Page 52 of A Stroke of Luck
“Why?” he demanded.
Her fingers fumbled upon the book. “I should run out of paper before I finished listing all the reasons.”
“I had not expected to hear such a … conventional response from you.”
“It was you who reminded me that I must, for the sake of my brothers, be bound by the strictures of convention, sir.”
“Did I say that?” Setting aside his fishing pole, he took a seat beside her on the mossy bank. “No wonder you think me a prosy bore.”
Clearly taken aback by the unexpected comment, she plunged on as if she had not heard him. “And convention dictates that a hellfire hoyden is not the proper sort of friend for a gentleman of your exalted privilege and position in Society.”
“Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?”
“No, others will do it for you! You heard the low titterings and saw the speculative glances the other evening. Your spotless reputation will only be sullied if you continue to be seen in my company.” Heaving a harried sigh, she suddenly reached out and brushed a spatter of mud from his knee. “Have a care, sir. You are in danger of ruining your immaculate buckskins.”
He was in danger of ruining far more than an item of his wardrobe. With the wind teasing an errant curl across her cheek and the slanting sun catching the sparks of gold in her green eyes, she looked so maddeningly lovely that Prestwick found himself having to exercise every bit of self control that he possessed to keep from catching her up in his arms and kissing her in full view of her brothers and the farmer laborers who were repairing a nearby stile.
And if he put her reputation on the line, he would have no choice but to make an offer, else find his own honor sunk beneath reproach.
Somehow, the idea was not all that awful. He leaned in a touch closer.
She must have sensed his odd mood, for she quickly scrambled to her feet and edged sideways. The tree, however, blocked that path of retreat.
“The state of my breeches is the least of my concerns at the moment.”
“No, the state of your sanity should be,” she countered, her movement now inching away toward the water’s edge. “You are casting about for trouble if you insist on?—”
The sound of snapping twigs cut off further words. Prestwick, who had caught hold of the willow’s lower branches in order to stay close on her heels, found himself teetering on the slippery rocks.
“Oh!” Zara’s shout was drowned out by a large splash.
“Another pair of boots ruined,” she observed after a brief pause, her mouth quivering with suppressed mirth as she watched him wading through the knee deep water. “At this rate, you shall be providing Hoby with the means to retire.”
Realizing how ridiculous he must look, standing in submerged Hessians, with drenched breeches clinging to his thighs, the duke drew in a long breath. But rather than voice any pique, he dissolved into a peal of laughter. “No doubt you think it serves me right for being such a stick in the mud over my first tumble into the water.”
She, too, could not refrain any longer from outright laughter as she reseated herself on the riverbank. “I have to admit, you are displaying a much better sense of humor about this current soaking than you did the previous one.”
Prestwick managed to scramble back up the muddy slope and flopped down beside her. “I believe someone told me the best way of facing disaster was to laugh at it,” he replied, peeling off his damp jacket and tossing it on the grass. His hands thenloosened the Belcher kerchief at his neck, and picked off the wet leaf stuck to his chin. “Tell me, am I really such a pompous prig as you seem to think? Is that why you do not wish to be friends?”
She bit at her lip, looking somewhat dismayed, then the smile slowly crept back. “Actually, it has been quite some time since I have thought of you as a starchy, straitlaced, stiff-rumped prig.”
“Are you sure you did not leave out any adjectives?” he quipped.
Zara laughed again, and the sound of it harmonizing with the gurgle of the river and the rustle of the trees. All too soon for his taste, however, it was lost in the breeze.
“All jesting aside, Your Grace,” she said after shaking off some drops of water from the folds of her skirts. “I simply think it would be unwise to pursue a friendship.”
“I ask again why. It’s clear we share a passion for music and art.”
A grimace twisted her expression. “That’s part of the deuced problem. Passions are dangerous.“
Was it fear that he saw in her eyes? What was she afraid of?
“And as I said before, there are a good many other reasons.”
“Name one.”
“Well …” There was an odd little catch in her voice. “Lady Catherine, to begin with.”
