A Stroke of Luck (23 page)

"And I sported a sore bottom for two." He brushed a bit of dust from his breeches, then added in a more subdued tone, "You see, I was not always as stiff-rumped as you seem to think, Miss Greeley."

Zara felt herself go rather warm all over as the only thoughts she had entertained concerning the duke's rump were quite indecent for any proper young lady to have imagined.

"Speaking of Greek, sir, you promised me a lesson this afternoon." Perry came sliding down the polished banister. "Since your morning was taken up with teaching Nonny the finer points of riding."

"So I did." The duke caught hold of the lad's collar just in time to prevent him from shooting head over heels toward the gilt mirror over the sideboard.

"Perseus! I believe the duke has been forced to endure quite enough of the Greeleys and our problems for one day," she admonished, grateful that any noticeable change in her coloring would be put down to annoyance rather than the fact that she considered Prestwick's posterior far more intriguing than that of Michelangelo's David. "Do leave off pestering him, else he, too, will be wishing to light out for London."

The lad's face fell. "I—"

"It is no bother, Miss Greeley." He set Perry on his feet and ruffled his hair. "I enjoy spending time with your brothers."

She found it impossible to meet his eye. "You needn't put a damper on visiting your London friends on account of them, sir."

His brow furrowed.

Realizing how waspish she must have sounded only added an extra bit of sting to her tone. "But suit yourself." With a lift of her chin, she gathered her skirts and turned for the hallway. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have some correspondence to finish."

* * *

"I would sooner attempt to translate Plato into Chinese than try to decipher the workings of female mind," muttered Prestwick.

Stump held a claret-colored evening coat at arm's length and squinted. "If you was to ask me about storming an artillery post or outflanking a troop of cavalry, I might be of some help." The garment, having passed inspection was draped over the back of the dressing table chair. "But I'm as useless on the subject of understanding women as I am in doing up them tiny fastenings of your dress waistcoats."

"I doubt there is a man alive who can claim to have that subject buttoned up," growled Prestwick as he discarded yet another crumpled neckcloth. "Hell's teeth, I seem to be all thumbs tonight in trying to get this deuced cravat to fall into a simple Mathematical."

"Perhaps because it don't add up right, your harin' off to dine with your friends from Town, leaving Miss Greeley and her brothers all alone for the evening."

"Miss Greeley has made it abundantly clear that my presence is neither wanted nor welcome." He gave an impatient tug at the starched linen, drawing the folds hopelessly askew. "Damned if I can figure out why. I have seen to the ordering of a tasteful wardrobe, introduced her to the cream of London Society—and yet, no matter what effort I make to be helpful, it seems to explode in my face."

"Well, mayhap you are being a mite cow-handed in your handling of the young lady."

Prestwick's fingers ceased fiddling with a new knot. "What the Devil is that supposed to mean?"

Stump scratched at his chin. "Only that she might not have appreciated those particular arrangements."

"Nonsense. I have been given to understand that all young ladies adore clothes and a party," replied the duke, though his tone lacked conviction.

"Miss Greeley ain't like most young ladies."

"As if I needed any such reminder." After one last twitch to the recalcitrant cravat finally achieved some semblance of neatness, he pulled on his coat.

Stump smoothed a wrinkle from the sleeve. "As I said, I ain't no expert, but even a grizzled foot soldier knows that if you keep on getting repulsed in a straight ahead charge, a change in strategy might be in order."

"Hmmph." The duke took up his gloves. "It is not as if I have any interest in continuing to cross swords with the bellicose Miss Greeley. Indeed, I am looking forward to a peaceful evening with Lady Catherine and her guests. With her, at least, I can be quite sure not to be caught off guard by any untoward word or action."

And that was the damnable trouble, he admitted on returning to Highwood Manor as the hour approached midnight. Much to his chagrin, he was forced to acknowledge that not only had the evening been peaceful, it had been a crashing bore. There had been a stultifying ennui to the conversation in comparison to the lively exchange of ideas he had been having with Perry on Greek literature and Nonny on the latest in mechanical advancements.

Not to speak of the insightful and intelligent views on art and music espoused by their sister.

The candlelight flickered over the seascape hung at the base of the staircase, the yawing shadows accentuating the wind-whipped waters and ominous clouds. Depicted in the heart of the chaos was a small sailing craft, its bow gamely battling through the crest of a wave. Prestwick regarded it for a moment, then abruptly changed direction, his own emotions too stormy for sleep.

Throwing off his greatcoat, unmindful of its falling in a heap on the carpet, he poured out a generous splash of brandy and moved to the pianoforte. If anything could calm troubled spirits and moderate the gusting winds of doubt, it was the soothing symmetry of Bach. Setting the glass and the candle atop the instrument, he began to play.

Engrossed in the subtle harmony of his ghosting fingers and the lilting notes, he failed to see the other faint shape glide close to the keyboard until a soft voice spoke out in the pause between movements.

"That is perhaps the most beautiful performance of the Cantata in G Major I have ever heard," whispered Zara, near breathless with admiration.

Prestwick started in surprise, cracking the cover down upon his knuckles and almost falling off the edge of the bench.

"You said you played," she went on. "But you were entirely too modest about your extraordinary skills."

"The Devil take it, Miss Greeley," he swore, rubbing at his fingers. "Like you, I prefer my performances to remain private, if you do not mind."

"M—might I just stay to hear the end of the piece?"

He meant to refuse, but sight of her face, pale and pinched, caused the brusque retort to die on his lips. The strain of the past weeks was still evident in the bruised shadowing beneath her eyes, and though the vindication of her family's claim had done away with many of her worries, new ones had undoubtedly sprung up like hydra to take their place. "Come, have a seat, then." Sliding to one side, he made a bit of room for her to join him.

She hesitated, but only for an instant. "Thank you."

A frisson of heat jolted through him as her shoulder touched his. It was only then that he realized she wore only a wrapper over a nightrail, and that her hair was loosened and tumbled over her shoulders in waves of flaming gold. The sight of it was more intoxicating than a barrel of Bruichladdich, but he forced himself to concentrate on the music rather than the simmering desire pooling in his core, even though his hands felt stiff and clumsy on the smooth keys.

"I had not imagined it possible to coax such emotion from inanimate objects as wood, ivory and wire," she murmured as the last chord faded to silence.

"It is no more difficult than creating passion out of pigment, linseed oil and canvas." He suddenly saw that the book she had been clutching to her chest was her sketchbook and gave a wry smile. "Or chalk, graphite and paper."

"I wish that were so." She allowed an answering flash of humor as her grip relaxed on the binding. "But for those of us who do not possess such a gift, the ability seems nothing short of... magical."

Prestwick nodded in understanding. "I know what you mean. No matter how hard I work at it, I cannot draw so much as a stick figure."

She laughed, but only for the briefest of interludes before her expression once more turned serious. "I—I imagine that Lady Catherine and your fine London friends are impressed enough with your musical genius not to care a whit about what you scribble upon a sheet of foolscap."

"Lady Catherine?" He drew in a deep breath. "Actually, Lady Catherine and the others are not overly attuned to the nuances of a performance. The right notes played in the right order are all that is required for polite applause."

"How perfectly awful." Zara's hand then flew to her mouth, the slight movement causing her sketchbook to fall to the carpet.

With a swift reach, he swept it up and was about to return it to her hands when his eyes fell upon the open page.

"Bloody hell."

The strangled oath sounded from both of them at once.

Prestwick stared at the provocative portrait, not quite sure if the combination of the lush music, potent brandy and alluring scent of her jasmine perfume had rendered him momentarily mad. The face was unmistakably his, though he wasn't quite ready to vouch for what lay beneath the chin. She had depicted him lounging nude—save for a small bit of sheet draped strategically across his thighs—upon the tousled coverlet of a large bed.

The duke finally managed a sotto voce whisper, each word like the taut thrum of a violin string. "Whether it be music or painting, art can arouse the imagination and stimulate the senses in some of us, can it not, Miss Greeley?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could utter a sound, he pulled her close and brought his lips down hard upon hers.

There was nothing particularly artful about his embrace, realized Prestwick with the small portion of his brain that was still functioning with any semblance of rational thought. Engulfed in a wave of primal need, he surged forward, his hands eagerly caressing the soft curves of her body through the fabric of her nightclothes, his mouth drinking deeply of her liquid heat. With a low groan, he ran his tongue over her swollen lips, then, as if pulled by some irresistible vortex, plunged to a more intimate touch, spiraling his kisses deeper and deeper.

Madness, indeed.
He had never felt so utterly powerless. And at the same time so utterly alive. The roaring in his ears—something akin to the crashing waves of an ocean storm—seemed to be telling him that a well-bred gentleman would never allow desire to drown out propriety, but he was beyond listening, beyond caring for all the rules and strictures that had cloaked his existence.

All that mattered was her unfettered response. To his elation, he felt her arms steal around his shoulders, her fingers twine in his hair, and her mouth meet his with the same hot urgency that was setting his sanity on fire.

"Zara," he whispered hoarsely, trailing a string of torrid kisses from the corner of her mouth to the base of her throat.

"Deverill." Her smoky murmur of his given name fanned the flames of his desire to a hotter intensity.

"Say it again," he urged, framing her face with his hands.

"Dev—"

Prestwick cut her off with another passionate kiss, the force of which swept them both from the bench to the swirling patterns of the oriental carpet. Feeling as though he had once again fallen into a raging sea, he clung to her, afraid that if he lost his grip, he would sink into a cold, black darkness. His hands parted her wrapper and groped beneath the thin lawn cotton of her nightrail for her comforting warmth.

Zara cried out as his fingers grazed the naked swell of her bosom, but she didn't pull away. Reaching up, she pulled his head down to her chest and began to stroke his hair.

The duke groaned at the exquisite heat that her touch sent sizzling through every nerve...

It was the sudden loud chiming of the tall case clock that struck home the madness of the moment and recalled them to their senses.

Her fingers pulled away from the tangle of his locks as if singed by hot coals. "Good Lord, Is it really midnight? I—I must go."

"Yes. Of course." He rolled awkwardly to one side, allowing her to sit up and begin a hurried fumbling at her disheveled clothing. "I—I am dreadfully sorry. I don't know what came over me to—"

"Please. Don't apologize," she said with some vehemence as, abandoning her battle with the tiny shell buttons of her nightrail, she struggled to her feet. "Perhaps the high sticklers are right about art being dangerous." She jerked the wrapper back over her half -bared breasts. "Perhaps young ladies should not be permitted to view Lord Elgin's marbles, or dance the waltz, or listen to... seductive music."

"Bach is usually considered quite safe for virgin ears," he murmured, then instantly regretted the clumsy attempt at humor as he saw her flinch.

"No doubt," she replied. "But as you are acquainted with my family's eccentric travels and my unorthodox education, you know I am not part of your primly proper circle of friends." A bitter edge had roughened her voice. "And obviously, you don't believe I am an innocent."

"Zara." He grabbed hold of her wrist to prevent her from fleeing. "That is not true! I—" Suddenly desperate to keep from her from thinking he was no different than the sweaty sailors and drunken merchants who had pawed over her, he tried to express the strange welter of his emotions. "I—I admire... Your art... "

Why did his tongue fumble and stumble, hitting all the wrong notes, he wondered in inward frustration, while his fingers flowed so effortlessly over the piano keys?