Page 29 of A Stroke of Luck (Intrepid Heroines #4)

“Don’t worry about Harold. Probably did him some good to get a bit of vigorous exercise.” Stump’s face appeared next to the lad’s, an expression of mirth stretched upon his leathery features. “Ain’t never seen him move with such speed and agility.”

Prestwick chuckled. “I doubt Harold will ever be mistaken for a true Corinthian.”

“Really, sir, the two of you should not be encouraging Perry to make mischief.” Zara tried to ignore how boyishly handsome the duke looked with his wind-tousled hair and eyes alight with laughter. “It is …”

He clasped his hands behind his back and waited for her to finish.

“It is …”

“If you wish to ring a peal over someone’s head, by all rights it ought to be mine,” said Stump. “I showed Master Perry the pool in the gardens.”

“But it was I who brought up the subject of frogs.” Prestwick looked to be trying to maintain a straight face. “A pity I did not think to mention snakes. That might have been a more appropriate parting gift.”

“Can you imagine how fast your cousin would have slithered out of here,” laughed Stump. “He might have been halfway to London by now.”

“And good riddance,” replied the duke. “However, if Miss Greeley feels a punishment is in order, I shall have the two of us write out in our copybooks ‘I shall not indulge in boyish pranks’ one thousand times. In Greek.”

She schooled her voice to remain stern. “I cannot imagine you indulging in many boyish pranks, Your Grace.”

“Not many,” admitted Stump as he came down the stairs.

“He was wont to spend more time in the library with his books and music than mucking about in the mud. But I do seem to recall an incident where india ink was added to a pot of gunpowder tea and your Aunt Griselda and her card party sported black teeth for a week.”

“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 looking glass 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 the 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.” One last twitch to the recalcitrant cravat finally achieved some semblance of neatness, then 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 was wearing only a wrapper over her 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 such 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 sketch book 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.”