Page 56 of A Stroke of Luck
She had known, of course, that he would. She just had not grasped that the interlude might be so short, flying by in an adagio flurry before she had time to savor each note. But a letter had arrived, reminding him of an obligation in Town that could not be put off. He had made its contents known to Stump in the hallway by the library, and given orders for their trunks to be packed, and the traveling coach made ready for departure on the morrow’s first light.
Like the shoals that had sunk her small sailboat, the reality of his going had plunged her spirits to rock bottom. Somehow managing to force herself up from the bench of the instrument, Zara wandered to the leaded casement windows and stared out into the misting drizzle. Their previous parting in Scotland had also been clouded with unrequited hopes. She had wished for his friendship and felt bereft when he had only offered money.
Her lips quivered, and this time, the taste of salt was not sea spray. How dare she complain? She had been given what she wished for, and in spades! The duke had become someone with whom she could share a great many things—laughter over muddy tumbles, arguments over art, passions over music.
But now, she wanted more. A great deal more. Tired of battling the storm-tossed seas alone, she wanted the warmth of his arms, encircling her like a safe harbor each and every night. She wanted to hear his lithe fingers create beautiful melodies on the pianoforte. She wanted to capture every nuance of his face in her sketches. And yes, she admitted, her face turning warm with longing, she wanted to experience the chiseled magnificence ofhis form in the flesh, rather than know a male as only a hunk of Italian marble.
A watery sniff sounded. If only her upbringing had not been quite so unorthodox. If only she might learn to moderate her opinions and her tongue. If only she might acquire a modicum of grace and polish. If only she were not so tall and ungainly.
She might as well wish she could fly to the moon!
The duke might have unbuttoned enough to cry friends with a hot-tempered hellion and her brothers. But they were too different to hope that his feelings might ever go deeper than that. Perhaps Lady Catherine was not in line to be his duchess, but Zara had no illusions of how many lovely young ladies were waiting up in London, anxious to take her place.
No doubt she would have to sail halfway back to Athens to find the end of the queue!
Another shout from the lawns caused her chin to come up. Watching her brothers bowl the stitched leather ball toward the wooden wicket, she realized they, too, were about to have their spirits knocked to flinders. Nonny and Perry had become enormously fond of Prestwick and would no doubt take the news of his imminent departure quite hard. Her hands clenched on the sill, causing the cut on her thumb to begin throbbing anew. They had weathered disappointment before, and would recover quickly enough. She hoped that the same might be true for herself, but she had a sinking feeling that the pain inside would remain raw far after the flesh wound had healed.
Zara lingered by the fogged glass, debating whether to go out directly and break the news to them. She found, however, that she didn’t have the heart to face up to the look of loss that was sure to cloud their countenances. Or the questions of why he must go. Cowardly though it might be, she would leave it to the duke to tell them of his plans and make any explanations.
As she ruminated, her finger, seemingly of its own accord, began to trace a pattern through the film of vapor. A circle here, several lines there, and the rough drawing began to take on a recognizable form.
After one or two more morose dabs, she wiped the pane clean with a swipe of her sleeve and, with a silent oath, spun on her heel. Rather than stand around wallowing in self-pity, surely there must be something she could do to keep her bleak thoughts at bay. The pianoforte had offered no refuge, but in the past, her art had always provided a bright spot, no matter how dark the future had looked.
Her gaze strayed to the sketchbook lying face down on the edge of the desk. Perhaps it was naught but a mad idea, a foolish gesture, yet she suddenly decided to create a parting gift for Prestwick. Something that might, when found in an old trunk years from now, remind him of the strange interlude in his life when he had been not only the Distinguished Duke, but the King of Spades.
Mayhap the odd memory would even bring a faint smile to his lips.
She thought for a moment longer, then gathered up her paper and pastels and hurried from the room. The idea for the drawing was already beginning to take shape in her head. It would be a play on the allegorical compositions of the Renaissance masters, depicting the elements that had a significance in their short acquaintance. Despite her low spirits, she couldn’t help but find her mouth curving upward.
Water. Whiskey. A sinking sailboat. A stump-fisted valet. Two raucous lads with fishing poles. And one dripping duke.
How she would fit in to the picture could be determined later.
“You sure look to have the wind in your sails,“ said Stump, hopping to one side just in time to avoid a head-on collision. “Anything amiss?”
Her face fell slightly at the sight of the packed bandbox under the valet’s arm, though she quickly assumed a brighter expression. “No, not at all. I—I just found the indoors feeling a bit confining this morning and thought I would take a stroll down to the river and do some sketching.”
Stump’s grizzled brows gave a tiny waggle. “A mite wet for such an excursion.”
Zara fumbled with the hood of her cloak. The valet might be short a hand, but she had the unsettling feeling that his gaze missed very little. Forcing a cheerfulness that she hoped didn’t sound too brittle, she replied, “As you know, a little water never dampens my plans. And it looks to be clearing.”
“Well then, have a pleasant afternoon.” He shifted his burden. “I will likely be spending the time packin’ up the duke’s things.”
“Oh. The two of you are going somewhere?” she asked with feigned surprise.
“Aye. Returning to London.”
“Well, no doubt you will both be happy to return to your own home,” she murmured, hoping that the folds of her hood hid at least a part of her face from his probing look. “With no more disruptions to your peace and quiet.”
A cryptic smile creased his leathery face. “Never hurts to have things shaken up from time to time.” With a nod of his head, he made to pass. “Good day to you, Miss Greeley.”
The sun had indeed started to break through the clouds by the time Zara reached the river’s edge. The sound of the gurgling water and the shifting patterns of light upon the rippling surface provided ample background for inspiration. It wasn’t long before her pastels were flowing in fluid strokes over the paper, all unhappy thoughts forgotten for the moment as a current of creativity swept her along in its hold. Page after page was filledwith details of the drooping willows, the whorl of the eddies, the angular play of shadows on the rocks.
Mixed in with the renderings of what she observed were sketches from memory—the mischievous cant of Perry’s grin, the beaked curl of Stump’s nose, the soft waves of the duke’s locks as he bent over his spade. Zara had to bite her lip to keep from sighing aloud as she stared down at what she had drawn.
Soon—all too soon—Prestwick would be naught in her life but a few strokes of light and dark upon the textured page. But at least the turning of the vignettes into a finished oil painting would keep her occupied for some months to come, even if it meant that his face would haunt her dreams for far, far longer.
Still, after so long a time the prospect of stretching canvas, of breathing in the pungent scent of gesso, turpentine and linseed oil, of mixing vibrant pigment upon her palette was something to look forward to. Standing before the easel, it was not important whether she was too awkward, too unpolished and too prone to speaking her mind to blend in with the decorous young ladies and elegant gentlemen of the ton. She could take some measure of solace in her own talents, no matter they were hardly designed to win the regard of so lofty a peer as Prestwick.
