Page 34 of A Stroke of Luck
If tropical parrots were in style this season, thought Zara as she swallowed the last sip of her tea.
“Lady Hylton assured me in her last letter that the combination is all the rage in Town,” finished Lady Farrington. “I shall choose my mauve watered silk with the overskirt of spangled silver.”
The thought of such a palette was enough to make Monsieur Henri’s turnip puree to take on the taste of boiled turpentine.
Hurriedly finishing the last bit of her meal, Zara rose and excused herself. As her brothers had gone off earlier for a tour of the stables with Stump, and the duke had remained locked behind closed doors in his late uncle’s study with his man of affairs, nuncheon had passed in relative silence, at least on her part. The other two had patently ignored her presence while dissecting the latest bits of Society gossip along with the delicacies prepared by the French chef. The pointed snub, however, had suited her just fine. She was anxious to have a closer look at several botanical watercolor studies that hung in an alcove of the music room before returning to the back terrace to finish her own drawing of the trellised roses.
The sun had broken through the clouds by the time she picked up her sketchbook, the dappled light adding new depth and shading to the lush blooms. Anxious to capture the moment, she set hurriedly to work, only to look up after a short time and grimace as she reached toward the materials spread out by her side.
“Damnation,” she muttered under her breath, finding that the box of her darker pastels was not there. Deciding she must have set them down on the settee while regarding the paintings, Zara laid aside the work in progress with a huff of impatience and hurried inside. It took no more than a few minutes to fetch the missing items but as she stepped back through the french doors, she saw that the corner of the terrace was no longer deserted.
Prestwick was standing by the bench. He had taken up her open sketchbook and appeared engrossed in studying the page.
Biting back another oath, Zara rushed to his side, the ruffled hem of her new gown foaming up around her ankles. “Give that back!” she cried, trying to snatch it from his grasp.
He stepped back in surprise, so that her grab merely grazed the Moroccan leather binding.
“But this is quite lovely.”
Hells bells!She bit down upon her lip so hard that her teeth nearly drew blood. Were he to leaf back just a page or two, he would come across the intimate sketch she had done of him. The realization caused her face to take on the same deep pink hue as the flowers.
“Might I have a look at some of the others?”
“No!” This time, she managed to pry the book away, though in the process her fingers became entangled in the ends of his cravat, pulling the precise folds askew. “I’ll thank you not to snoop through my private things, sir.”
He looked perplexed by the heat of her reaction. “I was not snooping, Miss Greeley. It was out in plain view and …” He paused to clear his throat. “I didn’t know you had an interest in art.”
“There are a great many things you don’t know about me, sir!” Still flush with embarrassment, Zara found she could not control the shrillness of her voice.
“No doubt there are.” He stared for a moment at the smudge of ochre on his previously spotless white linen, then looked up. “However it has become abundantly clear that you are an artist of prodigious talent. Did you study in Rome? I seem to see the influence of Renalli in your use of line and perspective.”
“Oh, I wish that I might be half so skilled as such a master!” she exclaimed, forgetting for an instant her determination to brush him off. “But how is it that you are familiar with his work? He is not exactly a household name beyond the borders of the Papal States.”
“I am a great admirer of Italian art. As it happens, I own several of his earlier paintings. I find I prefer the brushwork in them to the morechiaroscurotechnique of his later style.”
She drew in a deep breath, trying to regain a semblance of equilibrium. Drat the man! It was bad enough that he was a connoisseur of music. To discover he shared her passion for the land that had given birth to principles of modern art threatened to shatter her determination to dislike him.
“Might I be permitted to see some of your other sketches?” he asked with a tentative smile.
Her fingers clutched the book tighter to her chest. “I am not in the habit of sharing my work with just anyone.”
His expression froze. “Especially an odious, arrogant peer?”
Not trusting herself to speak, Zara looked quickly away.
“It seems my mere presence offends you, Miss Greeley. I will—” His words, barely more than a taut whisper, were suddenly overridden by the patter of rapidly approaching footsteps.
“La! Prestwick!”
Zara turned to see a petite, raven-haired young lady framed in the doorway. She was attired in a striking riding ensemble fashioned out of the most luscious shade of emerald green merino wool that Zara had ever seen. The snug little Cossack jacket was frogged in midnight velvet, with a matching black shako perched upon her glossy curls. To top it off, an ivory plume hung down at a jaunty angle, its tip curling to graze the epaulet of one slim shoulder.
“Oh, there you are—” She hesitated on seeing the duke was not alone. “But if you are busy …” Her mouth pursing to a winsome smile that brought two perfect dimples to her cheeks.
Zara suddenly felt as ungainly as a plow horse.
“Not at all, Lady Catherine. Do come out and join us.”
The young lady shifted her ebony crop from one dainty gloved hand to the other and stepped into the sunlight. “Godfrey and I were just riding by and thought we would stop off for a moment to offer our greetings. I trust you received Papa’s invitation to dine with us on the morrow.”
