Page 27 of A Stroke of Luck
But, noted Prestwick, that did not mean she had to like it.
“At breakfast we can discuss in more detail the particulars of your stay,” he offered.
“Very well …” She rose quickly on seeing the butler appear in the doorway, and motioned for the lads to follow her.
The duke was glad to see they, at least, had cracked shy smiles at his earlier attempt at lightening the mood. However, her countenance remained as immutable as Scottish granite. And as she marched past him, he thought he heard her mutter under breath, “Just as long as they include steering well clear of each other.”
What perverse trickof fate had blown the wind from her sails?
Zara flopped back upon the soft mattress and closed her eyes, too tired to notice the puffs of dust that rose up from her gown. She had expected the hostile sneers, veiled insults, and outright threats from her distant relatives. But not even in her wildest dreams had she imagined the possibility that a certain gentleman might be one of them. The sight of his face, loomingout from the slanting shadows, had struck her like a thunderbolt hurled down from the heavens by Zeus.
Rendered speechless, she had been unable to do more than stare in unblinking horror. With not a hair out of place or a stitch out of line, he had looked every inch the august aristocrat. While she, with her damp clothing and mouth hanging agape, must have resembled a fish out of water.
A particularly lumpy and unattractive fish.
She grimaced, recalling with dismal clarity the reflection she had caught in the hallway mirror of her tangled tresses, muddy half boots and rumpled pelisse.
Drat the King of Spades!
His purse had been a constant reminder of the duke, allowing them to travel over the Scottish border and into the north of England without having to wield shovels or spatulas in exchange for their passage. However, she had managed to keep from dwelling too much on how the burnished gold coins matched the highlights of his softly waving hair. Or how the fleeting glimpses of ocean from the mail coach window reminded her of the infinite shades of blue and green awash in his eyes.
Until now.
Finding herself face to face with the duke had forced her to admit to a disturbing truth—she felt an unwilling attraction to the man, one that she had been fighting since the moment she had grasped his chilled fingers and hauled him into her boat. It was not mere physical appearance that stirred a strange heat inside her. There was no denying the duke was a handsome man, his lithe frame and classic features set off to perfection by the exquisite materials and superb tailoring of his clothing. Yet she had painted plenty of men whose looks were a good deal more striking than his, and had experienced no more than a twinge of detached admiration.
The attraction was more than skin deep. Her skills were with line and pigment rather than pen and dictionary, so it was difficult to compose her mixed emotions into coherent words. As an artist trained to note the nuances of expression, she found his eyes a vortex of brooding intensity, drawing her in so deep she feared she might drown in the whirls and eddies of their current. The ocean hues were rich in their complexity, blending shades of lively intelligence with a tint of dry humor. But it was the dark undertone that caught her eye, a subtle shadowing of pain that she recognized all too well.
After all, it was a tone she saw every day, one that cast a somber tone to her own gaze.
Zara opened her eyes to find herself looking up at the brocade hangings of the carved tester bed. The glint of the late afternoon sun on the golden threads caused her to blink. Perhaps she was merely imagining things. Or seeing only what she wished to see. Surrounded by the trappings of luxury, swaddled from the bruising demands of day-to-day existence by an unlimited purse, the duke had little reason to feel worry or doubt.
Fool!She added several more silent epithets. Just because they shared an intense interest in music did not mean they had anything else in common. Only a bird-witted peagoose would have tendered the hope, however unspoken, that a starchy Town aristocrat and an outspoken miss might become … friends.
The Duke of Prestwick had not offered friendship, she reminded herself roughly. He had offered pity, dropping a purse at her feet as casually as he might toss a bone to a hungry hound.
The dull throbbing in her head drew a small groan from Zara’s lips. Muscles aching from the jostling of the long journey, she finally roused herself from the soft folds of the coverlet. Stripping off her travelworn outer garments she moved to the washbasin and splashed a handful of water over her face. As herlids fluttered open, drops clinging to the lashes like the unshed tears of anxiety she dared not let well up, she couldn’t bite back a small gasp. The small cheval glass showed a haggard harridan clad in a threadbare shift.
Averting her eyes did nothing to buoy her sinking spirits. A look around the bedchamber only brought home with painful clarity the fact that she was not of this world of country estates, family antiques, and fancy furnishings. The trouble was, she thought with a sniff, she was not quite sure in what world she belonged. Was she to be constantly adrift on a storm-tossed sea, forced to weather the vicissitudes of hostile relatives and indifferent advisors while trying to keep from foundering upon the shoals of poverty?
The churning of her insides caused a new wave of apprehension to rise in her throat. With it came the cold splash of reality. She simply couldn’t lose this coming battle, not if Nonny was to have the Oxford education of which he dreamed, not if Perry were to have the proper tutors to nurture his natural intelligence. And not if she were to avoid returning to Italy and taking up the slightly off-color life of a painter.
Which, she assured herself, she would do in a heartbeat rather than be forced into some drab position, like a governess or drawing teacher, in order to escape the almshouse.
The looking glass now showed that her eyes had hardened to a hue of polished steel. She must not see the duke as aught but the enemy. He might wax eloquent on the lyrical melodies of Haydn and the tumultuous genius of Beethoven, but who else would be orchestrating the plot to cast the Greeleys back out to sea?
“Well,I’ll be a monkey. If that ain’t the damnedest coincidence.”
“You can say that again,” muttered Prestwick. He did as well, substituting a decidedly more colorful adjective.
Stump gave a slight start at hearing such an improper word slip from the lips of his employer.
“Ouch! Would you mind not wielding that razor as if you were slicing out blocks of peat with a spade?”
“Er, sorry, sir,” intoned the valet, dabbing at the nick with a bit of rolled linen.
The duke gave an involuntary wince as the other man resumed his scraping at the soapy lather. Never possessed of a light touch, Stump’s current agitation made his zealous ministrations even more uncomfortable than usual. However, knowing the valet would be deeply hurt at being relieved of a basic duty, Prestwick resigned himself to a raw chin, though he did give an inward smile on thinking that his faithful retainer was giving new meaning to the old saying of extracting a pound of flesh.
“You took me by surprise,” went on Stump, absently wiping the blade on the sleeve of the freshly pressed coat that hung on the armoire door.
