Page 33 of A Stroke of Luck
“Ye didn’t enjoy your excursion into town with Miss Greeley and the lads?” asked the valet with an air of great innocence.
“Stubble the jokes,” growled the duke. “You don’t have a subtle touch when it comes to humor.”
“Aye, a bit heavy-handed in most things,” agreed Stump, turning his back to the fire to hide a broad grin. “Would you be wanting anything else? A bottle of port? A magnum of champagne? A barrel of Bruichladdich?”
“A pot of hemlock,” he muttered, draining the brandy in one gulp.
“Aw, it can’t be that bad.”
“Ha!” Prestwick stared glumly at the curling wisps of ashes. “I just received word that Lady Catherine Ellesmore and her father arrived today at their country estate. Along with a houseful of guests.”
The valet took up the poker and began to stir the coals. “I would have thought the news would be cause for celebration.”
Prestwick frowned, feeling the furrows on his forehead dig deeper. It was true. He should be looking forward to the company of the lovely young lady who, with her polished manners and perfect behavior, never caused so much as a spark of exasperation to flare up in his breast.
So why had sight of the elegant script and the Ellesmore crest left him feeling rather cold?
Hurriedly pouring another drink, he raised the glass to his lips and let the fiery spirits burn a path down his throat. Would that the trail of his own feelings were as easy to discern. Of late, they had been straying off in the oddest manner, causing his mood to rise and fall as if he were still being buffeted by a stormy sea. It was most unfathomable—he was normally steady as a rock, impervious to any of the waves of raw emotion that were roiling around him.
Passion was all very well in the score of a symphony or the brushstrokes of painting. He admired such heated intensity in music and art, but he preferred that it remained confined to paper or canvas. When it threatened to engulf his own senses, whether in a burst of hot anger or a swell of light laughter, it was … rather uncomfortable.
And perhaps rather frightening.
Coward! he jeered at himself. There it was again, the dreaded word, snaking up in an ugly curve, ready to sink its fangs intohim. No matter how he twisted or turned, there seemed to be no eluding its reach.
The damnable problem was, he was not quite sure just what it was he was afraid of.
None of his ramblings were making much sense, he thought as the potent brandy began to fuzz further attempts to find his way to solid ground. Though he wished he might blame the spirits for his own tipsy meanderings, he knew the answer was not quite so simple.
Feeling rather lost, he thumped the empty glass down upon the walnut sideboard and slouched down into one of his late uncle’s overstuffed leather armchairs with an audible sigh.
Stump paused in his efforts to stir up a flame and cocked his head. “Is there some other reason you’re looking as blue-deviled as Lucifer with a pitchfork stuck in his arse?”
Prestwick mumbled something unintelligible, at a loss for any coherent answer. Dropping his gaze, he fell to picking at the intricate embroidery of his waistcoat, as if, like the Greek hero Theseus, he might find a thread to lead him out of the labyrinth of his strange mood. After several moments, his fingers stilled on one of the pale yellow medallions. In the glow of the fire, its color took on a faint reddish cast, reminding him of the highlights in a certain young lady’s hair. The duke stared, then frowned and jerked his hand away.
Hell and damnation!He must be slipping down the slope of insanity to be brooding over the hot-tempered Miss Greeley when the sweet-natured Lady Catherine was close by!
Throughout the afternoon, the feisty chit had made her dislike of him clear, keeping her eyes averted from his person and avoiding all but the most cursory of conversation. Somehow, between the cheerful chatter of the two lads and hurried whirl of picking out fabrics, styles and colors, they had managed toget through the rounds of shopping without any overt hostilities. Still, the experience had left him feeling rather wounded.
He shouldn’t care a whit what she thought of him. It was, after all, apparent that she had no great opinion of gentlemen in general. Yet it nettled him to be lumped in with all the other unscrupulous cads and selfish prigs she had encountered during her journeys. For some reason he could not quite put into words, he wished for her to acknowledge that he was not like them. More than that, he wanted her to admit that a chord had been struck between them on the island of Islay and the resonance, however faint, was still there between them.
Raking his hand through his hair, he swore under his breath.
Stump nearly dropped the poker. “That ain’t exactly a phrase from one of your scholarly tomes.”
“I daresay I am not feeling overly intelligent right now.” Prestwick grimaced. “Indeed, I am feeling like a bloody fool.”
Stump was smart enough to refrain from comment.
“Go on and take yourself off to bed.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “I believe I shall remain here for a while longer.”
Remaining tactfully silent, the valet lit the brace of candles on the sidetable and quietly slipped from the room.
The duke sat without stirring for some time. Then, moved by a sudden restlessness of spirit, he rose and went to the pianoforte. His fingers, mere shadows in the flicker of the flames, began to play over the ebony and ivory keys.Black and white.If only life were so clearly defined, he mused as the soft notes of the Beethoven sonata drifted up from the instrument. Rather than being composed of infinite shades of gray.
The candles had melted down to stubs and the coals had long since lost their glow before Prestwick left a last note lingering in the darkened room and made his way upstairs.
“How very nice.”Lady Farrington eyed the crested note as a tabby would a bowl of cream. “Of course, it is only to be expected that the marquess would include the two of us in an invitation to dine at Ellesmore Manor.” She lowered her lorgnette and passed the card on to her grandson with an arch smile. “You must be sure to wear your new chartreuse swallowtail coat, along with the floral waistcoat and buff breeches, Harold. You shall appear very stylish.”
