Page 12 of A Stroke of Luck
“No, it is supposed to make you feel rather ashamed of yourself and your querulous whining, as two boys can face adversity with more pluck and resilience than a gentleman whohas grown up with every advantage in life.” Zara saw that her barb had drawn blood, for a flush of red rose to the duke’s cheeks.
“You know nothing of my life,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
“Indeed I don’t, having never had an army of servants at my beck and call, or bankers to hand over money at the snap of my fingers, or?—”
The argument was brought to an abrupt halt as the shaggy pony pulled up beside a low stone shed. Turning on his seat, the driver called out a few last minute instructions. “Spades be there, in the shed, lassie. It shouldna take you and thy menfolk more than the rest o’ the day te fill the rick, if you all put a bit ‘o sweat into your labors.” Gathering up the reins, he prepared to move on. “Well, best be getting down to work. I’ll return with some victuals a mite later.”
Zara passed their few bundles down to her brothers, then lowered herself gingerly from the planking. Feeling very tired, slightly dispirited and greatly in need of a bath, she would have given the moon and the stars to be able to summon just one of the duke’s minions and enjoy a bit of pampering.Featherbeds, silk gowns, hot chocolate served on a silver tray …
Ha! And pigs might fly up to the heavens!
No storybook prince was going to appear out of nowhere and whisk her away to a life of ease, she thought with an inward sigh. So she had better resign herself to an afternoon of harsh reality. The only slight consolation was that the haughty gentleman—duke or not—was going to be toiling along with them.
“Why are we getting down here?” demanded Prestwick, his ruined boots landing upon the soft earth with a thump.
“You will see in a moment,” she replied grimly. Rounding the corner of the thatched building, she found the small storage room and hauled out several spades. “Nonny, you and the dukecan begin the cutting, while Perry and I will handle the barrow. Stump, you may take that stick and mark out uniform squares on the ground. We shall change places after a bit.”
“What—” began Prestwick.
“Cutting peat to fuel the distillery.” She thrust one of the heavy, mud-encrusted tools into his hands.
He was too taken aback to resist.
“As we have no ready blunt for our fare to the mainland, Mr. McTavish has kindly offered to let us work off the price of passage. We are expected to fill the racks in the shed by this evening. In return he will allow us to take shelter in the loft overnight, then ferry us across to Kilberry first thing in the morning.” Hitching up her skirts, she turned for the wooden barrow. “So let us not waste any more time in idle conversation.”
She thought she heard him mutter several highly unflattering descriptions in conjunction with her name, including “shrew” and “harpy.” Well, she didn’t care what he thought of her, as long as he could wield a spade as sharply as his tongue.
However, it soon became evident that although the Duke of Prestwick might cut a dashing figure in drawing rooms of London in his finely tailored clothes and fancy footwear, he was woefully inept in handling any sort of farm tool.
“Blast.” With a muttered growl, he paused to wipe the sweat from his brow, adding another grimy smudge to the torn sleeve of his shirt.
His coat had already come off after the first thrust or two, its nipped tailoring not cut out for the physical exertions of shoveling. However, between her own bending and lifting, she noted that the improvement in his labors was marginal. His handling of the spade was awkward and clumsy. Nonny, sleeves rolled up over his elbows and whistling a cheerful tune between his teeth, was soon far outpacing the much taller gentleman in slicing out rectangles of the soft sod.
And yet, Zara found her eyes lingered on the duke’s toiling form. Whereas at first she had thought his slim build rather effete, she could see now that beneath the finely woven linen, his shoulders and chest were deceptively muscled. Lithe and lean, their whipcord contours chiseled to a narrow waist and strong thighs.
She forced her gaze up from the skintight breeches to the planes of his face. Despite its briny bath, his fair hair fell in softly curling ringlets that many a young lady might envy, giving his fine-boned features an ethereal Renaissance beauty. A velvet doublet, a flourish of decorative lace, and he might have been painted by Botticelli or da Vinci.
However, now that she took another moment to study his profile, she saw he was saved from mere prettiness by cheekbones that were rather too angular and a nose that was just a fraction too long. They added a subtle depth of character she hadn’t expected to see.
His lips, too, had a certain intriguing curl of individuality to them. While her first impression had been one of cool arrogance, she saw now they possessed a brooding, sensual quality as well. Indeed, she imagined they were capable of an infinite range of nuanced expression—that is, when they weren’t compressed in a razored line of distaste. The brief flash of a smile he had allowed earlier had sent a strange shiver through her. It made her wonder whether beneath the show of petulance there might be a good deal more complexity to him.
Not, of course, that it mattered one way or another to her. There was no denying he was a very attractive gentleman, but her interest was purely artistic. His would be a fascinating countenance to capture on canvas …
His eyes, their swirl of blue and sea green hues darkened by his obvious displeasure, suddenly met with hers.
‘Try angling the blade a bit higher,” she murmured, trying to cover her embarrassment at being caught staring at him with a curt comment. “That way, your foot won’t slip so often.”
His expression remained as stony as the chunk of granite he had just kicked away, but after shifting his grip on the handle, he tried to follow her advice.
The sole of his boot slid off to one side with a thud.
“Haven’t you ever had to do a lick of work before?” Perry paused in his stacking of the cut peat long enough to regard Prestwick with an incredulous look.
“Don’t be a gudgeon. Of course he hasn’t,” said Nonny. “He’s a duke. Dukes don’t work.”
The youngest Greeley turned from his brother back to Prestwick. “What do dukes do all day?”
“Well, er …”
