Page 48 of A Stroke of Luck
“Well, mayhap you are being a mite cow-handed in your handling of the young lady.”
Prestwick’s fingers ceased fiddling with a new knot. “What the devil is that supposed to mean?”
Stump scratched at his chin. “Only that she might not have appreciated those particular arrangements.”
“Nonsense. I have been given to understand that all young ladies adore clothes and a party,” replied the duke, though his tone lacked conviction.
“Miss Greeley ain’t like most young ladies.”
“As if I needed any such reminder.” One last twitch to the recalcitrant cravat finally achieved some semblance of neatness, then he pulled on his coat.
Stump smoothed a wrinkle from the sleeve. “As I said, I ain’t no expert, but even a grizzled foot soldier knows that if you keep on getting repulsed in a straight ahead charge, a change in strategy might be in order.”
“Hmmph.” The duke took up his gloves. “It is not as if I have any interest in continuing to cross swords with the bellicose Miss Greeley. Indeed, I am looking forward to a peaceful evening with Lady Catherine and her guests. With her, at least, I can be quite sure not to be caught off guard by any untoward word or action.”
And that was the damnable trouble, he admitted on returning to Highwood Manor as the hour approached midnight. Much to his chagrin, he was forced to acknowledge that not only had the evening been peaceful, it had been a crashing bore. There had been a stultifying ennui to the conversation in comparison to the lively exchange of ideas he had been having with Perry on Greek literature and Nonny on the latest in mechanical advancements.
Not to speak of the insightful and intelligent views on art and music espoused by their sister.
The candlelight flickered over the seascape hung at the base of the staircase, the yawing shadows accentuating the wind-whipped waters and ominous clouds. Depicted in the heart of the chaos was a small sailing craft, its bow gamely battling through the crest of a wave. Prestwick regarded it for a moment, then abruptly changed direction, his own emotions too stormy for sleep.
Throwing off his greatcoat, unmindful of its falling in a heap on the carpet, he poured out a generous splash of brandy and moved to the pianoforte. If anything could calm troubled spirits and moderate the gusting winds of doubt, it was the soothing symmetry of Bach. Setting the glass and the candle atop the instrument, he began to play.
Engrossed in the subtle harmony of his ghosting fingers and the lilting notes, he failed to see the other faint shape glide close to the keyboard until a soft voice spoke out in the pause between movements.
“That is perhaps the most beautiful performance of the Cantata in G Major I have ever heard,” whispered Zara, near breathless with admiration.
Prestwick started in surprise, cracking the cover down upon his knuckles and almost falling off the edge of the bench.
“You said you played,” she went on. “But you were entirely too modest about your extraordinary skills.”
“The devil take it, Miss Greeley,” he swore, rubbing at his fingers. “Like you, I prefer my performances to remain private, if you do not mind.”
“M—might I just stay to hear the end of the piece?”
He meant to refuse, but sight of her face, pale and pinched, caused the brusque retort to die on his lips. The strain of the past weeks was still evident in the bruised shadowing beneathher eyes, and though the vindication of her family’s claim had done away with many of her worries, new ones had undoubtedly sprung up like hydra to take their place.
“Come, have a seat, then.” Sliding to one side, he made a bit of room for her to join him.
She hesitated, but only for an instant. “Thank you.”
A frisson of heat jolted through him as her shoulder touched his. It was only then that he realized she was wearing only a wrapper over her nightrail, and that her hair was loosened and tumbled over her shoulders in waves of flaming gold. The sight of it was more intoxicating than a barrel of Bruichladdich, but he forced himself to concentrate on the music rather than the simmering desire pooling in his core, even though his hands felt stiff and clumsy on the smooth keys.
“I had not imagined it possible to coax such emotion from such inanimate objects as wood, ivory and wire,” she murmured as the last chord faded to silence.
“It is no more difficult than creating passion out of pigment, linseed oil, and canvas.” He suddenly saw that the book she had been clutching to her chest was her sketch book and gave a wry smile. “Or chalk, graphite, and paper.”
“I wish that were so.” She allowed an answering flash of humor as her grip relaxed on the binding. “But for those of us who do not possess such a gift, the ability seems nothing short of … magical.”
Prestwick nodded in understanding. “I know what you mean. No matter how hard I work at it, I cannot draw so much as a stick figure.”
She laughed, but only for the briefest of interludes before her expression once more turned serious. “I—I imagine that Lady Catherine and your fine London friends are impressed enough with your musical genius not to care a whit about what you scribble upon a sheet of foolscap.”
“Lady Catherine?” He drew in a deep breath. “Actually, Lady Catherine and the others are not overly attuned to the nuances of a performance. The right notes played in the right order are all that is required for polite applause.”
“How perfectly awful.” Zara’s hand then flew to her mouth, the slight movement causing her sketchbook to fall to the carpet.
With a swift motion, he swept it up and was about to return it to her hands when his eyes fell upon the open page.
