"Well, the omelet au fromage I had this morning was quite agreeable, so there is no cause for concern," she said tartly. "And don't let Monsieur Henri hear you imply that his cuisine might be cause for internal distress. He might cut off your tongue with his cleaver."
Perry sucked in his cheeks. "Or worse, cut off our supply of fresh croissants for breakfast! Prestwick would not thank me for that."
There was a faint snap. "Since when have you taken the liberty of calling the duke by name?" she demanded as she jammed the broken pencil in her pocket.
Her brother colored slightly. "He said that I might, seeing as he is almost part of the family—"
"He is not family!" Zara caught herself on seeing his wounded expression and forced a more moderate tone. "It's just that we have learned through bitter experience that the three of us are on our own, and the only ones we can truly depend on are each other."
"But, Zara! Surely we can trust Prestwick. I mean, the King of Spades has long since proved his mettle."
She didn't answer directly. "The subject is great deal more complicated than mere mettle."
His lower lip took on a defiant jut. "Then start talking. For if you mean to try and fob me off by saying I am too young to understand, it won't fadge! I—"
"Perrrrrrseus!" Nonny's impatient call drowned out the low gurgling of the nearby fountain. "Come, let's be off!"
"This is not the time or place to continue the discussion," she said quickly, hoping the relief was not too apparent on her face.
"Very well." Perry kicked at a clump of grass. "We shall put it off until later. But like the trout we mean to bring back for Monsieur Henri, I don't intend to let you wriggle off the hook."
Though the prospect of Prestwick's proximity did have her insides squirming just a bit, the walk through the pasture lands and spinney that skirted the estate passed pleasantly enough. After nodding a polite greeting, the duke had joined step with her brothers, the three of them falling into an animated conversation on the fine points of coaxing trout from the swirls and eddies of rushing water. Zara dropped back, content to stroll alone and try to reel in her own zigzagging thoughts.
There was no denying that from the moment her family had sailed up the drive of Highwood Manor, Prestwick had gone out of his way to make her brothers feel at home. He seemed to have sensed that they had been too long adrift on their own, and his sensitivity to their needs had been nothing short of extraordinary. Under his tutelage, their faces had lost the careworn wariness caused by their perilous travels and regained some of the exuberant innocence that lads their age should have. And his show of kindness seemed motivated by more that mere duty and honor. Prestwick appeared to like her brothers, despite their unpolished manners and unbridled tongues.
A shout of laughter caused her gaze to dart up from the tips of her half boots. Perry, his arm snared in Prestwick's grasp, was removing his hand—and the small garter snake he managed to catch—from the willow creel slung over the duke's shoulder.
"Ho, brat," he exclaimed, turning a giggling Perry upside down and giving him a vigorous shake. "Have I been nurturing a serpent at my breast? You might scare a toady like Harold back to Town with such antics, but I am not such a man-milliner as to spook at the sight of a snake."
Zara saw the laughter fade from Nonny's face, "I should hope not, sir. I-I should be very sorry to see you go."
And her brothers had become very fond of the duke, she sighed, unable to wrench her eyes from the sight of his lithe shoulders and lean hips. Well, they were not the only members of the Greeley family who would dearly miss his company. A wry grimace tugged at her lips as she looked away to the wink of water just visible ahead. She had managed to keep afloat while navigating all manner of hazards, from carping creditors, groping lords and scheming relatives. Yet now that they had reached safe harbor and the seas had grown calm, her heart was in danger of being dashed to bits on the rocky shoals of... love.
Love?
Yes, it was time to face up to the truth, and look in the mirror with the same sort of detached scrutiny that she focused on the subjects of her portraits. Somehow the artistic side of her nature had flooded over the practical, drowning out all reason and logic. She had thought herself much too experienced in the harsh reality of life to fall overboard for such girlish dreams of romance and love.
But she had. No matter that she was much too ancient, outspoken and opinionated to attract the notice of any gentleman.
At least not in any positive way.
The Distinguished Duke might admire her art, but he did not admire her! She must not lose all perspective and mistake his occasional wish to discuss the nuances of color and technique with anything of a more serious nature. And as for his torrid kisses—she would be very wrong to imagine they were inspired by aught but lust. It had been dark, he had been drinking, and she had appeared from the shadows, clad in nearly nothing.
The combination had been a volatile one, and both of them had allowed reason to go up in flames.
To her consternation, Zara felt a tear spill over her lashes. Blinking it away, she scolded herself for a fool. Peagoose! Only a feather-witted idiot would be acting like the flighty heroine of a Minerva Press novel. Literature—like music and painting—often exaggerated the romantic spirit. She must not confuse art with reality. From her travels she knew that gentlemen often succumbed to base urges that had nothing to do with any higher emotions.
No doubt the duke was regretting the unfortunate interlude just as much as she was. That would certainly account for why, over last few days, he had taken pains to avoid her company.
A sigh hovered on her lips but she bit it back. It was she herself who had hammered home the fact that the King of Spades was cut from entirely different cloth than a vagabond artist. And not even so skilled a genius as Weston could stitch them together.
The faint swish of the fishing line and plop of the lure reeled her thoughts back to the present. "Let us see if it will stay afloat on the rougher water." With a twitch of his pole, Nonny steered his creation toward a rippling eddy near the edge of the riverbank.
"Have a care, lad, not to let it snag in the hazards lying just below the surface," called Prestwick as he prepared to cast in his own line.
Excellent advice, thought Zara, determined not to allow self-pity to pull her spirits completely under water. Leaving the others to their splashing pursuit of supper, she wandered a bit upstream and took a seat in the shade of a gnarled willow. The stick of charcoal felt a bit gritty in her hand, but she forced herself to turn open a blank page and begin to draw.
* * *
Prestwick craned his neck to catch a glimpse of what she was sketching. Swans. She had captured their graceful lines to perfection, but he couldn't help wishing she had let her imagination take flight to another subject. Just as he couldn't help wishing, as he watched the deft movements of her fingers, that they were once again entwined in his hair, pulling his head down to meet her lush lips...
She looked up abruptly, suddenly sensing his presence, though he had not moved a muscle.
"Nice," he murmured, covering his embarrassment at having been caught staring with a show of examining the swirling of the waters to her left. "I had thought to try my luck here, but I should not like to disturb your subjects."
"It is quite alright, sir. I was about finished." The paper snapped as she turned to a fresh page. "Go ahead and throw in your hook."
He was, however, intent on angling for something other than trout. "Might I have a look at the others you have done?"
Her eyes narrowed. "It is a new sketchbook," she said pointedly. "The rest of the pages are blank."
There was no mistaking the tautness of her tone. Did she think he was baiting her? It was impossible to tell whether the flush of color on her cheeks was due to the brisk breeze or some other reason.
"Miss Greeley... Zara..."
"I have not given you leave to use my name, sir."
"Given what has passed bet
ween us," he said quietly. "I should think we could let down our guard and address each other as friends."
"Friends?" she repeated under her breath. "Not likely."
"Why?" he demanded.
Her fingers fumbled upon the book. "I should run out of paper before I finished listing all the reasons."
"I had not expected to hear such a... conventional response from you."
"It was you who reminded me that I must, for the sake of my brothers, be bound by the strictures of convention, sir."
"Did I say that?" Setting aside his fishing pole, he took a seat beside her on the mossy bank. "No wonder you think me a prosy bore."
Clearly taken aback by the unexpected comment, she plunged on as if she had not heard him. "And convention dictates that a hellfire hoyden is not the proper sort of friend for a gentleman of your exalted privilege and position in Society."
"Shouldn't I be the judge of that?"
"No, others will do it for you! You heard the low titterings and saw the speculative glances the other evening. Your spotless reputation will only be sullied if you continue to be seen in my company." Heaving a harried sigh, she suddenly reached out and brushed a spatter of mud from his knee. "Have a care, sir. You are in danger of ruining your immaculate buckskins."
He was in danger of ruining far more than an item of his wardrobe. With the wind teasing an errant curl across her cheek and the slanting sun catching the sparks of gold in her green eyes, she looked so maddeningly lovely that Prestwick found himself having to exercise every bit of self-control that he possessed to keep from catching her up in his arms and kissing her in full view of her brothers and the farmer laborers who were repairing a nearby stile. If he put her reputation on the line, he would have no choice but to make an offer, else find his own honor sunk beneath reproach.
Somehow, the idea was not all that awful. He leaned in a touch closer.
She must have sensed his odd mood, for she quickly edged sideways. The tree, however, blocked that path of retreat.
"The state of my breeches is the least of my concerns at the moment."
"No, the state of your sanity should be," she countered, her movement now inching away toward the water's edge. "You are casting about for trouble if you insist on—"
The sound of snapping twigs cut off further words. Prestwick, who had caught hold of the willow's lower branches in order to stay close on her heels, found himself teetering on the slippery rocks.
"Oh!" Zara's shout was drowned out by a large splash.
"Another pair of boots ruined," she observed after a brief pause, her mouth quivering with suppressed mirth as she watched him wading through the knee deep water. "At this rate, you shall be providing Hoby with the means to retire."
Realizing how ridiculous he must look, standing in submerged Hessians, with drenched breeches clinging to his thighs, the duke drew in a long breath. But rather than voice any pique, he dissolved into a peal of laughter. "No doubt you think it serves me right for being such a stick in the mud over my first tumble into the water."
She, too, could not refrain any longer from outright laughter. "I have to admit, you are displaying a much better sense of humor about this current soaking than you did the previous one."
Prestwick managed to scramble back up the muddy slope and flopped down beside her. "I believe someone told me the best way of facing disaster was to laugh at it," he replied, peeling off his damp jacket and tossing it on the grass. His hands then loosened the Belcher kerchief at his neck, and picked off the wet leaf stuck to his chin. "Tell me, am I really such a pompous prig as you seem to think? Is that why you do not wish to be friends?"
She bit at her lip, looking somewhat dismayed, then the smile slowly crept back. "Actually, it has been quite some time since I have thought of you as a starchy, straitlaced, stiff-rumped prig."
"Are you sure you did not leave out any adjectives?" he quipped.
Zara laughed again, and the sound of it harmonizing with the gurgle of the river and the rustle of the trees. All too soon for his taste, however, it was lost in the breeze.
"All jesting aside, Your Grace," she said after shaking off some drops of water from the folds of her skirts. "I simply think it would be unwise to pursue a friendship."
"I ask again why? It's clear we share a passion for music and art."
A grimace twisted her expression. "That's part of the deuced problem. Passions are dangerous."
Was it fear that he saw in her eyes? What was she afraid of?
"And as I said before, there are a good many other reasons."
"Name one."
"Well..." There was an odd little catch in her voice. "Lady Catherine, to begin with."
"C—Catherine?" Caught by surprise, he felt his jaw tighten.
"Yes. No matter how nice a face she put on the situation, the young lady was not best pleased with having her intended spend his time ogling musty old canvases with a companion of questionable morals."
"There is no understanding between Lady Catherine and myself."
"That is not what the gossips say," replied Zara softly.
"The gossips are wrong." Was he mistaken, or did he notice the spasm of some emotion flit across her features?
"But what more can a gentleman desire?" The question seemed directed as much at herself as at him. "She has beauty, poise, charm and grace. Not to speak of a sweet disposition."
It suddenly occurred to Prestwick that a gentleman could desire a great deal more than such shallow attributes which were, after all, only little more than skin deep.
"But she has none of your courage, spirit, opinions or imagination."
"I-I thought gentlemen did not care for any of those qualities in a female."
"Perhaps we have both learned of late to dig beneath the surface of our preconceived notions." His solemn expression then split into a boyish grin. "Come, let us both throw caution to the wind, Zara." On impulse, he reached out and took hold of her hand. "Let us agree to cry friends, at least for the next little while we are together."
He felt her fingers stiffen, then slowly relax in his grip. "Oh, very well. I suppose there is little harm in it. Friends it is."
* * *
Little harm indeed! Zara felt the warmth from his palm stir a wave of liquid heat within her. If she wasn't extremely careful she would find herself tumbling head over heels into treacherous waters—and it would be her heart left hung out to dry, rather than a pair of expensive leather boots.
Yet the risk seemed well worth taking. It would be wonderful to share in his laughter, marvel at his music, exchange ideas on art, and mayhap even indulge in another kiss or two before the magical interlude came to an end.
It would come to an end, she knew, and sooner rather than later. He would return to London, and recollection of watery plunges and peaty laborings with a spade would quickly fade into naught but blurred memories. While she would no doubt hear the notes of a certain Bach sonata echo in her dreams for untold nights to come.
It was, however, a much more jovial note that brought an end to her bittersweet reveries.
"Zara! Prestwick!" Nonny, soaked to the waist but grinning ear to ear, held up a wriggling fish. "My lure worked! It's a big one, isn't it?"
"A veritable leviathan," admired the duke. "We shall have Monsieur Henri create a special dish in honor of the occasion." He pursed his lips, then chuckled. "I have it—Trout a la Islay. A fillet smoked over a peat fire then sauced with a reduction of whisky and cream."
The lad gave a whoop of laughter, then carefully deposited his prize in the large willow creel they had brought along.
"Oh, might I have a try with it," asked Perry, staring a bit disconsolately at his own bedraggled fly.
"Very well." His brother magnanimously passed over the rod and lure. "But do have a care."
The first few casts landed squarely in the middle of the rippling current. But on the next try, Perry, his arm growing weary from the weight of the tackle, managed only a weak flick of
his wrist, sending the painstakingly constructed bit of brass and lead flying dangerously close to the waterlogged remains of a fallen tree.
"Blister it, Perry!" cried Nonny in some dismay. He grabbed for the rod, but was too late to prevent the lure from drifting into trouble. As his fingers spun at the reel, the line pulled taut as a piano wire, indicating that it had already become snagged within the tangle of submerged branches.
"S—sorry," stammered Perry, struggling manfully to keep back tears. "I didn't mean to make a mull of it."
Nonny refrained from further comment, but anger and disappointment were clearly writ on his face. Muttering under his breath, he reached for his pocketknife in order to cut his loss.
"Hold a moment."
All three Greeleys turned in surprise as the duke splashed into the middle of the swirling eddy. "Angle the rod a bit higher." Taking hold of the taut line, he followed it closer to the source of the trouble, ignoring several slips on treacherous footing that nearly upended him into the foaming rapids.
"Deverill!" Zara could not keep from crying out as his head momentarily disappeared beneath the surface.
He waved off her concern, then dove in again.
She held her breath for what seemed like an age.
Finally, he emerged triumphant from the depths, a glimmer of gold held aloft in his hand.
"Hooray!" shouted both of her brothers. "Three cheers for the King of Spades."
"That was a very foolish thing to do," she scolded as he squished over the rocks and exposed roots of the steep bank and handed over the precious bit of metal to the lads. "You could have been trapped in the flotsam or swept downstream."
The duke's gaze darted to the faces regarding him with a mixture of awe and admiration, then returned to meet hers. "As you know, I am a strong swimmer." Hair plastered to his forehead, his once immaculate linen shirt smeared with a malodorous ooze, he was nonetheless sporting a lopsided grin. "And some risks are worth the reward," he murmured in an uncanny echo of her own sentiments.
A Stroke of Luck Page 17