A Stroke of Luck

by Andrea Pickens

  A short while later, she crossed the back terrace and made her way down one of the graveled pathways. The grounds offered a number of interesting views, especially one stone bench tucked away behind a tall holly hedge that afforded a vantage point over a sloping meadow of wildflowers and distant pond. Hidden among a copse of elm and yew on the far side of the water, she even thought she spotted the ruins of a tumbledown marble folly, but decided that any exploration farther afield would have to wait for when she had more time.

  Untying the canvas roll of her supplies, she chose a thin stick of graphite and began to draw.

  It took several discarded starts to loosen her stroke and regain the fluidity of her touch, but once she had been at it for a bit, Zara felt her fingers begin to fly. Pausing only occasionally to accentuate a line or shadow with a dab of charcoal, she sketched out a number of scenes—a row of espaliered pear trees, a corner view of the manor house, a detail of climbing wisteria vines.

  Then, turning to a fresh page, she contemplated the blank expanse of white for some moments before starting in on a new subject. Her hand began to move quickly, the strokes taking on a life of their own. First, a series of bold lines drew in the basic composition, then a subtle shadowing of delicate crosshatching filled in tone and detail. After darkening one accent and elongating a curve, she sat back to survey the work with a critical squint.

  The eyes were not quite right, she decided, but she had caught the arrogant tilt to the tip of his nose and the way the softly waving tumble of hair curled around his ears. The mouth was also expressive of the gentleman's more pensive mood, though perhaps she had exaggerated the brooding sensuality of its curves. Her finger traced over the sinuous fullness, a quirk of exasperation suddenly thinning her own lips to a quizzical line.

  What perverse muse had inspired her to draw a likeness of the Duke of Prestwick?

  As her gaze moved downward, Zara drew in a deep breath. And what had possessed her to render the starchy English peer in a pose of languid relaxation, naked to the waist! She had, of course, lived in Italy for some years, which allowed for freedoms of the sort that were quite foreign to a sheltered English schoolroom miss. As an artist, she had license to look at things forbidden to any proper female. She knew quite well what a man's naked torso looked like—the hard, wide planes of the chest, the flat nipples, the sculpted muscles taut across the rib cage, narrowing to lean hips and a flat belly, with its tantalizing trail of golden hair leading lower.

  Oh yes, she knew what lay between a man's contoured thighs. She had seen rampant maleness in the flesh, not merely in sculpted stylization on a Greek statue. Not, thought Zara with a dry swallow, that she had ever taken advantage of the relaxed strictures or morality of the Continent to experience more than a look. Still, she couldn't help but be aware of the Duke of Prestwick as a raw, masculine presence.

  She blinked, bringing her palms up to cool the flush on her cheeks. Surely she was not physically attracted to the pompous peer! Surely the strange heat now coursing through her veins had to do with anger over his high-handed manner, not lust over his well-formed limbs.

  As a shadow fell across the page, Zara realized that the hour had grown later than she had realized. Tucking up her skirts, she rose and reluctantly gathered up her things. All in all, she was not displeased with how her first efforts had turned out. Her skills were a trifle stiff from disuse, but it had felt wonderful to begin exercising her creativity again. Indeed, she would have preferred to remain working for the rest of the afternoon. However, the shopping expedition really could not be avoided, she decided. Though she cared not a whit for the sad state of her own wardrobe, she did not wish to see her brothers further humiliated.

  A different graveled path led through a trellised rose garden and back to the french doors of the stone terrace. Choosing it as the most direct route back to her room, Zara moved off with a heavy step, the low crunching of the stone echoing her own inner mutterings over having to go through with the odious obligation. As she passed by an open casement of high, mullioned windows, a loud remonstrance recalled her from such silent musings.

  "Take your grubby fingers off that, brat!"

  It was the voice of Harold, his harsh tone sounding an angry note.

  "I—I was just—"

  "Sticking it inside your filthy jacket?" finished the gentleman with a rough sneer. "No doubt you hoped you might pawn it for a pretty sum."

  "I am not a thief, sir!" The accusation caused her younger brother's voice to quiver in indignation.

  Zara pushed through the rhododendrons and lifted her eyes above the stone ledge. The scene inside the library might have been comical had she been in any mood to laugh. The gentleman, his beet red face adding yet another splotch of color to his appearance, had hold of Perry's collar, but his fist spasmed open as the spine of the book in question jabbed hard into the embroidered roses of his waistcoat. A low whoof of air rushed out as Harold fell back a step.

  "And I'll have you know there is not a speck of grime on my hands or my clothing," continued the lad hotly. "I wasn't causing any sort of harm. I was merely reading."

  Harold's eyes flicked down to the cover of the book and then up again. By that time, he had recovered enough of his breath to jeer. "In Greek? What fustian! You are a liar as well as a light-fingered urchin. Now put that down, before I send one of the servants to fetch the magistrate."

  Zara was just about to jump to the defense of her sibling when she found herself beaten to the punch.

  "What seems to be the trouble?"

  Although the speaker was out of view, she had no trouble identifying the duke's deep baritone.

  "I found this urchin sneaking about in here, with a valuable book in hand," replied Harold. "Which, no doubt, he was about to slip inside his jacket."

  "Indeed?" Prestwick's boots beat a slow tattoo across the parquet floor. "And what makes you think he wanted to steal The Frogs?"

  "Frogs!" croaked Harold. "Where? Has the impertinent brat brought a pocketful of the slimy creatures into the house?" He gave a little hop. "Help me haul him out of here, Twick! I don't give a fig if he wishes to poach my polliwogs, but I will not stand for the purloining of my valuables."

  Perry fixed him with a look of withering contempt. "His Grace was referring to the title of the book."

  Harold's face went blank.

  "Aristophanes," murmured the duke.

  As the gentleman's mouth parted in confusion, Zara was struck by the uncanny resemblance to a fish.

  "Lud, what an idiot," said Perry under his breath.

  She though she saw a grin tweak up at the corners of Prestwick's mouth before he resumed a neutral countenance. "Really, Harold, there is no need to wax melodramatic over a Greek comedy. I told the lad he was welcome to sit here and read. He wasn't causing any harm—"

  "What do you call that!" demanded his cousin, his finger pointing at the torn volume lying upon the carpet. "The guilty party should have his backside soundly birched for such an act of wanton destruction."

  "Yes, it was rather careless of me to drop it."

  Harold turned a bit green around the gills.

  "But I shall exercise my ducal prerogative in deciding not to bare my buttocks to your wielding of the rod, if you don't mind."

  "I didn't mean, er, that is..." Seeing his accusation had gone dangerously awry, Harold sucked in his breath and retreated to a more jovial tone. "Of course not. Just making a little joke."

  "Good. Then I shall also assume you have no objection to my granting young Perseus permission to make use of the library whenever he wishes." The duke made a slight adjustment to the angle of his watchfob. "After all, I am sure I need not remind you that for now, Master Greeley's brother has just as much claim to these... valuables as you."

  Harold looked as though he would like to rip up at something, too, but merely inclined a stiff nod.

  "You may return to your reading later, Perry. Right now, I would like you to come along with me."

&
nbsp; Zara watched her brother follow along at Prestwick's heels like an eager puppy, then turned and slipped away from the window ledge, her emotions even more confused than before.

  Hell's Bells! It was bad enough to feel an unwilling physical attraction to the dratted man without finding herself in danger of actually liking him!

  Chapter 9

  He had thought things could not get much worse, but apparently he had been wrong. Fisting the sheet of scented ivory paper into a tight ball, Prestwick chucked it into the flames and reached for the decanter of brandy.

  "Lady Farrington driving you to strong drink?" Shouldering his way through the closed door without the benefit of a knock, Stump moved over to the hearth and added another log to the fire. "Can't say I blame you. That old battle ax can chop anyone's sanity into mincemeat within thirty seconds. Then there is her lapdog of a grandson, waitin' to chew on the scraps."

  Prestwick grunted and filled his glass nearly to the brim. "It is not merely my great aunt and Harold who are cutting up my peace of mind."

  "Ye didn't enjoy your excursion into town with Miss Greeley and the lads?" asked the valet with an air of great innocence.

  "Stubble the jokes," growled the duke. "You do not have a subtle touch when it comes to humor."

  "Aye, a bit heavy-handed in most things," agreed Stump, turning his back to the fire to hide a broad grin. "Would you be wanting anything else? A bottle of port? A magnum of champagne? A barrel of Bruichladdich?"

  "A pot of hemlock," he muttered, draining the brandy in one gulp.

  "Aw, it can't be that bad."

  "Ha!" Prestwick stared glumly at the curling wisps of ashes. "I just received word that Lady Catherine Ellesmore and her father arrived today at their country estate. Along with a houseful of guests."

  The valet took up the poker and began to stir the coals. "I would have thought the news would be cause for celebration."

  Prestwick frowned, feeling the furrows on his forehead dig deeper. It was true. He should be looking forward to the company of the lovely young lady who, with her polished manners and perfect behavior, never caused so much as a spark of exasperation to flare up in his breast.

  So why had sight of the elegant script and the Ellesmore crest left him feeling rather cold?

  Hurriedly pouring another drink, he raised the glass to his lips and let the fiery spirits burn a path down his throat. Would that the trail of his own feelings were as easy to discern. Of late, they had been straying off in the oddest manner, causing his mood to rise and fall as if he were still being buffeted by a stormy sea. It was most unfathomable—he was normally steady as a rock, impervious to any of the waves of raw emotion that he saw roiling around him.

  Passion was all very well in the score of a symphony or the brushstrokes of painting. He admired such heated intensity in music and art, but he preferred that it remained confined to paper or canvas. When it threatened to engulf his own senses, whether in a burst of hot anger or a swell of light laughter, it was... rather uncomfortable.

  And perhaps rather frightening.

  Coward! he jeered at himself. There it was again, the dreaded word, snaking up in an ugly curve, ready to sink its fangs into him. No matter how he twisted or turned, there seemed to be no eluding its reach.

  The damnable problem was, he was not quite sure just what it was he was afraid of.

  None of his ramblings were making much sense, he thought as the potent brandy began to fuzz further attempts to find his way to solid ground. Though he wished he might blame the spirits for his own tipsy meanderings, he knew the answer was not quite so simple.

  Feeling rather lost, he thumped the empty glass down upon the walnut sideboard and slouched down into one of his late uncle's overstuffed leather armchairs with an audible sigh.

  Stump paused in his efforts to stir up a flame and cocked his head. "Is there some other reason you're looking as blue-deviled as Lucifer with a pitchfork stuck in his arse?"

  Prestwick mumbled something unintelligible, at a loss for any coherent answer. Dropping his gaze, he fell to picking at the intricate embroidery of his waistcoat, as if, like the Greek hero Theseus, he might find a thread to lead him out of the labyrinth of his strange mood.

  After several moments, his fingers stilled on one of the pale yellow medallions. In the glow of the fire, its color took on a faint reddish cast, reminding him of the highlights in a certain young lady's hair. The duke stared, then frowned and jerked his hand away.

  Hell and damnation! He must be slipping down the slope of insanity to be brooding over the hot-tempered Miss Greeley when the sweet-natured Lady Catherine was close by!

  Throughout the afternoon, the feisty chit had made her dislike of him clear, keeping her eyes averted from his person and avoiding all but the most cursory of conversation. Somehow, between the cheerful chatter of the two lads and hurried whirl of picking out fabrics, styles and colors, they had managed to get through the rounds of shopping without any overt hostilities. Still, the experience had left him feeling rather wounded.

  He should not care a whit what she thought of him. It was, after all, apparent that she had no great opinion of gentlemen in general. Yet it nettled him to be lumped in with all the other unscrupulous cads and selfish prigs she had encountered during her journeys. For some reason he could not quite put into words, he wished for her to acknowledge that he was not like them. More than that, he wanted her to admit that a chord had been struck between them on the island of Islay and the resonance, however faint, was still there between them.

  Raking his hand through his hair, he swore under his breath.

  Stump nearly dropped the poker. "That ain't exactly a phrase from one of your scholarly tomes."

  "I daresay I am not feeling overly intelligent right now." Prestwick grimaced. "Indeed, I am feeling like a bloody fool."

  Stump was smart enough to refrain from comment.

  "Go on and take yourself off to bed." He leaned back and closed his eyes. "I believe I shall remain here for a while longer."

  Remaining tactfully silent, the valet lit the brace of candles on the sidetable and quietly slipped from the room.

  The duke sat without stirring for some time. Then, moved by a sudden restlessness of spirit, he rose and went to the pianoforte. His fingers, mere shadows in the flicker of the flames, began to play over the ebony and ivory keys.

  Black and white. If only life were so clearly defined, he mused as the soft notes of the Beethoven sonata drifted up from the instrument. Rather than being composed of infinite shades of gray.

  The candles had melted down to stubs and the coals had long since lost their glow before Prestwick left a last note lingering in the darkened room and made his way upstairs.

  * * *

  "How very nice." Lady Farrington eyed the crested note as a tabby would a bowl of cream. "Of course, it is only to be expected that the marquess would include the two of us in an invitation to dine at Ellesmore Manor." She lowered her lorgnette and passed the card on to her grandson with an arch smile. "You must be sure to wear your new chartreuse swallowtail coat, along with the floral waistcoat and buff breeches, Harold. You shall appear very stylish."

  Assuming tropical parrots were in style this Season, thought Zara as she swallowed the last sip of her tea.

  "Lady Hylton assured me in her last letter that the combination is all the rage in Town," finished Lady Farrington. "And I shall choose my mauve watered silk with the overskirt of spangled silver."

  The thought of such a palette was enough to make Monsieur Henri's turnip puree to take on the taste of boiled turpentine.

  Hurriedly finishing the last bit of her meal, Zara rose and excused herself. As her brothers had gone off earlier for a tour of the stables with Stump, and the duke had remained locked behind closed doors in his late uncle's study with his man of affairs, nuncheon had passed in relative silence, at least on her part. The other two had patently ignored her presence while dissecting the latest bits of Society gossip along
with the delicacies prepared by the French chef. The pointed snub, however, had suited her just fine. She was anxious to have a closer look at several botanical watercolor studies that hung in an alcove of the music room before returning to the back terrace to finish her own drawing of the trellised roses.

  The sun had broken through the clouds by the time she picked up her sketchbook, the dappled light adding new depth and shading to the lush blooms. Anxious to capture the moment, she set hurriedly to work, only to look up after a short time and grimace as she reached toward the materials spread out by her side.

  "Damnation," she muttered under her breath, finding that the box of her darker pastels was not there. Deciding she must have set them down on the settee while regarding the paintings, Zara laid aside the work in progress with a huff of impatience and hurried inside. It took no more than a few minutes to fetch the missing items but as she stepped back through the french doors, she saw that the corner of the terrace was no longer deserted.

  Prestwick was standing by the bench. He had taken up her open sketchbook and appeared engrossed in studying the page.

  Biting back another oath, Zara rushed to his side, the ruffled hem of her new gown foaming up around her ankles.

  "Give that back!" she cried, trying to snatch it from his grasp.

  He stepped back in surprise, so that her grab merely grazed the Moroccan leather binding.

  "But this is quite lovely."

  Hells bells! She bit down upon her lip so hard that her teeth nearly drew blood. Were he to leaf back just a page or two, he would come across the intimate sketch she had done of him. The realization caused her face to take on the same deep pink hue as the flowers.

  "Might I have a look at some of the others?" he asked.

  "No!" This time, she managed to pry the book away, though in the process her fingers became entangled in the ends of his cravat, pulling the precise folds askew. "I'll thank you not to snoop through my private things, sir."

  He looked perplexed by the heat of her reaction. "I was not snooping, Miss Greeley. It was out in plain view and... " He paused to clear his throat. "I didn't know you had an interest in art."