Page 44 of A Stroke of Luck
How had he failed to notice that before? And was her posture always so rigidly correct and arched smile so perfectly aligned that it looked pasted on?
Turning on his heel, he marched to the sideboard, poured a measure of brandy and swallowed it in one hurried gulp. Theheat, however, did little to relieve the chill in the pit of his stomach.
Throughout supper he could not help noticing how stilted the young ladies within earshot had sounded. Their lines were all ones he had heard before, and a question on aught but the weather seemed to make them freeze. He stared down into his empty glass. The young ladies seemed just as drained of individuality. Indeed, he had to admit that even Lady Catherine, despite being artfully dressed in rich jewels and costly silks, appeared colorless compared to Miss Greeley. Remembering the fiery red sparks of her hair and the turbulent ocean green of her eyes, Prestwick realized that she was all bold strokes of color rather than a bland blending of hueless shades.
Had things changed so dramatically in the few short weeks since he had left London?
Unable to stand still and listen to any more of the shallow conversation or dull notes, he edged away from the rest of the guests and slowly made his way to the far end of the room.
“It is one of Sir Joshua’s lesser works,” he murmured on stepping closer to the framed canvas. “And is hardly worthy of such intense scrutiny.”
Zara’s gaze remained fixed on the canvas. “Perhaps. But at least the artist was intent on exercising a modicum of creativity and originality.”
He gave a low chuckle. “As did you on the pianoforte. I found your rendition intriguing. Do you think Beethoven wanted the adagios to be played with such an underlying tone of melancholy?”
The question caused her to spin around. “I know I play poorly, but it gives me pleasure. So you may leave off mocking me, sir. ”
“I am not mocking you, Miss Greeley.” Despite her obvious distaste for his company, Prestwick found himself strangely loath to leave. “I merely wished to engage in a discussion?—”
“If it is a discussion you want, why don’t you return to your own friends?“ she replied in a taut whisper. “You are undoubtedly missing one of great importance—like whether chartreuse or puce will be all the crack in waistcoats next Season.”
“Because I would rather stay here and talk to you,” he blurted out.
For an instant, there was a strange flicker in her eyes before it was doused in disbelief. She turned back to the portrait hung over the escritoire. “But you think me an ill-mannered, outspoken harridan.”
“That is not true?—”
“No?” she challenged. “Then what is your opinion?”
He hesitated. “I am not really sure.”
Her mouth took on a sardonic twist. “No need to prevaricate, Your Grace.”
“I am not prevaricating.” He drew in a deep breath, searching for some way to explain what he meant. “You are rather like a Beethoven symphony—complex, textured, and passionate. Some parts are hauntingly lyrical, some are jarringly harsh.” He crooked a faint smile. “In truth, like anything new and unusual, it takes some getting used to, so I do not wish to rush in forming a judgment.”
The look she fixed on him seemed to cut through every layer of his carefully constructed defenses, and he suddenly felt naked as the cursed statue of David. Did he, too, fail to measure up under such scrutiny?
Had he sounded like an idiot? Sure that raw vulnerability was flush on his face, he looked to the leaded panes of glass, to hide his embarrassment. “Forgive me. It has been an odd night.I don’t know what prompted me to speak without thinking,” he mumbled.
“Y-you did not mean it?”
“No … Yes. But I imagine most young ladies would rather be compared to a perfect rose or some such thing.” He heaved a harried sigh. “No doubt I have once again offended you, which was not my intention.”
For a moment there was dead silence between them, then a smile began to play upon her lips. “Actually, it is quite the nicest thing that anyone has ever said to me.”
Still feeling a trifle unsure of himself, the duke gave a small laugh. “Then it is clear you have not received very many compliments.”
“No.” In an instant, the smile faded. “I have not. Not many at all, which should come as no great surprise to you, sir. What gentleman in his right mind would be moved to flowery words by a ill-mannered, ill-tempered shrew?”
Before he could compose an answer, she rushed on. “Look, you have been decent—more than decent actually—in seeing that we were not booted out the door when we showed up at Highwood Manor. And I appreciate the kindness you have shown to Nonny and Perry. But any sense of duty should not go so far as to make you feel obliged to introduce me to the ton.” Fisting the skirts of her new gown, she gave them a shake. “Not even you, with all your exquisite sensibilities and taste in fashion, can make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”
“If I were to compare you to any barnyard animal, it would be a mule,” he said softly. “For you can be deucedly stubborn about certain things.”
He saw her lips twitch, but only for a ghost of a moment. “I do not mean to be rude, sir, just realistic. We are birds of a different feather. I don’t belong among all the frills and finery, while you have been groomed since birth for this sort of life.”She looked away. “It would really be best if you returned to your circle of friends. Already they are staring.”
With a start, Prestwick realized he didn’t give a fig whether eyes were turning their way. All he cared about was finding a way to banish the flicker of loneliness and uncertainty he had just glimpsed in her gaze. “Miss Greeley …”
Still she kept her face averted.
