Page 36 of A Stroke of Luck
Somehow, the roses suddenly looked leached of color and the light had lost a good deal of its shine. In no mood to continue working, Zara turned to gather up her things. Mentally running through a litany of oaths that no proper young lady should have knowledge of, she began jamming the pastels back into their case, heedless of keeping the palette in order. To her consternation she saw her hands were trembling, which only exacerbated her darkening mood, though the reason was as ill defined as a smudge of charcoal.
Upstairs, she closed the door to her room with a none too gentle kick and threw both her supplies and herself down upon the bed. She would not waste any more time thinking about the dreadful duke, she vowed. Or of how the slanting rays of the sun had turned his softly waving locks into a halo of gold, giving his finely wrought features the ethereal glow of a Botticelli painting. Or of how the curve of his lips had the same lush sensuality as the full-bloom rose she had been sketching.
Screwing her eyes firmly shut, she determined to blot such disquieting images from her mind with a good long nap. The strain of the last several weeks was undoubtedly catching up with her. It was fatigue and worry—along with the rich cooking of the French chef—that was causing such queer lurchings of her usual steady reason.
But after a few moments, her fingers crept to the sketchbook and thumbed to a fresh page. Almost of its own accord, her pencil traced over the grained surface, drawing in line and shadow that slowly took an all too familiar form. Zara sucked inher breath as she stared down at the drawing. She had made his mouth not merely sensual but sinful.
Sinful.
The pencil went a bit slack in her grasp. Perhaps the word better described her own wicked thoughts. How could she possibly be feeling such a strong attraction to a man who was quite likely trying to cheat her brother out of his rightful place in the world? Was she really so naive? Surely she had come far enough along in the world not to be tripped up at this point by pretty sentiments and a handsome face.
Steeling her heart, Zara snapped the book shut. It was all very well to fantasize over a Prestwick on paper. However, it would dangerous in the extreme to forget that in the flesh, the duke was naught but the enemy.
And, judging by the trilling shivers running down her spine, a very dangerous one at that.
Ten
Bloody hell.
Twitching at the tails of his cravat, Prestwick watched the two riders trot off down the drive, sorely tempted to set off on a journey of his own. Preferably to Athens. Or perhaps Constantinople. But no matter how far he traveled, thought the duke with a baleful grimace, he doubted he would be able to find any escape from the storm of emotions that the exasperating Miss Greeley had stirred up inside him.
Further tugging at the rumpled folds only knocked them more hopelessly askew. Abandoning the effort—as well as his fumblings to put some order to his own inner disarray—he turned on his heel and stalked toward the stable. A rousing gallop would wreak even more damage to his wardrobe, seeing as he was not dressed for riding, but the slap of the wind and rocking of the saddle might help knock him to his proper senses.
Head down, still mentally chastising himself for a bloody fool, Prestwick collided with someone else who was moving at the same agitated pace.
“S-sorry, sir.” Nonny picked himself up and ducked to brush at the bits of mud and chaff clinging to his knee. Thedownturned face did not fully hide the quivering of the lad’s mouth or his distraught expression.
Quickly forgetting his own worries, Prestwick frowned in concern. “Here now, what is the trouble?”
The answer came floating out from the stalls as a jeering bray.
“Good Lord, what sort of gentleman has never ridden a stallion?” mocked Harold. “But don’t worry, I shall send Givens to purchase a donkey, seeing as that is the only beast you know how to handle.”
“He is naught but a horse’s ass, lad,” murmured the duke. “Pay him no heed.”
“But he is right, sir.” Nonny’s voice betrayed a taut embarrassment. “And your cousin was not the only one to laugh on hearing that my only riding experience is traversing the rocky trails of Mount Parnassus astride the bare back of a donkey.”
The duke clenched his teeth on realizing that his cousin had taken great pains to humiliate the lad in front of Lady Catherine and her escort.
“I have no notion of how to go on as an English gentleman.” Nonny jammed his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “I wish we had never set sail from the Aegean Sea. I—I feel more like an ignorant foreigner here than I ever did in Greece.”
“Being a true gentleman has naught to do with the cut of your coat or the skill with which you handle the reins. Those things can be easily learned, but not so such qualities as courage, loyalty and honesty.”
The lad scuffed his boot against the rough stone floor. “But how will I ever hope to fit in, when I can’t mingle in Society without making a cake of myself?
“We can start by having Givens saddle the bay gelding. After a few pointers from me and several turns of the paddock, I daresay you will pick up the hang of it in a trice.”
“You mean to take the time to teach me to ride?” Nonny looked at him with near reverence. “But I heard the grooms saying how you were one of the most bruising horsemen in all of London.”
“Oh, I have taken my share of tumbles, and so shall you.” The duke put a hand on the lad’s shoulder and turned him around. “Come along.”
A shaftof light cut across her cheeks, rousing her from a fitful doze. Rubbing a fist across her eyes, Zara sat up, though the bit of sleep had brought little refreshment to either body or spirit. However, the prospect of remaining abed, staring at the patterned wallpaper with only herself for company, was enough to make her throw off the coverlet and make for the door. She had heard her brothers mention something about the stables, so perhaps she might find them among the bins of oats and bales of hay.
Why, even were she to find naught but the horses, it was preferable to being alone.
As she crossed the graveled walk, she found herself wondering whether the duke might look at her differently if she were to wear a riding habit made to her own measurements, its seams fitting her every curve, its color complementing the exact shade of her eyes, its gossamer soft wool swishing round her legs with an ethereal lightness.
Then, picturing the paragon of perfection swathed in emerald green, Zara dismissed the idea with an inward snort.
