Page 39 of A Stroke of Luck
And no doubt a good deal more sensual. The painted goddess had a virginal innocence that made her seem too ethereal to be real, while the flesh and blood warrior queen radiated a fierce passion that left very little question as to whether she was very much alive. He wanted to feel her flesh grow warm under his touch, taste the spice of her tongue entwined with his, wrap her legs …
A sharp pain suddenly brought him back to his senses. He opened his eyes to see that he was clutching the marble so tightly that his fingers were in danger of cracking. Shaken by the force of his wildly erotic fantasies—and his inability to control them—he had to remain leaning against the fluted stone for several minutes before his legs were steady enough to make the climb up the stairs to his bedchamber.
It was, however, more than a few hours before he drifted off into the welcome oblivion of slumber.
Ignoringthe Duke of Prestwick’s obnoxious relatives was easier said than done, thought Zara in some exasperation. Giving another impatient twitch to the fringe of her new India shawl, she stared out the carriage window and wondered just how much longer she had to endure their mindless chatter.
“Are you feeling a chill, Miss Greeley?”
Prestwick’s question made her realize she had crossed her arms over her chest in a most unladylike manner. So much for possessing a scrap of poise and polish. For perhaps the tenth time in as many minutes she regretted having allowed the duke to force her into accepting Lady Catherine’s invitation to dinner.
“Not at all,” she said through gritted teeth.
His brow gave a slight lift at her curt tone, but he made no further comment.
“Well, I am most uncomfortable, Prestwick. There is a nasty draft.” Lady Farrington raised her lorgnette and directed an icy stare Zara’s way. “Miss Greeley, must you keep the draperies open? Some of us are not used to traveling under such harsh conditions.”
After giving a pointed glance around at the soft leather seats, varnished paneling, and polished brass lights of the elegant barouche, Zara drew the velvet coverings closed and settled back against the squabs. In the dimmed light, she couldn’t make out the expressions of the other three. Which was just as well, she thought, seeing as her own countenance was likely screwed in a most unattractive scowl.
It seemed, however, that the duke could read her thoughts, if not her lips. “You need not be on edge, Miss Greeley. This will be a quiet, informal evening, with little of the pomp and ceremony of a fancy Town entertainment. And as I am well-acquainted with most of the other guests, I can assure you that they will make every effort to make you feel welcome.”
Rather than serve as a reassurance, his words only exacerbated her own misgivings. “You need not be on edge, Your Grace,” she mimicked. “I shall try not to embarrass you by eating with my fingers or using an heirloom epergne as a … a chamberpot!”
Lady Farrington gave a horrified little squeak, while Harold buried a snigger in the fancy frills of his shirt cuff.
Zara also saw a small shudder run through Prestwick’s body before he managed to stiffen his shoulders. Her vulgar comment had obviously offended his priggish sensibilities, too. Well and good! she thought with an inward sniff. She had meant to shock him. It was all his fault she had been placed between a rockand a stone, so it was only fitting that he should share in the discomfort of the position.
But when the duke spoke, he did not seem overly perturbed by her outburst. Indeed, if she didn’t know better, she would have thought he was trying not to laugh. “Given the Marchioness of Ellesmore’s taste in the decorative arts, her family silver might be better off hidden under a bedstead than gracing the centerpiece of a dining table,” he murmured dryly.
“That is not amusing, Prestwick!” huffed his great aunt. “I cannot help wondering what has come over you, that you can view this whole coil with such inappropriate humor. Can’t you see that it threatens to put you and your family in a highly embarrassing position?”
“No, I do not,” he replied firmly. “Not unless you or Harold choose to make public your private sentiments. Which I trust will not occur. Not if you wish to retain my good will—and all the ancillary benefits that go along with it.”
Lady Farrington made a sputtering sound. “We shall, of course, do our duty. But mark my words, Prestwick, you are making a big mistake.”
“For once, I find myself in agreement with Lady Farrington,” muttered Zara, finding herself both angry and confused by his reaction. Drat the man! Why was he being so deucedly nice? She would be the one guilty of making a grievous mistake were she to start thinking of him as a kindred spirit. They were of different worlds, she reminded herself, unable to keep a vision in emerald from waltzing through her head.
Spurred on by such a disturbing thought, she lashed out again. “I would have been much happier to remain at Highwood, for I don’t have the slightest wish to further an acquaintance with you or your spoiled, haughty friends.”
This time, her blow appeared to strike home. His gloved hands clenched slightly upon the thighs of his dove graybreeches, mirroring the tautness of his voice. “You may not care for our company, but for Nonny’s sake—and Perry’s—it would be wise to make an effort to gain acceptance from the ton. Surely you do not wish for your family to be nomads forever. Haven’t you experienced enough doors slammed in your face not to want them to be shut out from their rightful position in Society?”
Zara was happy that the darkness hid the flush of color that burned her cheeks.
“And you,” he went on. “You may find, once things are settled, that you wish to make your own come-out and enjoy a Season or two in Town.”
“Ha,” she whispered, hoping any undertone of longing was well hidden.
Harold gave a harsh titter. “Indeed, Twick, I cannot imagine a more unlikely happening. As Miss Greeley herself acknowledges, she possesses neither the youth, beauty, nor sweetness of temper that would attract a gentleman?—”
“That’s enough. From all of you.” The rap of Prestwick’s stick against his boot punctuated his near shout. “No more sniping, no more tantrums, nor more insults tonight. I expect exemplary behavior from each of you or I vow, the guilty party will be very sorry. Am I understood?”
There was an uneasy shifting upon the soft leather seats.
It was impossible to be any sorrier than she already was, thought Zara with an inward grimace as the coach creaked to a halt.
Feeling rather like a lamb being led to slaughter, she followed Lady Farrington in stepping down to the graveled drive.
Eleven
