Page 22 of A Stroke of Luck (Intrepid Heroines #4)

“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 more chiaroscuro technique 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.”

“Yes. Delighted,” murmured the duke, though to Zara’s eye, the expression on his face did not mirror his words.

“It will only be a small gathering, but I daresay we shall contrive to have a pleasant evening.” She slanted a sideways look at Zara and arched her brow just a touch. “Lady Farrington and your cousin have been included, too …”

The subtle gesture seemed to recall Prestwick to his manners. “Er, forgive me, Lady Catherine. Allow me to introduce Miss Zara Greeley.” After a slight cough, he added, “Miss Greeley, this is Lady Catherine Ellesmore.”

“Charmed.” The young lady gave a graceful little dip of her head, then looked back at the duke with a questioning smile.

“Miss Greeley and her younger brothers are, er, relations of Aunt Hermione?—”

“Distant relations,” muttered Zara.

“Lady Farrington did not mention in her letter that there were other guests here at Highwood Manor,” said Lady Catherine.

“It was a rather last minute decision,” explained the duke. “Plans were, so to speak, up in the air until quite recently.”

“But now that you are here, you must, of course, all come tomorrow as well,” exclaimed the young lady. “At a country gathering, the more the merrier, especially when they are new faces.”

Taken aback by the unexpected invitation, Zara could only stammer, ”Oh no, we could not possibly … my brothers are not of age.”

The dimples reappeared. “Ah, but that is no reason for you to forgo our little party, Miss Greeley. Please, do say you will come.”

“Well …” Zara was of the opinion that she would rather eat nails than dine with a bunch of the beau monde, but short of being unconscionably rude, there was no way to wriggle out of the invitation.

Apparently the duke was of the same mind. “Miss Greeley would be delighted to join us,” he answered for her.

“Yes, delighted,” she echoed hollowly, sorely tempted to respond to the little nudge he had given to her foot by stamping down on his boot.

“Wonderful!” Lady Catherine beamed at her. “As I warned His Grace, it will be just a small, informal party of friends, nothing like the sort of elegant soirees one is used to in Town.”

Thinking of her stint as a cook in the tavern in Falmouth, and the time she chalked penny portraits in an outdoor cafe in Genoa, brought a grim crook to Zara’s lips. “I assure you, what I am used to is?—”

“A quiet country life,” finished Prestwick smoothly. “Miss Greeley has not had the opportunity to visit London.”

“Where in the country did you grow up, Miss Greeley?” inquired Lady Catherine politely.

“Countries,” corrected Zara, adroitly sidestepping the poke of the duke’s toe. “Italy, Switzerland and Greece for the most part, though I have traveled through a great many others.”

“How fascinating!” The young lady clapped her hands together. “You must tell us all about your adventures on the morrow.”

“God forbid,” said the duke under his breath.

“What was that, Prestwick?”

“I said, no doubt Godfrey is frothing at the bit to be off. Er, you know how he hates to keep that high-priced sorrel hunter of his standing for too long, lest its hock take a chill.”

“Oh, yes. And I did promise him I would only be a moment.” She hesitated for just a fraction as her gaze suddenly focused on a spot slightly below his chin. “Good Heavens, Prestwick!”

The duke’s fingers flew to his throat.

“Your cravat—” Lady Catherine’s laugh was light as she stared at the tangled tails. “Why, I don’t believe I have ever seen your cravat in anything less than a state of flawless perfection.”

“The breeze out here is a trifle unpredictable. Come, allow me to see you to the door.” Offering his arm to the marquess’s daughter, the duke nodded stiffly in Zara’s direction. “You will excuse me, Miss Greeley?”

Lady Catherine’s demeanor was considerably warmer. “I do look forward to furthering our acquaintance on the morrow,” she said with a charming little tilt of her head.

At least, thought Zara, most gentlemen would have viewed it as charming.

She found herself wishing to trowel a bit of wet plaster into the perfectly formed indentations centered on the young lady’s cheeks.

“How kind of you to say so,” she answered, hoping the grinding of her teeth was not too evident.

Without further comment, the couple disappeared inside.

Somehow, the roses suddenly looked leached of color and the light had lost a good deal of its shine.

In no mood to continue working, Zara turned to gather up her things.

Mentally running through a litany of oaths that no proper young lady should have knowledge of, she began jamming the pastels back into their case, heedless of keeping the palette in order.

To her consternation she saw her hands were trembling, which only exacerbated her darkening mood, though the reason was as ill defined as a smudge of charcoal.

Upstairs, she closed the door to her room with a none too gentle kick and threw both her supplies and herself down upon the bed.

She would not waste any more time thinking about the dreadful duke, she vowed.

Or of how the slanting rays of the sun had turned his softly waving locks into a halo of gold, giving his finely wrought features the ethereal glow of a Botticelli painting.

Or of how the curve of his lips had the same lush sensuality as the full-bloom rose she had been sketching.

Screwing her eyes firmly shut, she determined to blot such disquieting images from her mind with a good long nap.

The strain of the last several weeks was undoubtedly catching up with her.

It was fatigue and worry—along with the rich cooking of the French chef—that was causing such queer lurchings of her usual steady reason.

But after a few moments, her fingers crept to the sketchbook and thumbed to a fresh page.

Almost of its own accord, her pencil traced over the grained surface, drawing in line and shadow that slowly took an all too familiar form.

Zara sucked in her breath as she stared down at the drawing.

She had made his mouth not merely sensual but sinful.

Sinful.

The pencil went a bit slack in her grasp.

Perhaps the word better described her own wicked thoughts.

How could she possibly be feeling such a strong attraction to a man who was quite likely trying to cheat her brother out of his rightful place in the world?

Was she really so naive? Surely she had come far enough along in the world not to be tripped up at this point by pretty sentiments and a handsome face.

Steeling her heart, Zara snapped the book shut. It was all very well to fantasize over a Prestwick on paper. However, it would dangerous in the extreme to forget that in the flesh, the duke was naught but the enemy.

And, judging by the trilling shivers running down her spine, a very dangerous one at that.