Page 30 of A Stroke of Luck
Prestwick was about to fire off a warning shot at his cousin, but the young lady quickly showed she was capable of manning her own guns.
“It is actually closer to a briny grey.” She squinted at his coat. “The subtler tones are no doubt hard to distinguish for someone who favorspeacockblue.”
The duke hid a smile behind his napkin.
Her second salvo came hard on the first. After studying the oversized buttons, she leaned back, exaggerating a blink. “I had not realized that brass these days was so … exceeding bright.”
Harold’s mouth twisted in a petulant pout. “Obviously, you have not been to London, or you would know this is the very first crack of fashion.”
“Indeed?” The skeptical lift of her eyebrow spoke louder than her soft murmur. “The duke’s valet had mentioned to me that His Grace was considered a leading arbiter of Town style.” She glanced at Prestwick, pointedly taking in the restrained elegance of his low-cut collar, navy coat, and dark waistcoat.
“My cousin and I move in different circles,” murmured the duke. “Which accounts for our difference in sartorial tastes.”
A dull flush rose to Harold’s cheeks as he suspected he had been dealt a subtle set-down. Unable to muster a suitable reply, he lapsed into a sulky silence and began to butter a piece of toast. But upon the entrance of Nonny several minutes later, he sensed an easier target for his gibes and quickly switched his attack. “Ah, good morning, Master Greeley.”
Nonny answered with a tentative smile. “Good morning, sir.”
“I say, Grandmama, it is interesting, is it not, how fashions for young gentlemen have changed on the Continent.” Raking an eye over frayed sleeves protruding from the lad’s outgrown jacket, he smoothed at his pointed lapel. “I shall have to ask my tailor whether it is possible to construct just such a cuff on my shirts. Perhaps I could start a new trend—I could call it La Rustique. Or perhaps Le Primitive.”
Lady Farrington tittered. “La, you are such a wit, Harold.”
The young Greeley colored in embarrassment and gave a self-conscious tug at his sleeve.
“You are such an arse,” muttered Prestwick under his breath. He could practically see the sparks shooting out from the red highlights of Zara’s hair, and braced himself for an imminent explosion. Sure enough, she opened her mouth, then seemed to think better of it.
Well done, Miss Greeley. He gave an inward nod of approval at her show of restraint. Further fireworks might only exacerbate the lad’s humiliation. He was not quite so far in his dotage to have forgotten how devilishly awkward one felt during the transition between boyhood and manhood. And how devilishly sensitive. The slightest cut could leave a deep scar.
Putting down his knife with a sharpness that rattled his plate, the duke pushed back his chair. “I seem to recall that Uncle Aubrey was an aficionado of sailing ships, and acquiredan extensive collection of books on yacht design. As you were interested in the particulars ofNereid’srig, perhaps you would care to have a look at them when you are finished with your breakfast, Nonny.”
Letting his half eaten roll drop back to his plate, the lad nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to rise.
“They won’t haul anchor before you have had a chance to do justice to Monsieur Henri’s shirred eggs and gammon,” said Prestwick with a smile. “Take your time. I shall have one of the footman lay them out for you, along with paper and pens in case you would like to make some notes.”
“T-thank you, sir. That’s awfully kind of you.”
Studiously ignoring the choking sound that was coming from his great aunt, he allowed his smile to stretch a bit broader. “Oh, not really. After all, there is a good chance, isn’t there, that they already belong to you.” Seeing that he had effectively knocked the remaining wind out of his cousin’s sails, he rose. “If you have, er, finished with your meal, Miss Greeley …” His gaze fell on the remains of her food, which had been mashed into an amorphous lump. “Might I have a private word with you in the parlor?”
She folded her napkin and stood up.
“Is French cooking not to your taste?” he inquired dryly, once they were in the hallway.
“If that is yet another gibe at our heathen manners, sir, don’t waste your breath. I have no pretensions to having the faintest glimmer of Town bronze.”
His cousin had not been far off the mark in his comment on the drabness of her gown, thought Prestwick. Yet despite the faded muslin, raveling seams and loose threads, the young lady carried herself with a simple dignity that would have done a duchess proud.
“As for breakfast,” she continued. “Our tastes—as you know all too well—hardly run to haute cuisine. If our presence at meals offends your refined sensibilities, we should be just as happy to dine in the kitchen with the help.” Her chin rose, “Or, if you prefer, we could erect a spit in the back gardens.”
His lips quirked upward for an instant before his expression turned more serious. “It was not my intention to tender any insult, Miss Greeley. I was merely wondering if there were some other dishes you might favor. You see, Monsieur Henri is extremely volatile—if he catches sight of your plate, I fear he may storm out of the kitchen and turn in his toque before the nuncheon. And I was so looking forward to crème brulee for pudding.”
“Well, you will just have—” She bit off her retort and shot him an odd look. “Y-you are teasing me, are you not?”
“Just a little,” he admitted, finding that he was almost as surprised as she was. Why, he wondered, did he rather enjoy watching anger heat her eyes to such a fiery intensity?
“Hmmph.” A frown furrowed her brow, but it was more one of puzzlement than of indignation.
“You did say that humor is sometimes the best way to defuse a tense situation.” Prestwick stepped aside and gestured for her to enter the parlor. “I apologize for the behavior of Lady Farrington and Harold. It is they who are displaying the manners of savages.”
“I suppose they cannot be blamed for resenting a stranger appearing out of the blue to lay claim to what they consider rightfully theirs.”
