Page 51 of A Stroke of Luck
Though the prospect of Prestwick’s proximity did have her insides squirming just a bit, the walk through the pasture lands and spinney that skirted the estate passed pleasantly enough. After nodding a polite greeting, the duke had joined step with her brothers, the three of them falling into an animated conversation on the fine points of coaxing trout from the swirls and eddies of rushing water. Zara dropped back, content to stroll alone and try to reel in her own zigzagging thoughts.
There was no denying that from the moment her family had sailed up the drive of Highwood Manor, Prestwick had gone out of his way to make her brothers feel at home. He seemed to have sensed that they had been too long adrift on their own, and his sensitivity to their needs had been nothing short of extraordinary. Under his tutelage, their faces had lost the careworn wariness caused by their perilous travels and regained some of the exuberant innocence that lads their age should have.
And his show of kindness seemed motivated by more that mere duty and honor. Prestwick appeared to genuinely like her brothers, despite their unpolished manners and unbridled tongues.
A shout of laughter caused her gaze to dart up from the tips of her half boots. Perry, his arm snared in Prestwick’s grasp, was removing his hand—and the small garter snake he managed to catch—from the willow creel slung over the duke’s shoulder.
“Ho, brat,” he exclaimed, turning a giggling Perry upside down and giving him a vigorous shake. “Have I been nurturing aserpent at my breast? You might scare a toady like Harold back to Town with such antics, but I am not such a man milliner as to spook at the sight of a snake.”
Zara saw the laughter fade from Nonny’s face “I should hope not, sir. I-I should be very sorry to see you go.”
And her brothers had become very fond of the duke. She sighed, unable to wrench her eyes from the sight of his broad shoulders and lean hips. Well, they were not the only members of the Greeley family who would dearly miss his company. A wry grimace tugged at her lips as she looked away to the wink of water just visible ahead. She had managed to keep afloat while navigating all manner of hazards, from carping creditors, groping lords and scheming relatives. Yet now that they had reached safe harbor and the seas had grown calm, her heart was in danger of being dashed to bits on the rocky shoals of … love.
Love?Yes, it was time to face up to the truth, and study the reflection in the looking glass with the same sort of detached scrutiny that she focused on the subjects of her portraits. Somehow the artistic side of her nature had flooded over the practical, drowning out all reason and logic. She had thought herself much too experienced in the harsh reality of life to fall overboard for such girlish dreams of romance and love.
But she had.
No matter that she was much too ancient, outspoken and opinionated to attract the notice of any gentleman.
At least not in any positive way.
The Distinguished Duke might admire her art, but he did not admire her! She must not lose all perspective and mistake his occasional wish to discuss the nuances of color and technique with anything of a more serious nature. And as for his torrid kisses—she would be very wrong to imagine they were inspired by aught but lust. It had been dark, he had been drinking, and she had appeared from the shadows, clad in nearly nothing.The combination had been a volatile one, and both of them had allowed reason to go up in flames.
To her consternation, Zara felt a tear spill over her lashes. Blinking it away, she scolded herself for a fool.Peagoose!Only a feather-witted idiot would be acting like the flighty heroine of a Minerva Press novel. Literature—like music and painting—often exaggerated the romantic spirit. She must not confuse art with reality. From her travels she knew that gentlemen often succumbed to base urges that had nothing to do with any higher emotions.
No doubt the duke was regretting the unfortunate interlude just as much as she was. That would certainly account for why, over the last few days, he had taken pains to avoid her company.
Another sigh hovered on her lips but she bit it back. It was she herself who had hammered home the fact that the King of Spades was cut from entirely different cloth than a vagabond artist. And not even so skilled a genius as Weston could stitch them together.
The faint swish of the fishing line and plop of the lure reeled her thoughts back to the present.
“Let us see if it will stay afloat on the rougher water.” With a twitch of his pole, Nonny steered his creation toward a rippling eddy near the edge of the riverbank.
“Have a care, lad, not to let it snag in the hazards lying just below the surface,” called Prestwick as he prepared to cast in his own line.
Excellent advice, thought Zara, determined not to allow self-pity to pull her spirits completely under water. Leaving the others to their splashing pursuit of supper, she wandered a bit upstream and took a seat in the shade of a gnarled willow. The stick of charcoal felt a bit gritty in her hand, but she forced herself to turn open a blank page and begin to draw.
Prestwick cranedhis neck to catch a glimpse of what she was sketching.Swans. She had captured their graceful lines to perfection, but he couldn’t help wishing she had let her imagination take flight to another subject. Just as he couldn’t help wishing, as he watched the deft movements of her fingers, that they were once again entwined in his hair, pulling his head down to meet her lush lips …
She looked up abruptly, suddenly sensing his presence, though he had not moved a muscle.
“Nice,” he murmured, covering his embarrassment at having been caught staring with a show of examining the swirling of the waters to her left. “I had thought to try my luck here, but I should not like to disturb your subjects.”
“It’s quite alright, sir. I was about finished.” The paper snapped as she turned to a fresh page. “Go ahead and throw in your hook.”
He was, however, intent on angling for something other than trout. “Might I have a look at the others you have done?”
Her eyes narrowed. “It’s a new sketchbook,” she said pointedly. “The rest of the pages are blank.”
There was no mistaking the tautness of her tone. Did she think he was baiting her? It was impossible to tell whether the flush of color on her cheeks was due to the brisk breeze or some other reason.
“Miss Greeley … Zara …”
“I have not given you leave to use my name, sir.”
“Given what has passed between us,” he said quietly. “I should think we could let down our guard and address each other as friends.”
“Friends?” she repeated under her breath. “Not likely.”
