A Stroke of Luck (24 page)

She seized on his disjointed stuttering with a desperation of her own. "I admire your artistic talents as well, sir. Let us leave it at that, and avoid any further... misunderstandings."

"I—" He drew in a ragged breath, not sure he understood his own feeling, and hating himself for it.

"Please," she pleaded, her voice betraying how perilously close to tears she was. "Somehow we were carried away by the power of... art. We won't allow it to happen again."

"You think it was art that stirred up such... feelings?"

"What else?" she stammered. "I have seen it before, where impressionable young people allowed themselves to be fooled by the magic of the moment into imagining all manner of silly, romantic notions." She pressed her eyes shut for an instant. "We both should be experienced enough to know better. So please, let us forget this unfortunate lapse of judgment."

He let his fingers fell away from her flesh.

Grabbing up her sketchbook from the bench, she fled into the darkness.

Chapter 13

How could she have been so dreadfully, dreadfully stupid!

Zara stared for a moment longer at the unfinished drawing of the stone cherub, then snapped her sketchbook shut, suddenly unable to muster the least bit of interest in art. Setting aside her pencil, she pressed her palms to her cheeks, angry at how the recollection of what had occurred several nights ago still brought a rush of heat to her face.

Hell's Bells.
Had she really said such inane things about art and its power to inspire passion and... romance? She must have sounded worse than a giddy schoolroom chit, gushing on in such an idiotic manner, she thought, mortification screwing her mouth into a pained grimace. At least the duke had been tactful enough on the few occasions that their paths had crossed to avoid all mention of the embarrassing interlude. She had no illusions that he had forgotten her outrageous behavior, but it appeared that he was willing to abide by her request and pretend...

"Zara!"

Perry's shout was not an unwelcome interruption, given the rather depressing tenor of her musings.

"I thought I might find you back here." Her brother skidded to a halt on the damp grass. "Nonny wishes to test his design of a new fishing lure, so we are going to walk down to the river. Won't you come with us? Monsieur Henri has packed a picnic, including a large wedge of his special apple tart, so we need not hurry back for nuncheon."

"I don't know," she said uncertainly.

Disappointment clouded his face. "What's wrong? We have hardly seen you these past few days."

"N-nothing is wrong," she mumbled, realizing with a guilty start that she had indeed withdrawn into her own little world and become rather distant from her family. "I have been busy, that is all."

"Oh." Perry looked from her pencils to her sketchbook. "I know you have not had a great deal of time for your drawing, what with all the distractions of late."

She repressed a wince. That was putting it mildly.

"But you have always enjoyed our fishing expeditions," he went on. "And there are lots of interesting things to draw along the water's edge," he offered. "Willows. Swans. The Abbey ruins." He gave an impish grin. "Frogs."

Zara laughed in spite of herself. Perhaps her brother was right and a change of scenery would be just the thing to lift her spirits out of the doldrums. Besides, she didn't have the heart to dampen his enthusiasm for the outing. "How could I pass up the chance to immortalize our stalwart hero on paper," she said dryly as she began to gather up her things. "Very well. I'll come."

"Hooray! I shall tell Prestwick to bring an extra fishing pole."

"Prestwick?" To her consternation, the pencils slipped through her fingers and scattered across the terraced stones.

"Why, yes. Actually it was his idea in the first place." Perry eyed her strangely as he stooped to help her pick them up. "Are you sure you are all right? You have the same sort of white-gilled look as when you ate poached camel brains in Cairo, and then were up half the night casting up your accounts."

Drat the duke!
Her stomach did feel a bit queasy, but not on account of any four-footed dromedary. However, she didn't have the heart to disappoint her brother by crying off from the excursion. Nor, for that matter, did she wish to think of herself as too lily-livered to spend an afternoon in the duke's presence, no matter what he thought of her morals.

"Well, the
omelet au fromage
I had this morning was quite agreeable, so there is no cause for concern," she said tartly. "And don't let Monsieur Henri hear you imply that his cuisine might be cause for internal distress. He might cut off your tongue with his cleaver."

Perry sucked in his cheeks. "Or worse, cut off our supply of fresh croissants for breakfast! Prestwick would not thank me for that."

There was a faint snap. "Since when have you taken the liberty of calling the duke by name?" she demanded as she jammed the broken pencil in her pocket.

Her brother colored slightly. "He said that I might, seeing as he is almost part of the family—"

"He is not family!" Zara caught herself on seeing his wounded expression and forced a more moderate tone. "It's just that we have learned through bitter experience that the three of us are on our own, and the only ones we can truly depend on are each other."

"But, Zara! Surely we can trust Prestwick. I mean, the King of Spades has long since proved his mettle."

She didn't answer directly. "The subject is great deal more complicated than mere mettle."

His lower lip took on a defiant jut. "Then start talking. For if you mean to try and fob me off by saying I am too young to understand, it won't fadge! I—"

"Perrrrrrseus!" Nonny's impatient call drowned out the low gurgling of the nearby fountain. "Come, let's be off!"

"This is not the time or place to continue the discussion," she said quickly, hoping the relief was not too apparent on her face.

"Very well." Perry kicked at a clump of grass. "We shall put it off until later. But like the trout we mean to bring back for Monsieur Henri, I don't intend to let you wriggle off the hook."

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 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 a serpent 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 lithe 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 look in the mirror 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 last few days, he had taken pains to avoid her company.

A 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 craned his 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 is 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 is a new sketchbook," she said pointedly. "The rest of the pages are blank."