"You had ample reason to be annoyed. Since the Greeleys sailed into your life, your orderly existence—not to speak of your costly wardrobe—has been cut to flinders by two rambunctious lads and a... headstrong hellion."
Not trusting herself to meet his gaze, she went on with what she hoped was a steady tone. "I assumed you would welcome a bit of peace and quiet. Especially as you must have a great deal to attend to before taking your leave for London."
He closed the covers of the book and sat down beside her. "Well, there is really no need for me to stay at Highwood any longer. Most of the important matters have been settled."
The touch of his thigh against hers stirred such a welling of sadness that she could only manage a mute nod.
"Now that Nonny has been recognized as Uncle Aubrey's heir, your days of empty purses and harrowing wanderings have come to an end."
His words, though meant as a reassurance, were a stark reminder that she might never see him again.
"You may put all your fears and uncertainties behind you."
"Yes. Of course." To her dismay, the attempt at speech dissolved in a watery sob. That his arms were suddenly around her shoulders, enfolding her in folds of soft cashmere and the earthy scent of bay rum, only made matters worse. "I-It must be the wind blowing up from the river that is stinging my eyes, for I never turn into a watering pot," she muttered roughly, the words directed more at herself than at Prestwick. "Why, I have braved leering innkeepers, lecherous peers and ocean squalls without so much as a sniff—"
A squeeze cut off further words. "Indeed. You are quite the most courageous young lady I have ever met. As well as being bold, clever and intrepid."
They were not exactly the romantic adjectives Zara longed to hear from his lips, and they drew another burbled sigh from her. Embarrassed by the show of girlish emotion, she swiped at the trickle of tears, leaving a smudge of cobalt blue on her cheek.
"I am not fishing for sympathy," she replied, struggling to pull away from his hold. "Or pity."
"No. Unlike most young ladies, you are not one to cast your lures at a gentleman."
There was an odd huskiness to his voice that, in spite of her resolve to avoid his gaze, caused her head to jerk up.
* * *
Neither Da Vinci nor Michelangelo nor Botticelli could have matched the nuanced shades of green that swirled in her eyes, thought Prestwick. A painting, however masterfully rendered, could never begin to capture the vibrant spirit of the flesh-and blood Miss Greeley. He had a feeling he could look at her face for a lifetime and never cease to be amazed by the infinite range of emotions that play over her features from one instant to the next.
At the moment, however, he wished her expression might be a bit less difficult to interpret. The purse of her lips, the tilt of her chin—was she angry at his intruding yet again upon her work?
Or was it some other sentiment that had brought such a veiled glitter to her gaze? She did not wish for sympathy or pity, but might she welcome an expression of another sort?
Her mouth gave a little quirk. "Unlike Nonny's spinning bit of brass, I have precious little sparkle and flash, sir. I—"
"Deverill," he reminded her softly. "I trust you have not forgotten that we agreed to be friends."
"D—Deverill." His name seemed to catch in her throat for an instant before she managed to go on. "I am under no allusion that my charms, such as they are, might be in the least tempting." A note of amused irony crept into her voice. "Indeed, at the first taste of my temper, I have no doubt that a gentleman of refined sensibilities would quickly spit out any thoughts of further acquaintance."
"Perhaps, like such rare and unusual flavors as truffles or caviar, you are an acquired taste."
To his delight, she laughed, though the sound of it was hardly louder than the lapping of the shallow water against the smooth stones. "I doubt that even Monsieur Henri's culinary genius could make me palatable."
The duke allowed a fleeting chuckle before leaning in to capture the tip of her chin between his thumb and forefinger. It had taken on an uncharacteristic droop, despite her show of bravado, and he lifted it so that he might catch a glimpse of her eyes beneath the lowered lashes.
"You bring a certain piquant spice to the table, Zara. Rather like McTavish's Bruichladdich."
"You see what I mean—other young ladies inspire poetry comparing them to the moon or the stars, while I, on the other hand, bring to mind a slurry of crushed corn, fired by hunks of peat." The quip was said lightly, yet he did not miss the shade of wistful longing.
The duke wondered why was it that his fingers could move with unerring precision through the most complex musical score, while his tongue tripped up in trying to compose a simple compliment. "No! That is, er, the metaphor was not meant quite as mundanely as you think."
"No?" Her brow cocked upward. "I should like to see how you are going to dig yourself out of this one."
"As I have left my spade in Islay, it will not be easy," he murmured.
Her faint smile reappeared.
"Hmmm." Taking a deep breath, the duke plunged ahead, figuring he had already made a cake of himself. "What I meant was, like McTavish's Bruichladdich you may burn the tongue at first, but the fire quickly mellows to a unique flavor that leaves one hungering to savor another taste."
Her lips parted slightly, and her cheeks took on a flush that matched the color of barrel-aged whisky.
Prestwick found the sight quite intoxicating.
"You need not shovel on such florid teasings," she stammered. "Though I admit, I shall miss our bantering exchanges, as well as our more serious discussions on art and music."
He watched as she crumbled a bit of moss between her fingers.
"As for Nonny and Perry, they will be heartbroken to hear you are leaving. They have become very fond of you."
"I shall miss them, too." No longer able to contain the urgency of his emotions, he feathered a caress along the line of her jaw. "And you, Zara? What of your heart? Is it untouched by the prospect of our parting?"
She turned in profile and pressed her eyes closed. Though his fingertips were barely grazing her skin, the duke could feel her pulse pounding in concert with his own. And then, to his surprise, he felt her trembling under his touch. He had always thought of the redoubtable Miss Greeley as much the braver of the two of them, but at that moment he saw mirrored in her face the same doubt and fears that had him wrapped in their grip.
Did he dare speak of what was resonating in his own thudding heart? He had kept his feelings under cover for so long it was not easy to bare his soul. Still, Prestwick knew he must summon the courage to do so now, else risk having her sail out of his life, perhaps forever.
And so, he ventured the first tentative notes of a melody he had never played before—a declaration of love.
"My dear Zara," he murmured. "I ask because... Because unlike Michelangelo's David, who stands a solid hunk of marble, serenely immutable by the vagaries of life, my own paltry heart in danger of cracking into a thousand shards at the thought of not having you always here by my side."
The wind off the water had picked up, and was blowing her loosened curls in a red-tinged aureole around her face. It reminded him of her standing at the tiller, battling the elements to steer her way through the storm. He waited, hardly daring to breathe, for her to decide on how to reply.
For what seemed like an age, her gaze remained fixed on the river's current and its everchanging pattern of ripples and swirls. "And my heart," she whispered, "feels rather like my little boat, in danger of breaking up upon the rocky shoals should you disappear over the horizon."
Prestwick's arms stole around her once again. "Perhaps together we might chart a new course." He smiled. "Beginning with a special license, so that we may be married before setting off for Town."
"But Deverill! I do not move in the same exalted circles as you do. I fear there would be all manner of treacherous hazards lurking beneath the surface, and all manner
of squalls to weather. I should not want for a second time to put you in danger of sinking along with me."
"There is a safe harbor in Prestwick House, my love. And calm waters with kind people like Frances Woolsey and Lord Barton, where you will be free to express yourself without fear of running aground." The duke drew her closer within the sheltering circle of his arms. "Besides, I have learned a thing or two about navigating rough waters."
Smiling, Zara pressed her cheek up against the soft folds of his cravat. "Including the fact that it wreaks havoc on your wardrobe."
He chuckled, savoring the heady spark of her humor, along with the comforting warmth of her body nestled close to his. For a moment he was tempted to tilt back his head and sing a hymn to the heavens for bringing such perfect harmony to his existence. But deciding to retain a shred of ducal dignity, he deferred such serendipitous celebration until Zara actually agreed to be his bride.
"In all seriousness," she continued, her expression growing very grave. "The journey will likely be rather stormy at times. And two rambunctious lads will, on occasion, rock the boat."
"A little rocking and rolling will keep me on my toes." A fond grin tweaked at the corners of his mouth. "I shall enjoy trying to keep pace with Nonny and Perry. Even if my best Hessians are once in a while reduced to rubble."
"Y-you are sure? Your ordered life is bound to become a good deal more unpredictable."
Prestwick drowned her halting concerns in a long, lush embrace that left them both breathless. When he finally lifted his lips from hers, it was only to rain a torrent of kisses down the arch of her neck.
"And furthermore," went on Zara, now that she had recovered the ability to speak. "Have you considered all the practical implications of marriage to a nobody—and an unconventional hellion to boot? I am not likely to endear myself to the high sticklers of the ton, for my temper is too hot and my tongue too unbridled." She gave a ragged sigh. "Nor is it likely I shall change."
"To the Devil with rules and conformity! Surely you cannot think I would wish for you to change one whit. After all, stirring up the waters keeps one from becoming too complacent in life." Prestwick twirled a lock of her hair around his finger. "Another thing I have learned from music and art is that sometimes the best things happen when one is inspired to throw all caution to the wind and... take the plunge."
"Well, if you are willing to go overboard on this..."
"I am!"
Zara tugged on the tails of his cravat, then tossed the strip of linen up to float away on the breeze. "Oh, Deverill, then yes! Let us dive into the future together, no matter where the waves shall carry us!"
The End
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PISTOLS AT DAWN
The Intrepid Heroines Series
Book Four
Excerpt from
Pistols at Dawn
The Intrepid Heroines Series
Book Four
by
Andrea Pickens
Award-winning Author
Eliza hesitated at the door to the library, wondering whether to venture another visit to Lord Killingworth's private lair. The first one had been, in every respect, a rather embarrassing experience. But as a glance below showed nothing but darkness, she decided there was little likelihood of another midnight encounter.
Especially if she were quick about it.
The door library was already slightly ajar. Anxious to be done with the errand, Eliza shouldered it open, taking no notice of the faint glow of candlelight dappling the threshold
"Bloody Hell and damnation."
The oath was hardly more than a whisper, but it stopped her dead in her tracks. "Oh!" she exclaimed in some dismay. "Forgive my intrusion. I had no idea—"
Marcus looked up, a harried expression on his lean features. The gold-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose blurred the sharpness of his gaze, making him look far less forbidding than usual.
"My words were not directed at you Miss Kirtland," he muttered. "Is something amiss?"
"No, no. I was not yet sleepy, so I, er, I thought I might borrow a book. To read." To her annoyance, Eliza found herself stuttering like a schoolgirl. "That is," she added stiffly, "If you have no objection."
He gave a curt wave at the shelves. "Take whatever you please." Without so much as another glance in her direction, his eyes dropped back to his blotter.
Much as she wished to slink away, she didn't wish to give him the satisfaction of thinking her intimidated by his presence. Drawing in a deep breath, she marched on, but on passing his desk, she couldn't help but glance at what was causing his brows to furrow in such an odd manner.
"You are doing sums?" she murmured on seeing the open ledger. "I wouldn't have thought such a task would have a gentleman like you burning the candles until dawn."
"Actually," snapped the earl, his voice edged with sarcasm. "I am writing a manual on the seduction and deflowering of innocent maidens."
She felt an uncomfortable heat spread over her cheeks. "So much for the notion of civility between us. I'll leave—"
"No, wait." He rubbed at his forehead. "Forgive me. I did not mean to be rude." His mouth crooked in a rueful grimace. "It's just that these columns of numbers are proving to be a more formidable opponent than Napoleon's Imperial Guards."
Did the man actually have a sense of humor?
Her interest piqued, Eliza leaned in to have a closer look. "You have made a mistake," she murmured after a moment.
His brows shot up. "Where?"
"Here." She pointed it out. "Oh—and here." After studying the page a bit longer, she made a face. "Good Lord, you've really made a mull of it. Here, let me have a closer look." Without thinking, she reached for the ledger.
Marcus leaned back without protest and allowed her to take it.
Rather surprised at his willingness to relinquish the accounts to a female, she carried the heavy volume to a nearby chair and began thumbing through the most recent entries. It was quite some time before she finally looked up and called him over.
A series of rapid-fire questions followed, none of which the earl could answer with any certainty.
"Hmmph." Eliza frowned she snapped the covers shut. "It doesn't make any sense. Your estate should be highly profitable. Have you considered switching to wheat in the south fields?"
"Ahhh..."
"And the price you are getting for wool," she went on. "Either your steward is a hopeless incompetent or..." The sentence trailed off, but there was no doubt as to where it was leading.
Marcus's lips thinned. "I was beginning to wonder as much, despite my total lack of knowledge in these matters."
Once again Eliza found herself amazed at his reaction. Most males of her acquaintance would rather swallow nails than admit to any weakness, especially in the face of a female. She cleared her throat. "Unlike you, sir, I have a good deal of experience with the business of farming. If you like, I could have a look at all the past records and see what other irregularities may turn up. I am accorded to have a very good knack with figures."
The earl hesitated, and her faint smile hardened to a brittle scowl. No doubt his next words would be a snide comment concerning females and figures.
"I would be quite grateful," he began, but on taking in her change of expression, words cut off in a harsh laugh. "Ah. It appears you didn't expect me to take you up on the offer. No doubt with all the other duties you have been forced to assume these past few days—"
"It's not that. I—I was simply surprised that you don't mind asking for help from a female."
"I'll take any help I can get. It is clear that males have no innate skill at this." The lopsided smile that tugged at his lips caused Eliza's fingers to go rather slack on the leather binding. "At least not this male."
Hell's bells! Did he practice that boyish expression of vulnerability in front of the looking glass each morning, knowing what a devastating effect it would have on
any female close by?
Even an aging country spinster.
Ignore the dratted man, she warned herself, forcing her gaze away from sensuous curves of his mouth and the twinkle of humor that softened the glitter of his eyes. He may be unskilled in practical subjects like mathematics, but the Earl of Killingworth obviously knew how to slather on the charm.
Finally mastering her momentary confusion, Eliza muttered a tart reply. "Well, I suppose I shall have to credit you with some shred of natural intelligence. Precious few gentlemen are smart enough to realize they are not infallible, much less admit it aloud."
This time, his low laugh held real amusement. "I am well aware of my faults, Miss Kirtland. And if I had, perchance, forgotten even a one, your cataloguing of them over the past few days would certainly have jogged my memory."
Eliza flushed on recollecting all the accusations she had hurled in his face. She ducked her head, pretending to take one last look at the ruled pages. "If you leave these accounts out in the morning room, I shall give them a careful study after breakfast."
With what she hoped was an expression of cool composure, she rose slowly and turned for the door, determined to make a dignified exit.
"Did you forget something?"
Her toe caught on the carpet, ruining the effect. With a silent oath, she looked around in consternation.
"A book—I believe you wished to borrow a book." Marcus gestured at the expanse of shelves. "There are, as you can see, a great many to choose from."
Was the earl really engaging in a bit of banter?
Angry with herself for allowing his rich baritone drawl to send a flutter through her insides, she snapped a waspish retort. "Any suggestions? Or are you as unfamiliar with them as you are with your ledgers?"
Ignoring the obvious sarcasm, Marcus steepled his fingers and appeared to be giving the barb serious consideration. "That would, of course, depend on your tastes, Miss Kirtland. If you favor the classics, there is a wide selection of Homer and the ancient philosophers in both Greek and English—though I'd not recommend the translation of The Iliad. It's rather dry in comparison with the original."
A Stroke of Luck Page 19