A Stroke of Luck

by Andrea Pickens

  It was impossible to continue ringing a peal over his head in the face of such sentiment. "Well, do exercise a bit more caution in the future," she said reaching up with her handkerchief to dab away the drops beaded on his lower lip.

  "Ah, but we agreed to throw caution to the wind, did we not?" he murmured.

  Her insides gave a little lurch as Zara realized that the last vestige of her own caution had already been blown halfway across the Atlantic. "Still, we had best be returning to the Manor so that you may change out of those wet garments before you catch a chill."

  They made quite a ragtag procession. The duke was dripping from head to foot, the lads were nearly as disheveled, and all three looked like some strange denizens from the deep, loaded down as they were with hampers and swaying poles. By now, her own appearance must not be much better, noted Zara wryly, seeing as she had been accorded the honor of carrying the creel. Between the copious amounts of water leaking over her skirts and the proximity of a rather large trout packed in wet leaves, she imagined she resembled a drowned muskrat and smelled like a dead fish.

  As the path led out of the spinney and on to the narrow cart track skirting the pastures, a group of riders appeared at the crest of the hill.

  "Drat," whispered Zara to herself, then added several other words that would no doubt have caused the young lady on horseback to fall into a dead swoon.

  "P-Prestwick?" Lady Catherine reined her mount to a halt and stared.

  The duke left off his whistling to reply. "A fine day to be enjoying the outdoors, is it not?"

  "Has there been some sort of an accident?" demanded the lady's father.

  "Accident?" Prestwick's brows arched in exaggerated surprise. "Good Heavens, no. Why do you ask?"

  One of the young men accompanying the marquess and his daughter let out a burble of laughter.

  After silencing the fellow with a withering scowl, Lord Ellesmore turned back to the duke with an uncertain frown.

  Lady Catherine blinked as if not quite believing her eyes. "Prestwick, your breeches are covered in mud, you are missing your coat and your boots—"

  "Are quite ruined," he said cheerfully.

  "And..." Pressing a glove to her cheek, she looked perilously close to a maidenly swoon. "And there is a worm crawling out of your pocket!"

  "Oh, we didn't need it for bait," assured Nonny. "We used a lure."

  "And we caught a large fish," volunteered Perry. "Would you like to see it?"

  The young lady turned a bit green around the gills.

  "Indeed she would not," growled her father. His gaze raked over the lads, then lingered a bit longer on Zara.

  It was with great difficulty that she restrained the urge to stick out her tongue.

  "Mud. Worms. Fish. And these relatives from strange lands. Hmmph! What's come over you, Prestwick?" he continued in a huff. "Odd. Deucedly odd. And what is this I hear about Lady Farrington and your cousin making such an abrupt departure? Sounds like something havey-cavey is going on at Highwood Manor. Where did they head off to in such a rush?"

  "To perdition, for all I care," answered the duke.

  The marquess was reduced to a fit of choking. "I must say," he sputtered, once he had recovered his voice. "Your sense of humor has taken a queer turn of late, Your Grace. As have you. Not sure I can allow my daughter to keep company with anyone whose behavior is the slightest bit questionable, no matter how august the title."

  Zara watched as Prestwick took his time in picking a strand of algae from his sleeve. "You know, I believe you are right, Ellesmore," he said slowly. "Lady Catherine deserves a different sort of gentleman than I."

  The young lady gave an audible gasp while her father's countenance mottled to the color of aged claret. Another strangled "Hmmph," was all he managed before spurring his stallion forward.

  Lady Catherine, her face as pale and expressionless as polished marble, set off dutifully in his trail of dust, followed by her coterie of Town bucks.

  "What a Friday-faced frump," remarked Perry.

  "A fusty old bore," agreed Prestwick before resuming his whistling.

  It was, noted Zara, Beethoven's Ode to Joy. She ducked her head to hide a smile, her own spirits suddenly chorusing into song.

  Chapter 14

  "You goin' to be making a habit of this?"

  "Very funny." The duke was indeed grinning as he tugged off the second sodden boot and tossed it upon the carpet.

  Stump picked up the squishy leather and held the misshapen footwear at arm's length. "This used to be a quite rare grade of Andalusian goatskin that took Hoby months to track down."

  Prestwick shrugged, then fell to peeling off his muddy stockings. "Perhaps Monsieur Henri could use it to add a bit of Spanish flavor to his Gascony stew."

  "I think it might be better served up as a teething toy for the foxhound pups." The valet slanted a quizzing look at his employer. "I'm amazed you ain't whistlin' a funeral dirge rather than Handel's Musick for Royal Fireworks."

  "Ah, you recognize Handel?" The duke paused to pick another twig out of his hair. "You may have trouble getting a good grip on buttons and boots, but I am delighted to see that your ear has become finely attuned to the differences between composers."

  As he began to undo the fastenings of his shirt, a chuckle slipped from his lips. "And speaking of fireworks, you should have seen Lord Ellesmore's face when Perry offered to show his daughter a dead fish. Why, the explosion of outrage nearly rocketed him clear out of his saddle."

  "I take it you managed to put out the sparks?"

  "No, I told the pompous old windbag to go to the Devil."

  "Like Hell you did! What about the Paragon of Perfection—"

  "I'm afraid any aspirations I might have had for the young lady's hand went galloping off with the marquess."

  The boot fell to the floor with a dull thud. "You are bamming me."

  "I swear it's the truth. Cast my fate to the wind, so to speak. Hook, line and sinker."

  Stump scratched at his chin. "Well, I'll be a fillet of flounder. One would think you had been swimming in whisky rather than rather foul-smelling river water." After splashing a bar of scented soap into the waiting bathtub, he gave a bemused shake his head. "You sure your French chef didn't slip a bit of cognac into your cider?"

  "I assure you, I am not foxed."

  "Well, something awfully potent has got into you, for you're sure singing a different tune than when we first washed ashore in Islay and all you could think about was the sad state of your wardrobe."

  Prestwick's fingers stilled. "Perhaps because, for the first time I can remember, I am quite comfortable in my own skin."

  "Even now?" Like the last few drops of water that fell from the duke's hair, Stump's gaze slowly meandered down the smudged cheeks and streaked linen, coming to rest on his employer's scratched and muddied hands. "Thought you said you were adamantly opposed to getting your hands dirty."

  "I do wish people would stop parroting back to me some of the more asinine comments I have made in the past." Stripping off the rest of his garments, Prestwick sank into the steaming bath with a sigh of bliss. "Besides, the dirt comes off easily enough in the wash."

  "Mayhap my hearing is not so good after all."

  Prestwick scrubbed vigorously at the back of his neck and his fingernails. "I have been thinking—perhaps it is high time to make a clean start of things."

  "Sort of like lightenin' up? Discarding all the old baggage you been carting around with you for an age?"

  "Precisely." The duke dumped a pitcher of suds over his head. "We have already managed to get my odious aunt and her grandson out of our hair."

  "And sent the marquess and Lady Catherine packing." Stump shook out a fresh shirt. "So far, so good. But now that we have got rid of most of the dead weight, where do we go from here?"

  "Well, as to that... "He blew out his cheeks. "I shall just have to play it by ear."

  * * *

  Zara ran a desultory finger o
ver the keys, picking out a simple country ballad she recalled from childhood. She knew the pianoforte was in perfect tune, but the notes sounded slightly off. If truth be told, nothing had seemed quite in harmony all morning—Monsieur Henri's omelet had tasted like pasteboard upon her tongue, the color of her pastels had looked garish upon the paper, the laughter of her brothers as they had batted a cricket ball about the garden had grated on her nerves. Even the simple task of sharpening a quill for her correspondence had resulted in a small cut to the tip of her thumb.

  The tiny red line was hardly visible, yet it ached all out of proportion to its size. Not unlike the dull pain in her chest, which persisted despite the fact that she had no right to feel hurt. The words she had overheard earlier had come as no real shock. The surprise had been how easily they had knifed through the rational reasoning she had wrapped herself in to guard against just such a moment.

  Prestwick was leaving.

  She had known, of course, that he would. She just had not grasped that the interlude might be so short, flying by in an adagio flurry before she had time to savor each note. But a letter had arrived, reminding him of an obligation in Town that could not be put off. He had made its contents known to Stump in the hallway by the library, and given orders for their trunks to be packed and the traveling coach made ready for departure on the morrow's first light.

  Like the shoals that had sunk her small sailboat, the reality of his going had plunged her spirits to rock bottom. Somehow managing to force herself up from the bench of the instrument, Zara wandered to the leaded casement windows and stared out into the misting drizzle. Their previous parting in Scotland had also been clouded with unrequited hopes. She had wished for his friendship and felt bereft when he had only offered money.

  Her lips quivered, and this time, the taste of salt was not sea spray. How dare she complain? She had been given what she wished for, and in spades! The duke had become someone with whom she could share a great many things—laughter over muddy tumbles, arguments over art, passions over music.

  But now, she wanted more. A great deal more.

  Tired of battling the storm-tossed seas alone, she wanted the warmth of his arms, encircling her like a safe harbor each and every night. She wanted to hear his lithe fingers create beautiful melodies on the pianoforte. She wanted to capture every nuance of his face in her sketches. And yes, she admitted, her face turning warm with longing, she wanted to experience the chiseled magnificence of his form in the flesh, rather than know a male as only a hunk of Italian marble.

  A watery sniff sounded. If only her upbringing had not been quite so unorthodox. If only she might learn to moderate her opinions and her tongue. If only she might acquire a modicum of grace and polish. If only she were not so tall and ungainly.

  But she might as well wish she could fly to the moon!

  The duke might have unbuttoned enough to cry friends with a hot-tempered hellion and her brothers. But they were too different to hope that his feelings might ever go deeper than that. Perhaps Lady Catherine was not in line to be his duchess, but Zara had no illusions of how many lovely young ladies were waiting up in London, anxious to take her place.

  No doubt she would have to sail halfway back to Athens to find the end of the queue!

  Another shout from the lawns caused her chin to come up. Watching her brothers bowl the stitched leather ball toward the wooden wicket, she realized they, too, were about to have their spirits knocked to flinders. Nonny and Perry had become enormously fond of Prestwick and would no doubt take the news of his imminent departure quite hard. Her hands clenched on the sill, causing the cut on her thumb to begin throbbing anew. They had weathered disappointment before, and would recover quickly enough. She hoped that the same might be true for herself, but she had a sinking feeling that the pain inside would remain raw far after the flesh wound had healed.

  Zara lingered by the fogged glass, debating whether to go out directly and break the news to them. She found, however, that she didn't have the heart to face up to the look of loss that was sure to cloud their countenances. Or the questions of why he must go. Cowardly though it might be, she would leave it to the duke to tell them of his plans and make any explanations. As she ruminated, her finger, seemingly of its own accord, began to trace a pattern through the film of vapor. A circle here, several lines there, and the rough drawing began to take on a recognizable form.

  After one or two more morose dabs, she wiped the pane clean with a swipe of her sleeve and, with a silent oath, spun on her heel. Rather than stand around wallowing in self-pity, surely there must be something she could do to keep her bleak thoughts at bay. The pianoforte had offered no refuge, but in the past, her art had always provided a bright spot, no matter how dark the future had looked.

  Her gaze strayed to the sketchbook lying face down on the edge of the desk. Perhaps it was naught but a mad idea, a foolish gesture, yet she suddenly decided to create a parting gift for Prestwick. Something that might, when found in an old trunk years from now, remind him of the strange interlude in his life when he had been not only the Distinguished Duke, but also the King of Spades.

  Mayhap the odd memory would even bring a faint smile to his lips.

  She thought for a moment longer, then gathered up her paper and pastels and hurried from the room. The idea for the drawing was already beginning to take shape in her head. It would be a play on the allegorical compositions of the Renaissance masters, depicting the elements that had a significance in their short acquaintance. Despite her low spirits, she couldn't help but find her mouth curving upward.

  Water. Whisky. A sinking sailboat. A stump-fisted valet. Two raucous lads with fishing poles. And one dripping duke.

  How she would fit into the picture could be determined later.

  "You sure look to have the wind in your sails," said Stump, hopping to one side just in time to avoid a head-on collision. "Anything amiss?"

  Her face fell slightly at the sight of the packed bandbox under the valet's arm, though she quickly assumed a brighter expression. "No, not at all. I—I just found the indoors feeling a bit confining this morning and thought I would take a stroll down to the river and do some sketching."

  Stump's grizzled brows gave a tiny waggle. "A mite wet for such an excursion."

  Zara fumbled with the hood of her cloak. The valet might be short a hand, but she had the unsettling feeling that his gaze missed very little. Forcing a cheerfulness that she hoped didn't sound too brittle, she replied, "As you know, a little water never dampens my plans. And it looks to be clearing."

  "Well then, have a pleasant afternoon." He shifted his burden. "I will likely be spending the time packin' up the duke's things."

  "Oh. The two of you are going somewhere?" she asked with feigned surprise.

  "Aye. Returning to London."

  "Well, no doubt you will both be happy to return to your own home," she murmured, hoping that the folds of her hood hid at least a part of her face from his probing look. "With no more disruptions to your peace and quiet."

  A cryptic smile creased his leathery face. "Never hurts to have things shaken up from time to time." With a friendly nod, he made to pass. "Good day to you, Miss Greeley."

  The sun had indeed started to break through the clouds by the time Zara reached the river's edge. The sound of the gurgling water and the shifting patterns of light upon the rippling surface provided ample background for inspiration. It wasn't long before her pastels were flowing in fluid strokes over the paper, all unhappy thoughts forgotten for the moment as a current of creativity swept her along in its hold. Page after page was filled with details of the drooping willows, the whorl of the eddies, the angular play of shadows on the rocks.

  Mixed in with the renderings of what she observed were sketches from memory—the mischievous cant of Perry's grin, the beaked curl of Stump's nose, the soft waves of the duke's locks as he bent over his spade. Zara had to bite her lip to keep from sighing aloud as she stared down at what she had drawn.


  Soon—all too soon—Prestwick would be naught in her life but a few strokes of light and dark upon the textured page. But at least the turning of the vignettes into a finished oil painting would keep her occupied for some months to come, even if it meant that his face would haunt her dreams for far, far longer.

  Still, after so long a time, the prospect of stretching canvas, of breathing in the pungent scent of gesso, turpentine and linseed oil, of mixing vibrant pigment upon her palette was something to look forward to. Standing before the easel, it was not important whether she was too awkward, too unpolished and too prone to speaking her mind to blend in with the decorous young ladies and elegant gentlemen of the ton. She could take some measure of solace in her own talents, no matter they were hardly designed to win the regard of so lofty a peer as Prestwick.

  "With that gaping mouth, pudgy gills and glassy eye, your trout appears to be the spitting image of Aunt Hermione," said a voice from behind her.

  Zara nearly slipped from her seat on the mossy log.

  "And given your skills, I imagine the resemblance is no coincidence," chuckled the duke as he leaned in for a closer look. "Dare I hope you will draw a frog with Harold's features?"

  "I shall try to refrain from being that mean-spirited, though the thought is tempting," she answered, quickly recovering her equilibrium. She was, however, not quite quick enough to prevent him from reaching down and leafing back through several of the other drawings.

  "Mementos of the last few months?" There was a slight hesitation. "I should think there are a number of things that you prefer to forget."

  Eyes averted, Zara didn't reply.

  Prestwick took the sketchbook from her unresisting fingers and continued to peruse the studies she had made. "Do I really wear such a pained scowl?" He looked up from the one depicting him as the King of Spades, his mouth scrunched in unconscious imitation of the expression on the page. "No wonder you have been taking great pains to avoid my company."