Page 43 of A Stroke of Luck
Any further exchange was interrupted by the approach of Lady Catherine. The green of her watered silk gown was more viridian than emerald, but no less lustrous, noted Zara. As she watched the graceful swish of the young lady’s ruffled skirts, she couldn’t help but feel awkward and angular in her own new clothes. No amount of silk and ribbons could disguise the fact that she lacked the poise and polish of the young heiress and her coterie of friends. She had only to recall the last, depressing glance in the mirror that showed hair falling in unruly waves from a simple topknot and cheeks tanned from exposure to the sun …
“Miss Greeley, do come tell us of your travels.” The young lady’s arm hooked in hers, drawing her over to the other side of the room.
Zara blinked. How could she possibly describe to these sheltered schoolroom misses what it was like to fight off the drunken advances of the sailors in some cheap haborside inn, or bounce for hours in the back of a farmer’s mule cart? “I—I hardly know where to begin,” she said in all truthfulness.
“Oh, tell us about the balls in Rome, and the fancy villas overlooking the blue seas of the Mediterranean,” sighed Miss Fortescue, who was the youngest of the ladies present, and only lately emerged from the schoolroom. “Are Italian counts as dashingly handsome as Lord Byron describes?”
Zara could not recall any mention of dashing Italian counts by the poet. No doubt the girl was thinking of some novel fromthe Minerva Press. But on regarding the pink flush of her cheeks and the dreamy sparkle of her eyes, Zara found she had no heart to correct the innocent’s naive romanticism. “My father was naught but a quiet scholar, more interested in his books and his excavations than in dancing and dining. I am afraid I can tell you little about the exotic ballrooms or charming nobles.”
Miss Fortescue could not disguise her disappointment. “Oh.”
The girl’s mother frowned. “It sounds to me like a very odd existence,” she said, disapproval rife in her clipped tone.
“Odd,” echoed another of the ladies.
“Indeed,” sniffed Lady Farrington. “But you know what a stickler Prestwick is for duty and propriety. He feels we must honor family ties, however distant.” Another sniff sounded. “And however odd.”
Lady Catherine, ever the proper hostess, was quick to intervene to smooth over any awkwardness. “Lady Neville, do come look at these latest fashion plates from Paris. I am sure the designs from Madame Jalbert will be of great interest to someone of your discerning taste.”
The mention of frills and furbelows quickly dispelled any further interest in the travails of a stranger. In a sweep of silk and satin, the group hurried off to ooh and ah over the new styles, leaving Zara alone by the pianoforte.
“Prestwick says you, too, are a great admirer of the works of Beethoven.” Miss Woolsey had once again appeared out of the shadows to offer her quiet support. “Do you play?”
“Not well,” she answered with a rueful smile. “The opportunity to practice was, shall we say, somewhat spotty.”
“I shall tactfully ignore any wrong notes,” smiled her newfound friend. “If only you would consent to play one of his new sonatas.”
Zara slanted a glance toward the group clustered around the settee. “You are sure I shall not be breaking some unwrittenrule?” Her hands clenched together. “I fear I have made quite enough faux pas for one evening.”
“I doubt even The 1812 Overture, complete with cannon and fireworks, could wrest their attention away from the latest shape of a sleeve or cut of a neckline.”
“Well, if you are sure …” In truth, her fingers were twitching at the prospect of feeling the sensual smoothness of the ebony and ivory. Taking a seat on the bench, she slipped off her gloves and ran them lightly over the keys. After a tentative testing of the scales, she began the melody in earnest. Her play was deliberately soft, yet the notes reverberated with feeling.
Caught up in the spirit of the music, she failed to notice the door opening and the gentlemen coming in from their postprandial interlude.
Harold, whose slightly swaying step indicated that he had imbibed a goodly amount of the ruby spirits, paused for a moment, then leaned in to whisper in Lord Haverton’s ear. A muffled guffaw sounded, then the two of them moved on to join the ladies.
“I say, Lady Catherine,” said Haverton as he toyed with the fobs on his watch chain. “Perchance has your pet tabby gotten loose here in the drawing room? I could swear I heard it playing cat and mouse upon the pianoforte as I passed by.”
The titter of laughter caused Zara’s head to snap up.
“Pay him no mind,” counseled Miss Woolsey in a low voice. “His appreciation of music is no doubt limited to bawdy tavern ditties.”
“My apologies, Miss Greeley.” Haverton bowed his head in mock contrition. “I did not realized it was you at the keyboard.”
Harold bit at his lip to keep from laughing. “You must not be too harsh, Giles. She has not had the benefit of proper instruction, like all the other young ladies present.” That he meant just the opposite of what he said was apparent to all.
“Hmmph. Let us have a cheerful tune,” grumbled the marquess. “Catherine plays like an angel. My dear, do go take your place at the instrument.”
“Yes, please favor us with a performance, Lady Catherine,” chimed in several of the other gentleman.
Quietly, Zara slid from her seat and retreated to a spot by the mullioned windows, where the heavy draperies and shifting shadows might provide some measure of obscurity.
Not that she needed to search overly for that, for at the moment she could not have felt more ignored and alone.
Prestwick clenchedhis hands to keep from planting a fist smack in the embroidered flowers of Harold’s waistcoat. The toad had been sly enough to choose his words carefully, so that he could not be accused of violating the letter of the duke’s warning in regard to Miss Greeley. But that did not lessen the duke’s urge to wipe the satisfied sneer off his cousin’s flushed face with a hard right cross to the ribs.
The merry lilt of the country song only caused his own mood to turn more discordant. Lady Catherine played with a technical skill far superior to that of Zara, and he had always found her performance pleasant, if not inspired. But tonight, in comparison to Zara’s flawed yet passionate play, her music sounded flat and mechanical to his ear.
