Page 40 of A Stroke of Luck
Was he making a big mistake?
Prestwick could not help but wonder whether for once his great aunt had the right of it. Slanting a sideways glance at Zara’s face, he saw that her chin was only a hair’s breath away from the defiant angle that boded trouble.
Not that he blamed her for feeling on edge. In entering into Polite Society, the Admiral of the Amazons was finding herself in strange waters, with no charts or compass for guidance. The dangers, both above and below the surface, would be tricky to navigate, even for a seasoned sailor. So perhaps he had been wrong to force her in such a direction.
She had, after all, made it clear that she would prefer to steer well clear of the ton.
And him.
Yet for the sake of her brothers, if not for herself, that was not a wise course, he assured himself. So despite her incipient scowl, he felt he had done the right thing. Now, if only he could manage to head off any violent collisions …
“Ah, Prestwick.” The Marquess of Ellesmore extended a hand in greeting. “I must say, I was surprised to hear you were rusticating in the country. Not at all your usual style.”
“Family matters made a visit imperative,” he murmured, trying to keep an eye on Zara as he went through the expected niceties.
“Yes, yes, one must be a stickler about keeping such things in order.” The other man gave an approving nod. “But of course, I need not remind the Distinguished Duke of that. It is clear from your own unimpeachable behavior and lofty standards that you value order and propriety above all else.”
Good Lord, was he that much of a stick in the mud? wondered the duke, trying to keep his brow from crinkling in consternation.
“Yes, never a hair out of place with you, eh, Your Grace?”
Prestwick found his fingers itching to scrabble his neatly combed locks into disarray. “I have been known to cut up a bit wild on occasion,” he said somewhat defensively.
“Nonsense.” Ellesmore gave a hearty chuckle. “Don’t know a more steady, sensible fellow than you. Buttoned up on all accounts, I should say.”
His impeccably tailored waistcoat, fitted by no less than the great Weston himself, suddenly seemed a bit too constricting.
“Come, I believe my dear Catherine is looking daggers at me for keeping you so long from the rest of the company.”
The marquess’s daughter was not the only one whose gaze had a sharp edge to it, noted Prestwick. He needed no further urging from his host to hasten over to where Lady Catherine was introducing Zara to several of the other guests.
“ … traveling, you say?” The duke just caught the tail end of Lord Haverton’s words as he smiled politely. “I admire your fortitude, Miss Greeley, in standing up to the rigors and mud of foreign roads. I have to admit that I find the journey here from London exhausting enough.”
Prestwick steeled himself for an explosion of sarcasm, but the young lady did not fire off her guns.
“Miss Greeley has visited Italy and Greece,” chimed in Lady Catherine. “I have made her promise to tell us all about her adventures.”
A slight shudder passed down Prestwick’s spine. Nodding a quick greeting to the others, he jumped in to keep the conversation from veering off in a dangerous direction. “Miss Greeley is quite a student of Italian art.” Painting and drawing certainly seemed a safe enough subject for drawing room conversation. He could only hope that the young lady would follow his lead.
“Then you must have found Rome and Florence absolutely fascinating,” remarked the Viscount Abbingford, who had recently returned from a tour abroad.
“Fascinating,” repeated Zara. The muted response was the first word she had uttered since passing through the front door.
Abbingford smiled. “There is a portrait by Da Vinci …”
Prestwick slowly let out his breath as a discussion began on the Renaissance masters, congratulating himself on having weathered the first rocky shoals without mishap. The angle of Zara’s chin was not quite so acute as earlier, and when Abbingford finished with his opinion, she replied with considerably more enthusiasm than before. Her comments contained nothing more provocative than an interesting insight into the artist’s technique, and the duke relaxed enough to take a sip of his champagne.
“And then, of course there is the sculpture of Michelangelo,“ added Abbingford, clearly enthused by the subject. “Such power and?—”
A warning cough cut him off. “I doubt the ladies are familiar with his works,” said Lord Haverton dryly. “They are, after all, perhaps a tad too powerful for female sensibilities.”
The young man looked rather embarrassed. “Er, right?—”
“Not at all,” said Zara. “Indeed, I find them some of the more intriguing creations of the Quattrocento. Take, for instance, the statue of David. It embodies a masterful aura of masculine strength and determination.”
“I, too, appreciate art. So I cannot help but wonder why Mama has forbidden me to look at the book of engravings on Michelangelo’s work,” began Miss Littleton in an uncertain voice.
“However,” continued Zara before the young lady could venture any further questions. “It does have one flaw—it is not anatomically correct.”
