Page 49 of A Stroke of Luck
“Bloody hell.”
The strangled oath sounded from both of them at once.
Prestwick stared at the provocative portrait, not quite sure if the combination of the lush music, potent brandy and alluring scent of her jasmine perfume had rendered him momentarily mad. The face was unmistakably his, though he wasn’t quite ready to vouch for what lay beneath the chin. She had depicted him lounging nude—save for a small bit of sheet draped strategically across his thighs—upon the tousled coverlet of a large bed.
The duke finally managed a sotto voce whisper, each word like the taut thrum of a violin string. “Whether it be music or painting, art can arouse the imagination and stimulate the senses in some of us, can it not, Miss Greeley?”
She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could utter a sound, he pulled her close and brought his lips down upon hers.
There was nothing particularly artful about his embrace, realized Prestwick with the small portion of his brain that was still functioning with any semblance of rational thought. Engulfed in a wave of primal need, he surged forward, his hands eagerly caressing the soft curves of her body through the fabric of her nightclothes, his mouth drinking deeply of her liquid heat. With a low groan, he ran his tongue over her swollen lips, then, as if pulled by some irresistible vortex, plunged to a more intimate touch, spiraling his kisses deeper and deeper.
Madness, indeed.He had never felt so utterly powerless. And at the same time so utterly alive. The roaring in his ears—something akin to the crashing waves of an ocean storm—seemed to be telling him that a well-bred gentleman would never allow desire to drown out propriety, but he was beyond listening, beyond caring for all the rules and strictures that had cloaked his existence.
All that mattered was her unfettered response. To his elation, he felt her arms steal around his shoulders, her fingers twine in his hair, and her mouth meet his with the same hot urgency that was setting his sanity on fire.
“Zara,” he whispered hoarsely, trailing a string of torrid kisses from the corner of her mouth to the base of her throat.
“Deverill.” Her smoky murmur of his given name fanned the flames of his desire to a hotter intensity
“Say it again,” he urged, framing her face with his hands.
“Dev—”
Prestwick cut her off with another passionate kiss, the force of which swept them both from the bench to the swirling patterns of the oriental carpet. Feeling as though he had once again fallen into a raging sea, he clung to her, afraid that if he lost his grip, he would sink into a cold, black darkness.
Zara made a sound in her throat, but she didn’t pull away. Reaching up, she pulled his head down to her chest and began to stroke his hair.
The duke groaned at the exquisite heat that her touch sent sizzling through every nerve in his body …
It was the sudden loud chiming of the tall case clock that struck home the madness of the moment and recalled them to their senses.
Her fingers pulled away from the tangle of his locks as if singed by hot coals. “Good Lord, Is it really midnight? I—I must go.”
“Yes. Of course.” He rolled awkwardly to one side, allowing her to sit up and begin a hurried fumbling at her disheveled clothing. “I—I am dreadfully sorry. I don’t know what came over me to?—”
“Please. Don’t apologize,” she said with some vehemence as she struggled to her feet. “Perhaps the high sticklers are right about art being dangerous.” She tightened the loosened sash of her wrappers. “Perhaps young ladies should not be permitted to view Lord Elgin’s marbles, or dance the waltz, or listen to … seductive music.”
“Bach is usually considered quite safe for virgin ears,” he murmured, then instantly regretted the clumsy attempt at humor as he saw her flinch.
“No doubt,” she replied. “But as you are acquainted with my family’s eccentric travels and my unorthodox education, you know that I’m not part of your primly proper circle of friends.” A bitter edge had roughened her voice. “And obviously, you don’t believe I’m an innocent.”
“Zara.” He grabbed hold of her wrist to prevent her from fleeing. “That is not true! I—” Suddenly desperate to keep her from thinking he was no different than the sweaty sailors and drunken merchants who had pawed over her, he tried to express the strange welter of his emotions. “I—I admire … your art …”
Why did his tongue fumble and stumble, hitting all the wrong notes, he wondered in inward frustration, while his fingers flowed so effortlessly over the piano keys?
She seized on his disjointed stuttering with a desperation of her own. “I admire your artistic talents as well, sir. Let us leave it at that, and avoid any further … misunderstandings.”
“I—” He drew in a ragged breath, not sure he understood his own feeling, and hating himself for it.
“Please,” she pleaded, her voice betraying how perilously close to tears she was. “Somehow we were carried away by the power of … art. We won’t allow it to happen again.”
“You think it was art that stirred up such … feelings?”
“What else?” she stammered. “I have seen it before, where impressionable young people allowed themselves to be fooled by the magic of the moment into imagining all manner of silly, romantic notions.” She pressed her eyes shut for an instant. “We both should be experienced enough to know better. So please, let us forget this unfortunate lapse of judgment.”
He let his hands fall away from her shoulders.
Grabbing up her sketchbook from the bench, Zara fled into the darkness.
