives had not ignored her urgent appeals...
And if pigs could fly, she reminded herself harshly. "Ifs" would not purchase their passage back to England, or pay for a loaf of bread and a roof over their heads. So she had better keep marching to a steady drumbeat rather than think of twirling in air to an imaginary orchestra.
* * *
Prestwick listened to the heavy thud of her steps retreating down the rutted path. A light fog had wafted in from the bay, obscuring the surrounding dunes in a mizzle of mist, and he found himself thinking that the young lady was equally difficult to make out. He had come to expect sharp sarcasm and heated harangues, so the last thing he had anticipated hearing from her lips was a learned discourse on the differences between Haydn and Beethoven. How had a raw country chit and her brothers come to possess such erudite knowledge?
In spite of his resolve to keep his thoughts from straying in her direction, he could not help but be intrigued.
&n
bsp; Glancing up at the lad working by his side, the duke decided to see what more he might be able to discover about this strange family. "Perry is short for Perseus, is it? That's a rather unusual choice of names."
"My father was an ardent admirer of ancient Greek civilization." The youngest Greeley shot a quick grin at his brother. "At least I was named after a hero and not a hunk of stone."
Seeing the lift of Prestwick's brow, Nonny sighed and explained, "Nonny is short for Parthenon. Parthenon Pericles."
Amused at the irony of two muddy scamps bearing such classical monikers, the duke inclined a bow. "I am pleased to make your formal acquaintance, Perseus Agamemnon and Parthenon Pericles." He couldn't resist adding a flowery salutation from The Iliad.
Both lads looked amazed.
"Y—you are conversant with Homer in the original tongue?" exclaimed Perry in flawless Greek.
It occurred to the duke that he should be the one evincing surprise. Masking a chuckle with a wry cough, he replied, "And Socrates, Sophocles, Plato, as well as Aristophanes and Euripides."
Perry's face took on a wistful twist. "Papa was extremely well-versed in the classics. He was just beginning to read Oedipus Rex with me before the fever carried him and Mama off."
"You enjoyed such scholarly study?" asked Prestwick. He had always thought he had been the only lad in the entire universe who picked up a work of Latin or Greek by choice.
"Oh, very much sir. I have tried to carry on by myself, but it is hard going. Zara is always willing to help, but I do not like to ask too often, since she has so much else to occupy her thoughts." The scrunch of earlier hostility faded from the lad's face, replaced by a shy hopefulness. "I—I don't suppose you would be able answer a question or two regarding... "
The duke listened carefully, then took the time to give a detailed explanation.
The attention chased away the last vestige of reserve. Jeers and insults were forgotten as the lad peppered him with a barrage of further queries. Prestwick found such enthusiasm endearing. Indeed, Perry reminded him of a lively puppy, nearly tripping all over himself in his eagerness to discuss complexities of grammar and nuances of meaning. A bit of gentle probing revealed that the lad dearly missed his lessons, and was bursting with all manner of questions. Intelligent ones, too, for someone so young.
A Stroke of Luck Page 5