A Stroke of Luck (18 page)

Preferably to Athens. Or perhaps Constantinople.

But no matter how far he traveled, thought the duke with a baleful grimace, he doubted he would be able to find any escape from the storm of emotions that the exasperating Miss Greeley had stirred up inside him.

Further tugging at the rumpled folds only knocked them more hopelessly askew. Abandoning the effort—as well as his fumblings to put some order to his own inner disarray—he turned on his heel and stalked toward the stable. A rousing gallop would wreak even more damage to his wardrobe, seeing as he was not dressed for riding, but the slap of the wind might help knock him back to his proper senses.

Head down, still mentally chastising himself for being a damnable fool, Prestwick collided with someone else who was moving at the same agitated pace—but in the opposite direction.

"S-sorry, sir." Nonny picked himself up and ducked to brush at the bits of mud and chaff clinging to his trousers. The downturned face did not fully hide the quivering of the lad's mouth or his distraught expression.

Quickly forgetting his own worries, Prestwick frowned in concern. "Here now, what is the trouble?"

The answer came floating out from the stalls as a jeering bray.

"Good Lord, what sort of gentleman has never ridden a stallion?" mocked Harold. "But don't worry, I shall send Givens to purchase a donkey, seeing as that is the only beast you know how to handle."

"Harold is naught but a horse's ass, lad," murmured the duke. "Pay him no heed."

"But he is right, sir." Nonny's voice betrayed a taut embarrassment. "And your cousin was not the only one to laugh on hearing that my only riding experience is traversing the rocky trails of Mount Parnassus astride the bare back of a donkey."

The duke clenched his teeth on realizing that his cousin had taken great pains to humiliate the lad in front of Lady Catherine and her escort.

"I have no notion of how to go on as an English gentleman." Nonny jammed his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "I wish we had never set sail from the Aegean Sea. I—I feel more like an ignorant foreigner here than I ever did in Greece."

"Being a true gentleman has naught to do with the cut of your coat or the skill with which you handle the reins. Those things can be easily learned, but not so such qualities as courage, loyalty and honesty."

The lad scuffed his boot against the rough stone floor. "But how will I ever hope to fit in, when I can't mingle in Society without making a cake of myself?"

"We can start by having Givens saddle the bay gelding. After a few pointers from me and several turns of the paddock, I daresay you will pick up the hang of it in a trice."

"You mean to take the time to teach me to ride?" Nonny looked at him with near reverence. "But I heard the grooms saying how you are one of the most bruising horsemen in all of London."

"I have taken my share of tumbles, and so shall you." The duke put a hand on the lad's shoulder and turned him around. "Come along."

* * *

A shaft of light cut across her cheeks, rousing her from a fitful doze. Rubbing a fist across her eyes, Zara sat up, though the bit of sleep had brought little refreshment to either body or spirit. However, the prospect of remaining abed, staring at the patterned wallpaper with only herself for company, was enough to make her throw off the coverlet and make for the door. She had heard her brothers mention something about the stables, so perhaps she might find them among the bins of oats and bales of hay.

Why, even were she to find naught but the horses, it was preferable to being alone.

As she crossed the graveled walk, she found herself wondering whether the duke might look at her differently if she were to wear a riding habit made to her own measurements, its shape fitting her every curve, its color complementing the exact shade of her eyes, its gossamer soft wool swishing round her legs with an ethereal lightness.

Then, picturing the paragon of perfection swathed in emerald green, Zara dismissed the idea with an inward snort.

And pigs might fly!

Not even the most skilled of seamstresses could make a silk purse out of a sow's ear! Her ungainly height, suntanned skin and unruly tresses would never allow her to resemble a demure London miss. And even if she managed, by some small miracle, to masquerade as a fine lady, the cat—so to speak—would be out of the bag as soon as she opened her mouth. Expensive fabric and clever stitching might cover a number of flaws, but they would be of little use in keeping under wraps a headstrong nature and barbed tongue.

Unless, of course, the needle were used to sew a gag over her lips.

With a wry smile, she lifted the gate latch. It was well that she could laugh at her own faults, for they were legion, and the alternative was much too depressing...

A hoot of laughter brought her chin up. To one side of the main stable, she spied Perry perched on the top rail of the paddock fence. From her angle, it was impossible to see what had elicited such mirth, but after a step sideways she caught sight of her other sibling just as he hit headfirst into the soft earth, his nose only inches away from the massive hooves of a big bay horse.

Instinct caused her to cry out in alarm.

"There is no need for worry, Miss Greeley. Memphis possesses a placid temperament and your brother possesses a hard skull." Prestwick shifted the leading rein from one hand to another. His coat hung on one of the nearby posts and he had rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, revealing lithe forearms, the muscles smooth beneath a light dusting of golden hair. "He will come to no harm."

Realizing her mouth was still half agape, Zara snapped it shut and wrenched her gaze away from the intriguing sight of his bare flesh.

Nonny's boot was already back in the stirrup. "I nearly made a full circuit that time around, sir!"

"Aye, you are doing quite well, lad," nodded the duke. "This time, remember to keep your heels angled down and your weight more centered over your knees."

"Yes, sir!" Unmindful of the liberal amount of mud now adhering to his person, Nonny gathered up the reins with unbridled enthusiasm.

"Soften your hands," reminded Prestwick. "A good horseman does not jerk at his mount's mouth. The commands come more from the pressure of your thighs." With a flick of the long line, he set the gelding into a steady trot.

Zara watched in some surprise as Nonny rose smoothly up and down from the saddle in rhythm with the horse's gait.

"Excellent!" Prestwick's expression broadened into a smile that set her pulse to galloping. "Another lesson or two and we shall be able to take a ride through the south meadows."

"And me, sir?" piped up Perry. "You did say I might have a lesson, too."

"So you shall, imp. Tomorrow, after breakfast we shall begin to put you through your paces. I don't doubt that the two of you will soon be racing neck and leather over the heath."

Both lads grinned from ear to ear.

Repressing a strange little lurch of her insides, Zara leaned up against the fence. Once again the duke had thrown her off stride. Why, it actually appeared as if he liked her brothers, though his own family ties should dictate the opposite. A moment ago, she had been on the verge of snapping out an ugly accusation concerning his motives, but after watching his face as he worked with Nonny and Perry, it was impossible to question his intentions.

His words, too, had a genuine warmth to them. "They are nice lads, with more pluck and intelligence than most grown men," he murmured as he stepped back to join her at the rail. "You should be quite proud of them."

"Oh, I am," she answered. Then, for some odd reason, she found herself blurting out an impetuous admission. "Though I cannot say the same for myself, sir. My behavior of late has been far from laudable. I acted very churlishly earlier this afternoon. And just now, I—I stood ready to think you capable of plotting to harm Nonny."

She rather expected a gruff rebuff, but instead he remained silent, his brows drawing together in a pensive tilt. With a tug of the rein, he brought the gelding to a halt. "That is enough for now, Nonny. Why don't you and Perry take Memphis in to the stable and have Givens show you how to give him a proper rub down. A gentleman should know how to care for his mount."

As soon as the lads had led the big bay from the paddock, Prestwick switched back to the more serious topic. "You can hardly be blamed for suspecting the worst, Miss Greeley. But I assure you that you have nothing to fear from me."

"No?" It came out halfway between a question and a statement.

"No," he said flatly. "And while it is obvious you don't like me at all, I wish that you might at least trust me."

"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.