Page 53 of A Stroke of Luck
“C—Catherine?” Caught by surprise, he felt his jaw tighten.
“Yes. No matter how nice a face she put on the situation, the young lady was not best pleased with having her intended spend his time ogling musty old canvases with a companion of questionable morals.”
“There is no understanding between Lady Catherine and myself.”
“That’s not what the gossips say,” replied Zara softly”
“The gossips are wrong.” Was he mistaken, or did he notice the spasm of some emotion flit across her features?
“But what more can a gentleman desire?” The question seemed directed as much at herself as at him. “She has beauty, poise, charm and grace. Not to speak of a sweet disposition.”
It suddenly occurred to Prestwick that a gentleman could desire a great deal more than such shallow attributes which were, after all, only little more than skin deep.
“But she has none of your courage, spirit, opinions, or imagination.”
“I-I thought gentlemen didn’t care for any of those qualities in a female.”
“Perhaps we have both learned of late to dig beneath the surface of our preconceived notions.“ His solemn expression then split into a boyish grin. “Come, let us both throw caution to the wind, Zara.” On impulse, he reached out and took hold of her hand. “Let us agree to cry friends, at least for the next little while we are together.”
He felt her fingers stiffen, then slowly relax in his grip. “Oh, very well. I suppose there is little harm in it. Friends it is.”
Little harm indeed!Zara felt the warmth from his palm stir a wave of liquid heat within her. If she wasn’t extremely careful she would find herself tumbling head over heels into treacherous waters—and it would be her heart left hung out to dry, rather than a pair of expensive leather boots.
Yet the risk seemed well worth taking. It would be wonderful to share in his laughter, marvel at his music, exchange ideas on art, and mayhap even indulge in another kiss or two before the magical interlude came to an end.
Itwouldcome to an end, she knew, and sooner rather than later. He would return to London, and recollection of wateryplunges and peaty laborings with a spade would quickly fade into naught but blurred memories. While she would no doubt hear the notes of a certain lush Beethoven sonata echo in her dreams for untold nights to come.
It was, however, a much more jovial note that brought an end to her bittersweet reveries.
“Zara! Prestwick!” Nonny, soaked to the waist but grinning ear to ear, held up a wriggling fish. “My lure worked! It’s a big one, isn’t it?”
“A veritable leviathan,” admired the duke. “We shall have Monsieur Henri create a special dish in honor of the occasion.” He pursed hip lips, then chuckled. “I have it—Trout a la Islay. A fillet smoked over a peat fire then sauced with a reduction of whiskey and cream.”
The lad gave a whoop of laughter, then carefully deposited his prize in the large willow creel they had brought along.
“Oh, might I have a try with it,” asked Perry, staring a bit disconsolately at his own bedraggled fly.
“Very well.” His brother magnanimously passed over the rod and lure. “But do have a care.”
The first few casts landed squarely in the middle of the rippling current. But on the next try, Perry, his arm growing weary from the weight of the tackle, managed only a weak flick of his wrist, sending the painstakingly constructed bit of brass and lead flying dangerously close to the waterlogged remains of a fallen tree.
“Blister it, Perry!” cried Nonny in some dismay. He grabbed for the rod, but was too late to prevent the lure from drifting into trouble. As his fingers spun at the reel, the line pulled taut as a piano wire, indicating that it had already become snagged within the tangle of submerged branches.
“S—sorry,” stammered Perry, struggling manfully to keep back tears. “I didn’t mean to make a mull of it.”
Nonny refrained from further comment, but anger and disappointment were clearly writ on his face. Muttering under his breath, he reached for his pocketknife in order to cut his loss.
“Hold a moment.”
All three Greeleys turned in surprise as the duke splashed into the middle of the swirling eddy. “Angle the rod a bit higher.” Taking hold of the taut line, he followed it closer to the source of the trouble, ignoring several slips on treacherous footing that nearly upended him into the foaming rapids.
“Deverill!” Zara could not keep from crying out as his head momentarily disappeared beneath the surface.
He waved off her concern, then dove in again.
She held her breath for what seemed like an age.
Finally, he emerged triumphant from the depths, a glimmer of gold held aloft in his hand.
