A Stroke of Luck (25 page)

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 between 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.

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.