A Stroke of Luck

by Andrea Pickens

  * * *

  Prestwick clenched his hands to keep from planting a fist smack in the embroidered flowers of Harold's waistcoat. The toad had been sly enough to choose his words carefully, so that he could not be accused of violating the letter of the duke's warning in regard to Miss Greeley. But that did not lessen the duke's urge to wipe the satisfied sneer off his cousin's flushed face with a hard right cross to the ribs.

  The merry lilt of the country song only caused his own mood to turn more discordant. Lady Catherine played with a technical skill far superior to that of Zara, and he had always found her performance pleasant, if not inspired. But tonight, in comparison to Zara's flawed yet passionate play, her music sounded flat and mechanical to his ear.

  How had he failed to notice that before? And was her posture always so rigidly correct and arched smile so perfectly aligned that it looked pasted on?

  Turning on his heel, he marched to the sideboard, poured a measure of brandy and swallowed it in one hurried gulp. The heat, however, did little to relieve the chill in the pit of his stomach.

  Throughout supper he could not help noticing how stilted the young ladies within earshot had sounded. Their lines were all ones he had heard before, and a question on aught but the weather seemed to make them freeze. He stared down into his empty glass. The young ladies seemed just as drained of individuality. Indeed, he had to admit that even Lady Catherine, despite being artfully dressed in rich jewels and costly silks, appeared colorless compared to Miss Greeley. Remembering the fiery red sparks of her hair and the turbulent ocean green of her eyes, Prestwick realized that she was all bold strokes of color rather than a bland blending of hueless shades.

  Had things changed so dramatically in the few short weeks since he had left London?

  Unable to stand still and listen to any more of the shallow conversation or dull notes, he edged away from the rest of the guests and slowly made his way to the far end of the room.

  "It is one of Sir Joshua's lesser works," he murmured on stepping closer to the framed canvas. "And is hardly worthy of such intense scrutiny."

  Zara's gaze remained fixed on the canvas. "Perhaps. But at least the artist was intent on exercising a modicum of creativity and originality."

  He gave a low chuckle. "As did you on the pianoforte. I found your rendition intriguing. Do you think Beethoven wanted the adagios to be played with such an underlying tone of melancholy?"

  The question caused her to spin around. "I know I play poorly, but it gives me pleasure. So you may leave off mocking me, sir."

  "I am not mocking you, Miss Greeley." Despite her obvious distaste for his company, Prestwick found himself strangely loath to leave. "I merely wished to engage in a discussion—"

  "If it is a discussion you want, why don't you return to your own friends?" she replied in a taut whisper. "You are undoubtedly missing one of great importance—like whether chartreuse or puce will be all the crack in waistcoats next Season."

  "Because I would rather stay here and talk to you," he blurted out.

  For an instant, there was a strange flicker in her eyes before it was doused in disbelief. She turned back to the portrait hung over the escritoire. "But you think me an ill-mannered, outspoken harridan."

  "That is not true—"

  "No?" she challenged. "Then what is your opinion?"

  He hesitated. "I am not really sure."

  Her mouth took on a wry twist. "No need to prevaricate, Your Grace."

  "I am not prevaricating." He drew in a deep breath, searching for some way to explain what he meant. "You are rather like a Beethoven symphony—complex, textured, and passionate. Some parts are hauntingly lyrical, some are jarringly harsh." He crooked a faint smile. "In truth, like anything new and unusual, it takes some getting used to, so I do not wish to rush in forming a judgment."

  The look she fixed on him seemed to cut through every layer of his carefully constructed defenses, and he suddenly felt naked as the cursed statue of David. Did he, too, fail to measure up under such scrutiny?

  Had he sounded like an idiot? Sure that raw vulnerability was flush on his face, he looked to the leaded panes of glass, to hide his embarrassment. "Forgive me. It has been an odd night. I don't know what prompted me to speak without thinking," he mumbled.

  "Y-you did not mean it?"

  "No... Yes. But I imagine most young ladies would rather be compared to a perfect rose or some such thing." He heaved a harried sigh. "No doubt I have once again offended you, which was not my intention."

  For a moment there was dead silence between them, then a smile began to play upon her lips. "Actually, it is quite the nicest thing that anyone has ever said to me."

  Still feeling a trifle unsure of himself, the duke gave a small laugh. "Then it is clear you have not received very many compliments."

  "No." In an instant, the smile faded. "I have not. Not many at all, which should come as no great surprise to you, sir. What gentleman in his right mind would be moved to flowery words by an ill-mannered, ill-tempered shrew?"

  Before he could compose an answer, she rushed on. "Look, you have been decent—more than decent actually—in seeing that we were not booted out the door when we showed up at Highwood Manor. And I appreciate the kindness you have shown to Nonny and Perry. But any sense of duty should not go so far as to make you feel obliged to introduce me to the ton." Fisting the skirts of her new gown, she gave them a shake. "Not even you, with all your exquisite sensibilities and taste in fashion, can make a silk purse out of a sow's ear."

  "If I were to compare you to any barnyard animal, it would be a mule," he said softly. "For you can be deucedly stubborn about certain things."

  He saw her lips twitch, but only for a ghost of a moment. "I do not mean to be rude, sir, just realistic. We are birds of a different feather. I don't belong among all the frills and finery, while you have been groomed since birth for this sort of life." She looked away. "It would really be best if you returned to your circle of friends. Already they are staring."

  With a start, Prestwick realized he didn't give a fig whether eyes were turning their way. All he cared about was finding a way to banish the flicker of loneliness and uncertainty he had just glimpsed in her gaze. "Miss Greeley..."

  Still she kept her face averted.

  "Zara..."

  His low whisper of her given name caused her head to jerk around.

  "You are mistaken to think we have nothing in common," he began. But before he could say more, he caught sight of Lady Catherine relinquishing her seat at the pianoforte to Miss Featherstone and turning his way.

  With a silent curse of frustration at the young lady's sense of timing, the duke was forced to cut short his words. "However, it appears we shall have to postpone a discussion of the matter until a later time."

  "And you are mistaken to think that because we both like music and art, there might be anything else we share. So I don't see that there is any need to continue the discussion."

  The approach of Lady Catherine forestalled any further comment on his part. Zara, in turn, slipped deeper into the shadows and returned to a protracted study of the portrait by Reynolds.

  "Prestwick?" The soft trill of his hostess's tone, which he had always found charming, now grated on his ear. "Papa wonders whether you will do him the honor of partnering him at the card table."

  "Yes. Of course," he gritted out, allowing himself to be led away.

  Honor. Duty. Manners.

  The Devil take it. He never thought the day might come when he would say it, but the truth of the matter was, he was heartily sick of being a proper gentleman.

  Chapter 12

  "Yes, I am quite sure." The duke's man of affairs lay down a sheaf of papers. "The documentation is all there." A folded piece of foolscap was added to the top. "Including an affidavit from the vicar who officiated at the ceremony. Despite his advanced age, he is quite sound of mind, as the two witnesses will attest."

  "Excellent work," murmured Prestwick, afte
r a quick examination of the paper. He then passed it on to the two legal men.

  "Hmmph." The beefier of the two took a moment to adjust his spectacles. "We, shall, of course, wish to read through everything very carefully before coming to a final decision."

  "Of course," agreed the duke. "By all means take your time."

  "But if it is as your man has said," added the second man. "Then there seems to be no question as to whether Master Greeley is to be the next Baron Kenworth."

  Prestwick rose, as did Zara and Nonny.

  Lady Farrington, her face white save for two mottled spots of color upon her cheeks, took a moment longer to push up from her chair, assisted in sulky silence by her grandson. Once in the hallway, however, she recovered enough from the initial shock to jab at the air with her lorgnette.

  "Unnatural man!" she choked. Though her glare encompassed all three of them, it was clear that the worst of her ire was clearly reserved for Prestwick. "Sending your own secretary to ferret out hearsay, and to what end? To ensure that dear Harold, who is a true gentleman, is shunted aside from the title on a... technicality."

  Her sputter grew more pronounced. "I would have thought that blood would run thicker than the seawater that brought these interlopers to this door."

  "Did you, Aunt Hermione?" replied the duke. "Well, it appears you were mistaken."

  "Indeed I was! In the past, you have always been most accommodating to your family, as you should be. But of late you have changed."

  "Yes, I must say, Twick, we expected... rather more of you," whined Harold. "Surely there is still time—"

  "Do not call me 'Twick,' you obsequious little mawworm." The duke's thunderous order sent his cousin slithering back a step to take refuge behind his grandmother's ample bulk. "It is a familiarity that is used by only my closest friends. Among which you are most definitely not numbered."

  Lady Farrington did not resemble a mawworm so much as a fish out of water, her mouth hanging agape and working in the most unflattering manner as it struggled for air.

  "That you would think I would ignore the truth is an insult to my integrity. And as for being interlopers, it is you two who appear to be here under false pretenses. I would suggest, as a matter of courtesy, that you pack your bags and take your leave by this afternoon. The new Lord Kenworth is no doubt too well-bred to toss you out on your ear, but I am not."

  Watching indignation fade to apprehension as they slowly comprehended the consequences of incurring the duke's wrath, Zara almost felt sorry for them. Most people in their position would have behaved with the same greed and selfishness, she imagined, fighting tooth and nail for what they believed was rightfully theirs. Indeed, the one truly surprising show of character had come from the duke.

  She ventured a quick peek at his rigid profile. She had, from the first, suspected that there was more to the man than his stiff bearing and starchy manners had indicated. That he was no shallow, supercilious aristocrat had become apparent over the course of their acquaintance, but no matter how closely she had studied his subtle shifts of expression of late, she was not at all sure she could see beneath the layers of self-imposed duty and obligation to gauge the true state of his feelings.

  "And if you don't move a little faster, you will find my boot on your arse," muttered Prestwick at Harold's slowly retreating backside. "Indeed, I would be doing the world of fashion a great favor by splitting the seams of those detestable yellow pantaloons."

  Nonny grinned. "I would give a monkey to see the pompous peacock with his drawers exposed, sir."

  "Hardly a noble sentiment, Lord Kenworth," replied Prestwick, though his lips were twitching as well.

  "Hardly a noble action, Your Grace," murmured Zara dryly. "Actually, it was quite an ungentlemanly display of temper."

  "Should have done it long ago," he said under his breath. "Indeed, I should have done a great many things long ago."

  Not quite sure what to read into his enigmatic words, she left them unanswered. "You seem awfully sure that our claim will be validated," she said after a fraction of a pause.

  "I am. Symonds is quite a thorough and capable fellow. Once you gave us the details pertaining to the marriage of your parents, he was able to track down the surviving vicar, as well as enough other proof that no further doubt can be cast on the matter."

  "I—we—owe you a great debt of thanks."

  "On the contrary, I owe the three of you an abject apology for the behavior of my family."

  Zara drew in a deep breath as she regarded the tips of her slippers. "Then let us consider the slate wiped clean."

  His eyes narrowed and seemed to take on a rather strange hue. "You wish to expunge the past?"

  "It makes sense, does it not?" There was a flicker of puce at the end of the hallway as the last ruffle of Lady Farrington's gown disappeared around the corner. "I—I suppose that will mean you, too, will soon be leaving for London."

  "Er, well, as to that..." His brow crinkled. "Perhaps, for Nonny's sake, I ought to remain for a bit longer. There are still a great many things that he needs to know in order to feel comfortable in Polite Society." He cleared his throat. "And you needn't worry about the propriety of it. I have already sent word to my Aunt Alice, asking if she would come for a short visit. You will like her. She is both intelligent and amusing, as well as being a highly respectable spinster who presence as a chaperone will satisfy even the highest of sticklers. Her note indicated she is expected to arrive by nightfall."

  "Why, that would be wonderful, sir!" exclaimed her brother with unfeigned enthusiasm.

  Zara, too, felt a strange lurch of her insides in learning he did not mean to rush off. However, she had no real illusions about why he wished to remain at Highwood. And it was not on account of two adolescent boys and their spinsterish sister.

  "Could we take a gallop in the south meadow before nuncheon?" went on Nonny. "You said I was showing a firm enough seat to attempt the fences."

  "So I did." He touched the lad's shoulder. "Very well. Go ahead and have Givens saddle our mounts." As Nonny hurried off, Prestwick hung back. "You need not have any fears, Miss Greeley," he said softly, his gaze lingering on her pinched expression. "Your brother is quite safe with me..."

  Ha. If only the same could be said for herself.

  "I will see he does not attempt anything foolish."

  Zara gave an inward grimace, feeling that of the Greeley family, it was she who was in danger of acting the fool.

  * * *

  A shriek reverberated through the hallway, followed by a series of jolting thuds. Jumping up from the letter she had been penning, Zara rushed into the foyer, just in time to catch sight of a large leather valise bouncing down the last few steps of the staircase.

  "Odious creature!"

  The butler struggled to maintain an impassive countenance as Harold came skittering down right behind it, his face the same flushed hue as the crimson stripes of his waistcoat. "Rusher, take that out to the carriage." The bag gave a little lurch, causing the duke's cousin to jump back a step. "A-And remove whatever is wriggling around inside it before placing it in the boot."

  "Begging your pardon sir, but as His Lordship has issued no orders to me concerning the handling of luggage, I shall have to await his request."

  Zara didn't blame the fellow for allowing a hint of smugness to creep into his voice. No doubt Harold and his grandmother had been insufferably overbearing in lording it over the servants of their late relative.

  "He is out riding with the duke," continued Rusher. "And I don't know when they plan to return."

  "B-but..." wailed Harold.

  Much as she was amused by the rather greenish cast that had come over his face, she had no wish to regard it any longer than necessary. "You might as well carry it out, Rusher," she murmured. "Otherwise we may have to endure his caterwauling all afternoon."

  "Yes, Miss Greeley." As he passed, she thought she detected a wink.

  Taking hold of the handle, the butler gave
the valise a sideways shake. Out popped a large frog, who, after a loud croak, made a flying leap toward the open door. It made it onto the marble landing, then quickly disappeared into the shrubbery.

  Harold, his own legs pumping nearly as hard, was not far behind, his mad dash sending up a spray of gravel as he hastened to gain the relative safety of his grandmother's ancient barouche.

  "Hah! I guess that sent him hopping." Perry peeked down from between the varnished balustrades.

  "Perseus Greeley, that was not well done of you," she said, trying to sound stern. "A gentleman should not indulge in such childish behavior."

  "Sorry." He looked anything but contrite. "But nor should a gentleman indulge in such smarmy behavior as spreading innuendos and falsehoods. Nor should he act like a preening coxcomb."

  "Nor should he be so lily-livered as to take fright over a mere frog among his linen." After a cursory glance at the carriage door being yanked shut, the duke stepped into the foyer and lay his crop and curly brimmed beaver upon the sidetable. "I do trust the poor creature's lungs were not permanently damaged by the scent of that cloying cologne."

  Perry grinned. "No, sir, I believe no lasting harm was done. To the frog, that is."

  "Don't worry about Harold. Probably did him some good to get a bit of vigorous exercise." Stump's face appeared next to the lad's, an expression of mirth stretched upon his leathery features. "Ain't never seen him move with such speed and agility."

  Prestwick chuckled. "I doubt Harold will ever be mistaken for a true Corinthian."

  "Really, sir, the two of you should not be encouraging Perry to make mischief." Zara tried to ignore how boyishly handsome the duke looked with his wind-tousled hair and eyes alight with laughter. "It is..."

  He clasped his hands behind his back and waited for her to finish.

  "It is..."

  "If you wish to ring a peal over someone's head, by all rights it ought to be mine," said Stump. "I showed Master Perry the pool in the gardens."

  "But it was I who brought up the subject of frogs." Prestwick looked to be trying to maintain a straight face. "A pity I did not think to mention snakes. That might have been a more appropriate parting gift."