"I don't... That is, I—"
Ignoring her stammering, the duke continued. "I assume you carry some proof of Nonny's claim. I would ask that you allow my secretary to see it, in order that we may help ensure that the just decision is made."
Zara hesitated. Lowering her lashes, she pretended a sudden interest in the grain of the weathered oak when in truth she was slanting a probing look his way. It was the look she saw in his eyes that decided her—a calm that plumbed to the very depths of their blue green hue.
"Yes," she said slowly. "I have proof, though my father's solicitor has warned me it may not stand up to a legal challenge."
"How so?"
"I have a copy of the marriage lines, and my father's Bible, in which the union is recorded. However, the church and all its records were destroyed in a fire." Zara could not help the note of bitterness that crept into her voice. "A rather convenient happenstance for your relatives."
"I was told something of a fire, but it is my understanding that it occurred a number of years ago." His mouth thinned in tight-lipped cynicism. "Aunt Hermione is a vain, encroaching mushroom and Cousin Harold would toadeat a slug if he thought it might bring him some consequence. However, neither of them possesses the brains or the foresight to plan anything quite so cleverly malicious."
"Well, it seems the King of Spades does not quail to call a spade a spade," observed Zara dryly.
"I did not imagine you would wish me to do aught but dig in and get to the heart of the matter." After pausing to wind the leather lead into a neat coil, he added, "We cannot choose our relatives, as we may our friends."
She wondered whether she was mistaken in thinking his voice had taken on a strangely wistful undertone. Surely a gentleman of his lofty position could not be... lonely. Her imagination must truly be running wild. He was a duke, not some footloose wanderer like herself, treading a perilous line between respectability and ruin. Of course he was surrounded by a proper family and elegant friends.
Friends. Zara swallowed hard, thinking that the rather ordinary blue stripes of her everyday muslin paled in comparison to a certain rich shade of emerald green. She doubted the duke would ever dream of looking at a shabby hellion as a friend.
"My great aunt and her grandson may be unpleasant and obnoxious, but I don't suspect them of anything more nefarious than trying to employ a bit of wheedling and bullying to ensure that Uncle Aubrey's title passes to Harold. Along with dropping a few well-placed innuendos concerning your antecedents, of course."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" she asked glumly.
"Actually it is." Prestwick flashed a small smile. "What I mean to say is, you may simply ignore their ill-mannered sniping. However, I should hope that you will trust me and not ignore my request to show Symonds your papers."
"I suppose there is no harm in that," she allowed.
The real danger lay in that she did not trust herself to ignore the growing attraction she was feeling for the dratted man.
* * *
Hell's teeth. The young lady was more difficult to read than the most obtuse passages of Plato, mused the duke as he wiped a smudge from the mirror-like surface of his Hessians. Her expression was so nuanced that the quixotic changes of emotion were too fleeting to decipher. She had apologized, but there had been a good deal more in her gaze than mere contrition. The devil of it was, he had not a clue as to what it might be.
"Here now, sir, you ought to be letting me do that." Stump's feelings were not at all hard to determine. He was irritated, and just a little bit offended. "I can still wield a rag."
Prestwick yielded the boots without argument, then stripped off the rest of his garments and sank into the tub of steaming suds.
The valet looked up at the sound of the long, drawn out sigh. "Them lads running you ragged around the paddock, eh?"
It was not Nonny and Perry who had his thoughts spinning in maddening circles, thought the duke as he watched the vapor swirl in a ghostly dance up toward the ceiling. But as it was hard to explain, even to himself, he answered with naught but a wordless grunt.
Stump took no more than an instant to interpret the rumbled whoosh of air. "Ah, I think I get your drift," he commented. "I suppose you're thinking of Lady Catherine. Word has it she stopped by this afternoon."
With a start, Prestwick realized he had forgotten all about Lady Catherine's visit.
"Arrrgh," he replied, taking care to drown out the need for further comment by splashing a goodly amount of water over his face. Then, taking in a deep breath, he let himself sink below the soapy surface, somehow feeling that once again he had fallen overboard. But this time around, he had a sneaking suspicion he was in way over his head. Indeed, the storm currents stirred up by Miss Greeley made a North Atlantic gale appear a mere tempest in a teapot.
A hand suddenly reached into the tub and yanked him up. "The Devil take it! Are you all right, sir?"
Coughing and sputtering, Prestwick found his valet staring down at him with a look of grizzled concern. "Yes. Of course," he muttered. "What makes you think otherwise?"
Stump made a face. "Mayhap the fact that since you dove off the deck of Nereid, you been acting as if you left your senses behind." He reached for a towel and gave it a vigorous shake. "You ain't been yourself of late."
His valet's words hit him like a splash of cold water. There was no denying the truth of them—the damnable question was why.
Wrapped in his silk dressing gown, a glass of brandy in his hand, the duke was still pondering the question as he paced before the library hearth and set the amber spirits to swirling in a slow vortex. He had thumbed through the pages of a book on Quattrocento paintings, but the colored engravings had appeared dull as dishwater. He had plied the keys of the pianoforte but the notes of the sonata had sounded sour as curdled cream.
What the Devil was ailing him?
Music and art had always provided a safe haven in times of troubled moods. But tonight he had found no solace in Botticelli or Beethoven. All he could picture was a certain young lady with fiery gold hair and an equally volatile temper. And the only sound echoing in his ears was the thrumming of his heated blood as he wondered whether her lips would feel like liquid flames when covered with his own.
Gulping down the rest of the brandy in one swallow, he felt it burn the insides of his mouth, then flow in a licking spiral to pool in his core. This was pure madness! he thought with an inward groan as sweat began to bead on his brow. Seeking to keep a grip on his sanity, he spun around and took hold of the marble mantel, letting the empty glass shatter upon the brass fender.
Dizzy and disoriented, he lay his forehead against the cool stone.
Somewhere in the back of his head a small voice whispered that it was not pure madness but pure lust that was causing his fingers to tremble and his knees to buckle. Lust? Oh, to be sure, he had kept the occasional mistress, but the arrangement had been quite civilized. Indeed, if truth be told, his intellectual interests had inspired more passion than his physical needs.
Prestwick drew in a ragged breath. Well, there was nothing civilized or cerebral about the wave of raw desire that was now shuddering through every fiber of his being. Closing his eyes, he found himself imagining what Miss Greeley would look like with her gold-sparked hair fanned out upon the jewel tones of the oriental carpet, her skirts rucked up to expose her long legs to the glow of the firelight. No doubt she would be more breathtakingly beautiful than Botticelli's Venus.
And no doubt a good deal more sensual. The painted goddess had a virginal innocence that made her seem too ethereal to be real, while the flesh and blood warrior queen radiated a fierce passion that left very little question as to whether she was very much alive. He wanted to feel her flesh grow warm under his touch, taste the spice of her tongue entwined with his, wrap her legs...
A sharp pain suddenly brought him back to his senses. He opened his eyes to see that he was clutching the marble so tightly that his fingers were in danger of crack
ing. Shaken by the force of his wildly erotic fantasies—and his inability to control them—he had to remain leaning against the fluted stone for several minutes before his legs were steady enough to make the climb up the stairs to his bedchamber.
It was, however, more than a few hours before he drifted off into the welcome oblivion of slumber.
* * *
Ignoring the Duke of Prestwick's obnoxious relatives was easier said than done, thought Zara in some exasperation. Giving another impatient twitch to the fringe of her new India shawl, she stared out the carriage window and wondered just how much longer she had to endure their mindless chatter.
"Are you feeling a chill, Miss Greeley?"
Prestwick's question made her realize she had crossed her arms over her chest in a most unladylike manner. So much for possessing a scrap of poise and polish. For perhaps the tenth time in as many minutes she regretted having allowed the duke to force her into accepting Lady Catherine's invitation to dinner.
"Not at all," she said through gritted teeth.
His brow gave a slight lift at her curt tone, but he made no further comment.
"Well, I am most uncomfortable, Prestwick. There is a nasty draft." Lady Farrington raised her lorgnette and directed an icy stare Zara's way. "Miss Greeley, must you keep the draperies open? Some of us are not used to traveling under such harsh conditions."
After giving a pointed glance around at the soft leather seats, varnished paneling and polished brass lights of the elegant barouche, Zara drew the velvet coverings closed and settled back against the squabs. In the dimmed light, she could not make out the expressions of the other three. Which was just as well, she thought, seeing as her own countenance was likely screwed in a most unattractive scowl.
It seemed, however, that the duke could read her thoughts, if not her lips. "You need not be on edge, Miss Greeley. This will be a quiet, informal evening, with little of the pomp and ceremony of a fancy Town entertainment. And as I am well-acquainted with most of the other guests, I can assure you that they will make every effort to make you feel welcome."
Rather than serve as a reassurance, his words only exacerbated her own misgivings. "You need not be on edge, Your Grace," she mimicked. "I shall try not to embarrass you by eating with my fingers or using an heirloom epergne as a... a chamberpot!"
Lady Farrington gave a horrified little squeak, while Harold buried a snigger in the fancy frills of his shirt cuff.
Zara also saw a small shudder run through Prestwick's body before he managed to stiffen his shoulders. Her vulgar comment had obviously offended his sensibilities, too. Well and good! she thought with an inward sniff. She had meant to shock him. It was all his fault she had been placed between a rock and a hard place, so it was only fitting that he should share in the discomfort of the position.
But when the duke spoke, he did not seem overly perturbed by her outburst. Indeed, if she didn't know better, she would have thought he was trying not to laugh. "Given the Marchioness of Ellesmore's taste in the decorative arts, her family silver might be better off hidden under a bedstead than gracing the centerpiece of a dining table," he murmured dryly.
"That is not amusing, Prestwick!" huffed his great aunt. "I cannot help wondering what has come over you, that you can view this whole coil with such inappropriate humor. Can't you see that it threatens to put you and your family in a highly embarrassing position?"
"No, I do not," he replied firmly. "Not unless you or Harold choose to make public your private sentiments. Which I trust will not occur. Not if you wish to retain my good will—and all the ancillary benefits that go along with it."
Lady Farrington made a sputtering sound. "We shall, of course, do our duty. But mark my words, Prestwick, you are making a big mistake."
"For once, I find myself in agreement with Lady Farrington," muttered Zara, finding herself both angry and confused by his reaction. Drat the man! Why was he being so deucedly nice? She would be the one guilty of making a grievous mistake were she to start thinking of him as a kindred spirit. They were of different worlds, she reminded herself, unable to keep a vision in emerald from waltzing through her head.
Spurred on by such a disturbing thought, she lashed out again. "I would have been much happier to remain at Highwood, for I don't have the slightest wish to further an acquaintance with you or your spoiled, haughty friends."
This time, her blow appeared to strike home. His gloved hands clenched slightly upon the thighs of his dove gray breeches, mirroring the tautness of his voice. "You may not care for our company, but for Nonny's sake—and Perry's—it would be wise make an effort to gain acceptance from the ton. Surely you do not wish for your family to be nomads forever. Haven't you experienced enough doors slammed in your face not to want them to be shut out from their rightful position in Society?"
Zara was happy that the darkness hid the flush of color that burned her cheeks.
"And you," he went on. "You may find, once things are settled, that you wish to make your own come-out and enjoy a Season or two in Town."
"Ha," she whispered, hoping any undertone of longing was well hidden.
Harold gave a harsh titter. "Indeed, Twick, I cannot imagine a more unlikely happening. As Miss Greeley herself acknowledges, she possesses neither the youth, beauty or sweetness of temper that would attract a gentleman—"
"That's enough. From all of you." The rap of Prestwick's stick against his boot punctuated his near shout. "No more sniping, no more tantrums, nor more insults tonight. I expect exemplary behavior from each of you or I vow, the guilty party will be very sorry. Am I understood?"
There was an uneasy shifting upon the soft leather seats.
It was impossible to be any sorrier than she already was, thought Zara with an inward grimace as the coach creaked to a halt.
Feeling rather like a lamb being led in to slaughter, she followed Lady Farrington in stepping down to the graveled drive.
Chapter 11
Was he making a big mistake?
Prestwick could not help but wonder whether for once his great aunt had the right of it. Slanting a sideways glance at Zara's face, he saw that her chin was only a hair's breath away from the defiant angle that boded trouble.
Not that he blamed her for feeling on edge. In entering into Polite Society, the Admiral of the Amazons was finding herself in strange waters, with no charts or compass for guidance. The dangers, both above and below the surface, would be tricky to navigate, even for a seasoned sailor. So perhaps he had been wrong to force her in such a direction.
She had, after all, made it clear that she would prefer to steer well clear of the ton.
And him.
Yet for the sake of her brothers, if not for herself, that was not a wise course, he assured himself. So despite her incipient scowl, he felt he had done the right thing. Now, if only he could manage to head off any violent collisions...
"Ah, Prestwick." The Marquess of Ellesmore extended a hand in greeting. "I must say, I was surprised to hear you were rusticating in the country. Not at all your usual style."
"Family matters made a visit imperative," he murmured, trying to keep an eye on Zara as he went through the expected niceties.
"Yes, yes, one must be a stickler about keeping such things in order." The other man gave an approving nod. "But of course, I need not remind the Distinguished Duke of that. It is clear from your own unimpeachable behavior and lofty standards that you value order and propriety above all else."
Good Lord, was he that much of a stick in the mud? wondered the duke, trying to keep his brow from crinkling in consternation.
"Yes, never a hair out of place with you, eh, Your Grace?"
Prestwick found his fingers itching to scrabble his neatly combed locks into disarray. "I have been known to cut up a bit wild on occasion," he said somewhat defensively.
"Nonsense." Ellesmore gave a hearty chuckle. "Don't know a more steady, sensible fellow than you. Buttoned up on all accounts, I should say."
&nbs
p; His impeccably tailored waistcoat, fitted by no less than the great Weston himself, suddenly seemed a bit too constricting.
"Come, I believe my dear Catherine is looking daggers at me for keeping you so long from the rest of the company."
The marquess's daughter was not the only one whose gaze had a sharp edge to it, noted Prestwick. He needed no further urging from his host to hasten over to where Lady Catherine was introducing Zara to several of the other guests.
"...traveling, you say?" The duke just caught the tail end of Lord Haverton's words as he smiled politely. "I admire your fortitude, Miss Greeley, in standing up to the rigors and mud of foreign roads. I have to admit that I find the journey here from London exhausting enough."
Prestwick steeled himself for an explosion of sarcasm, but the young lady did not fire off her guns.
"Miss Greeley has visited Italy and Greece," chimed in Lady Catherine. "I have made her promise to tell us all about her adventures."
A slight shudder passed down Prestwick's spine. Nodding a quick greeting to the others, he jumped in to keep the conversation from veering off in a dangerous direction. "Miss Greeley is quite a student of Italian art." Painting and drawing certainly seemed a safe enough subject for drawing room conversation. He could only hope that the young lady would follow his lead.
"Then you must have found Rome and Florence absolutely fascinating," remarked the Viscount Abbingford, who had recently returned from a tour abroad.
"Fascinating," repeated Zara. The muted response was the first word she had uttered since passing through the front door.
Abbingford smiled. "There is a portrait by Da Vinci..."
Prestwick slowly let out his breath as a discussion began on the Renaissance masters, congratulating himself on having weathered the first rocky shoals without mishap. The angle of Zara's chin was not quite so acute as earlier, and when Abbingford finished with his opinion, she replied with considerably more enthusiasm than before. Her comments contained nothing more provocative than an interesting insight into the artist's technique, and the duke relaxed enough to take a sip of his champagne.
A Stroke of Luck Page 13