A Stroke of Luck (21 page)

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Woolsey," mumbled Zara, her thoughts still in a whirl from the rapid turn of events. Was it truly possible that she might find a friend or two among the
ton
? She found herself loosening the grip on her shawl, for somehow the room did not seem quite so chill as a moment ago.

"Please call me Frances, for I hope we shall come to know each other quite well in the coming Season."

"And you must call me Zara," she replied softly. "I-I would like very much to further our acquaintance, though I am not sure whether my family and I will be spending any time in London."

Any further exchange was interrupted by the approach of Lady Catherine. The green of her watered silk gown was more viridian than emerald, but no less lustrous, noted Zara. As she watched the graceful swish of the young lady's ruffled skirts, she couldn't help but feel awkward and angular in her own new clothes. No amount of silk and ribbons could disguise the fact that she lacked the poise and polish of the young heiress and her coterie of friends. She had only to recall the last, depressing glance in the mirror that showed hair falling in unruly waves from a simple topknot and cheeks tanned from exposure to the sun...

"Miss Greeley, do come tell us of your travels." The young lady's arm hooked in hers, drawing her over to the other side of the room.

Zara blinked. How could she possibly describe to these sheltered schoolroom misses what it was like to fight off the drunken advances of the sailors in some cheap haborside inn, or bounce for hours in the back of a farmer's mule cart? "I—I hardly know where to begin," she said in all truthfulness.

"Oh, tell us about the balls in Rome, and the fancy villas overlooking the blue seas of the Mediterranean," sighed Miss Fortescue, who was the youngest of the ladies present, and only lately emerged from the schoolroom. "Are Italian counts as dashingly handsome as Lord Byron describes?"

Zara could not recall any mention of dashing Italian counts by the poet. No doubt the girl was thinking of some novel from the Minerva Press. But on regarding the pink flush of her cheeks and the dreamy sparkle of her eyes, Zara found she had no heart to correct the innocent's naive romanticism. "My father was naught but a quiet scholar, more interested in his books and his excavations than in dancing and dining. I am afraid I can tell you little about the exotic ballrooms or charming nobles."

Miss Fortescue could not disguise her disappointment. "Oh."

The girl's mother frowned. "It sounds to me like a very odd existence," she said, disapproval rife in her clipped tone.

"Odd," echoed another of the ladies.

"Indeed," sniffed Lady Farrington. "But you know what a stickler Prestwick is for duty and propriety. He feels we must honor family ties, however distant." Another sniff sounded. "And however odd."

Lady Catherine, ever the proper hostess, was quick to intervene to smooth over any awkwardness. "Lady Neville, do come look at these latest fashion plates from Paris. I am sure the designs from Madame Jalbert will be of great interest to someone of your discerning taste."

The mention of frills and furbelows quickly dispelled any further interest in the travails of a stranger. In a sweep of silk and satin, the group hurried off to ooh and ah over the new styles, leaving Zara alone by the pianoforte.

"Prestwick says you, too, are a great admirer with the works of Beethoven." Miss Woolsey had once again appeared out of the shadows to offer her quiet support. "Do you play?"

"Not well," she answered with a rueful smile. "The opportunity to practice was, shall we say, somewhat spotty."

"I shall tactfully ignore any wrong notes," smiled her newfound friend. "If only you would consent to play one of his new sonatas."

Zara slanted a glance toward the group clustered around the settee. "You are sure I shall not be breaking some unwritten rule?" Her hands clenched together. "I fear I have made quite enough faux pas for one evening."

"I doubt even The 1812 Overture, complete with cannon and fireworks, could wrest their attention away from the latest shape of a sleeve or cut of a neckline."

"Well, if you are sure..." In truth, her fingers were twitching at the prospect of feeling the sensual smoothness of the ebony and ivory. Taking a seat on the bench, she slipped off her gloves and ran them lightly over the keys. After a tentative testing of the scales, she began the melody in earnest. Her play was deliberately soft, yet the notes reverberated with feeling.

Caught up in the spirit of the music, she failed to notice the door opening and the gentlemen coming in from their postprandial interlude.

Harold, whose slightly swaying step indicated that he had imbibed a goodly amount of the tawny spirits, paused for a moment, then leaned in to whisper in Lord Haverton's ear. A muffled guffaw sounded, then the two of them moved on to join the ladies.

"I say, Lady Catherine," said Haverton as he toyed with the fobs on his watch chain. "Perchance has your pet tabby gotten loose here in the drawing room? I could swear I heard it playing cat and mouse upon the pianoforte as I passed by."

The titter of laughter caused Zara's head to snap up.

"Pay him no mind," counseled Miss Woolsey in a low voice. "His appreciation of music is no doubt limited to bawdy tavern ditties."

"My apologies, Miss Greeley." Haverton bowed his head in mock contrition. "I did not realized it was you at the keyboard."

Harold bit at his lip to keep from laughing. "You must not be too harsh, Giles. She has not had the benefit of proper instruction, like all the other young ladies present." That he meant just the opposite of what he said was apparent to all.

"Hmmph. Let us have a cheerful tune," grumbled the marquess. "Catherine plays like an angel. My dear, do go take your place at the instrument."

"Yes, please favor us with a performance, Lady Catherine," chimed in several of the other gentleman.

Quietly, Zara slid from her seat and retreated to a spot by the mullioned windows, where the heavy draperies and shifting shadows might provide some measure of obscurity.

Not that she needed to search overly for that, for at the moment she could not have felt more ignored and alone.

* * *

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."