A Stroke of Luck (27 page)

"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."

"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."