Page 55 of A Stroke of Luck
“A fusty old bore,” agreed Prestwick before resuming his whistling.
It was, noted Zara, Beethoven’sOde to Joy. She ducked her head to hide a smile, her own spirits suddenly chorusing into song.
Fourteen
“You goin’ to be making a habit of this?”
“Very funny.” The duke was indeed grinning as he tugged off the second sodden boot and tossed it upon the carpet.
Stump picked up the squishy leather and held the misshapen piece of footwear at arm’s length. “This used to be a quite rare grade of Andalusian goatskin that took Hoby months to track down.”
Prestwick shrugged, then fell to peeling off his muddy stockings. “Perhaps Monsieur Henri could use it to add a bit of Spanish flavor to his Gascony stew.”
“I think it might be better served up as a teething toy for the foxhound pups.” The valet slanted a quizzing look at his employer. “I’m amazed you ain’t whistlin’ a funeral dirge rather than Handel’s Musick for the Royal Fireworks.”
“Ah, you recognize Handel?” The duke paused to pick another twig out of his hair. “You may have trouble getting a good grip on buttons and boots, but I am delighted to hear that your ear has become finely attuned to the differences between composers.” As he began to undo the fastenings of his shirt, a chuckle slipped from his lips. “And speaking of fireworks, youshould have seen Lord Ellesmore’s face when Perry offered to show his daughter a dead fish. Why, the explosion of outrage nearly rocketed him clear out of his saddle.”
“I take it you managed to put out the sparks?”
“No, I told the pompous old windbag to go to the devil.”
“Like Hell you did! What about the Paragon of Perfection?—”
“I’m afraid any aspirations I might have had for the young lady’s hand went galloping off with the marquess.”
The boot fell to the floor with a dull thud. “You are bamming me.”
“I swear it’s the truth. Cast my fate to the wind, so to speak. Hook, line, and sinker.”
Stump scratched at his chin. “Well, I’ll be a fillet of flounder. One would think you had been swimming in whisky rather than rather foul-smelling river water.” After splashing a bar of scented soap into the waiting bathtub, he gave a bemused shake of his head. “You sure your French chef didn’t slip a bit of cognac into your cider?”
“I assure you, I am not foxed.”
“Well, something awfully potent has got into you, for you’re sure singing a different tune than when we first washed ashore in Islay, and all you could think about was the sad state of your wardrobe.”
Prestwick’s fingers stilled. “Perhaps because, for the first time I can remember, I am quite comfortable in my own skin.”
“Even now?” Like the last few drops of water that fell from the duke’s hair, Stump’s gaze slowly meandered down the smudged cheeks and streaked linen, coming to rest on his employer’s scratched and muddied hands. “Thought you said you were adamantly opposed to getting your hands dirty.”
“I do wish people would stop parroting back to me some of the more asinine comments I have made in the past.” Stripping off the rest of his garments, Prestwick sank into the steamingbath with a sigh of bliss. “Besides, the dirt comes off easily enough in the wash.”
“Mayhap my hearing is not so good after all.”
Prestwick scrubbed vigorously at the back of his neck and his fingernails. “I have been thinking—perhaps it is high time to make a clean start of things.”
“Sort of like lightenin’ up? Discarding all the old baggage you been carting around with you for an age?”
“Precisely.” The duke dumped a pitcher of suds over his head. “We have already managed to get my odious aunt and her grandson out of our hair.”
“And sent the marquess and Lady Catherine packing.” Stump shook out a fresh shirt. “So far, so good. But now that we have got rid of most of the dead weight, where do we go from here?”
“Well, as to that …” He blew out his cheeks. “I shall just have to play it by ear.”
Zara rana desultory finger over the keys, picking out a simple country ballad she recalled from childhood. She knew the pianoforte was in perfect tune, but the notes sounded slightly off. If truth be told, nothing had seemed quite in harmony all morning—Monsieur Henri’s omelette had tasted like pasteboard upon her tongue, the color of her pastels had looked garish upon the white of the paper, the laughter of her brothers as they had batted a cricket ball about the garden had grated on her nerves. Even the simple task of sharpening a quill for her correspondence had resulted in a small cut to the tip of her thumb.
The tiny red line was hardly visible, yet it ached all out of proportion to its size. Not unlike the dull pain in her chest, whichpersisted despite the fact that she had no right to feel hurt. The words she had overheard earlier had come as no real shock. The surprise had been how easily they had knifed through the rational reasoning she had wrapped herself in to guard against just such a moment.
Prestwick was leaving.
