Page 35 of A Stroke of Luck (Intrepid Heroines #4)
She thought for a moment longer, then gathered up her paper and pastels and hurried from the room.
The idea for the drawing was already beginning to take shape in her head.
It would be a play on the allegorical compositions of the Renaissance masters, depicting the elements that had a significance in their short acquaintance.
Despite her low spirits, she couldn’t help but find her mouth curving upward.
Water. Whiskey. A sinking sailboat. A stump-fisted valet. Two raucous lads with fishing poles. And one dripping duke.
How she would fit in to the picture could be determined later.
“You sure look to have the wind in your sails,“ said Stump, hopping to one side just in time to avoid a head-on collision. “Anything amiss?”
Her face fell slightly at the sight of the packed bandbox under the valet’s arm, though she quickly assumed a brighter expression. “No, not at all. I—I just found the indoors feeling a bit confining this morning and thought I would take a stroll down to the river and do some sketching.”
Stump’s grizzled brows gave a tiny waggle. “A mite wet for such an excursion.”
Zara fumbled with the hood of her cloak.
The valet might be short a hand, but she had the unsettling feeling that his gaze missed very little.
Forcing a cheerfulness that she hoped didn’t sound too brittle, she replied, “As you know, a little water never dampens my plans. And it looks to be clearing.”
“Well then, have a pleasant afternoon.” He shifted his burden. “I will likely be spending the time packin’ up the duke’s things.”
“Oh. The two of you are going somewhere?” she asked with feigned surprise.
“Aye. Returning to London.”
“Well, no doubt you will both be happy to return to your own home,” she murmured, hoping that the folds of her hood hid at least a part of her face from his probing look. “With no more disruptions to your peace and quiet.”
A cryptic smile creased his leathery face. “Never hurts to have things shaken up from time to time.” With a nod of his head, he made to pass. “Good day to you, Miss Greeley.”
The sun had indeed started to break through the clouds by the time Zara reached the river’s edge.
The sound of the gurgling water and the shifting patterns of light upon the rippling surface provided ample background for inspiration.
It wasn’t long before her pastels were flowing in fluid strokes over the paper, all unhappy thoughts forgotten for the moment as a current of creativity swept her along in its hold.
Page after page was filled with details of the drooping willows, the whorl of the eddies, the angular play of shadows on the rocks.
Mixed in with the renderings of what she observed were sketches from memory—the mischievous cant of Perry’s grin, the beaked curl of Stump’s nose, the soft waves of the duke’s locks as he bent over his spade.
Zara had to bite her lip to keep from sighing aloud as she stared down at what she had drawn.
Soon—all too soon—Prestwick would be naught in her life but a few strokes of light and dark upon the textured page.
But at least the turning of the vignettes into a finished oil painting would keep her occupied for some months to come, even if it meant that his face would haunt her dreams for far, far longer.
Still, after so long a time the prospect of stretching canvas, of breathing in the pungent scent of gesso, turpentine and linseed oil, of mixing vibrant pigment upon her palette was something to look forward to.
Standing before the easel, it was not important whether she was too awkward, too unpolished and too prone to speaking her mind to blend in with the decorous young ladies and elegant gentlemen of the ton.
She could take some measure of solace in her own talents, no matter they were hardly designed to win the regard of so lofty a peer as Prestwick.
“With that gaping mouth, pudgy gills and glassy eye, your trout appears to be the spitting image of Aunt Hermione,” said a voice from behind her.
Zara nearly slipped from her seat on the mossy log.
“And given your skills, I imagine the resemblance is no coincidence,” chuckled the duke as he leaned in for a closer look. “Dare I hope you will draw a frog with Harold’s features?”
“I shall try to refrain from being that mean-spirited, though the thought is tempting,” she answered, quickly recovering her equilibrium. She was, however, not quite quick enough to prevent him from reaching down and leafing back through several of the other drawings.
“Mementos of the last few months?” There was a slight hesitation. “I should think there are a number of things that you prefer to forget.”
Eyes averted, Zara didn’t reply.
Prestwick took the sketchbook from her unresisting fingers and continued to peruse the studies she had made.
“Do I really wear such a pained scowl?” He looked up from the one depicting him as the King of Spades, his mouth scrunched in unconscious imitation of the expression on the page.
“No wonder you have been taking great pains to avoid my company.”
“You had ample reason to be annoyed. Since the Greeleys sailed into your life, your orderly existence—not to speak of your costly wardrobe—has been cut to flinders by two rambunctious lads and a … headstrong hellion.” Not trusting herself to meet his gaze, she went on with what she hoped was a steady tone.
“I assumed you would welcome a bit of peace and quiet. Especially as you must have a great deal to attend to before taking your leave for London.”
He closed the covers of the book and sat down beside her. “Well, there is really no need for me to stay at Highwood any longer. Most of the important matters have been settled.”
The touch of his thigh against hers stirred such a welling of sadness that she could only manage a mute nod.
“Now that Nonny has been recognized as Uncle Aubrey’s heir, your days of empty purses and harrowing wanderings have come to an end.”
His words, though meant as a reassurance, were a stark reminder that she might never see him again.
“You may put all your fears and uncertainties behind you.”
“Yes. Of course.” To her dismay, the attempt at speech dissolved in a watery sob.
That his arm was suddenly around her shoulders, enfolding her in folds of soft cashmere and the earthy scent of bay rum, only made matters worse.
“I-It must be the wind blowing up from the river that is stinging my eyes, for I never turn into a watering pot,” she muttered roughly, the words directed more at herself than at Prestwick.
“Why, I have braved leering innkeepers, lecherous peers and ocean squalls without so much as a sniff?—”
A squeeze cut off further words. “Indeed. You are quite the most courageous young lady I have ever met. As well as being bold, clever, and intrepid.”
They were not exactly the romantic adjectives Zara longed to hear from his lips, and they drew another burbled sigh.
Embarrassed by her show of girlish emotion, she swiped at the trickle of tears, leaving a smudge of cobalt blue on her cheek.
“I am not fishing for sympathy,” she replied, struggling to pull away from his hold. “Or pity.”
“No. Unlike most young ladies, you are not one to cast your lures at a gentleman.”
There was an odd huskiness to his voice that, in spite of her resolve to avoid his gaze, caused her head to jerk up.
Neither Da Vinci nor Michelangelo nor Botticelli could have matched the nuanced shades of green that swirled in her eyes, thought Prestwick.
A painting, however masterfully rendered, could never begin to capture the vibrant spirit of the flesh-and-blood Miss Greeley.
He had a feeling that he could look at her face for a lifetime and never cease to be amazed by the infinite range of emotions that play over her features from one instant to the next.
At the moment, however, he wished her expression might be a bit less difficult to interpret.
The purse of her lips, the tilt of her chin—was she angry at his intruding yet again upon her work?
Or was it some other sentiment that had brought such a veiled glitter to her gaze?
She did not wish for sympathy or pity, but might she welcome an expression of another sort?
Her mouth gave a little quirk. “Unlike Nonny’s spinning bit of brass, I have precious little sparkle and flash, sir. I?—”
“Deverill,” he reminded her softly. “I trust you have not forgotten that we agreed to be friends.”
“D—Deverill.” His name seemed to catch in her throat for an instant before she managed to go on.
“I am under no allusion that my charms, such as they are, might be in the least tempting.” A note of amused irony crept into her voice.
“Indeed, at the first taste of my temper, I have no doubt that a gentleman of refined sensibilities would quickly spit out any thoughts of further acquaintance.”
“Perhaps, like such rare and unusual flavors as truffles or caviar, you are an acquired taste.”
To his delight, she laughed, though the sound of it was hardly louder than the lapping of the shallow water against the smooth stones. “I doubt that even Monsieur Henri’s culinary genius could make me palatable.”
The duke allowed a fleeting chuckle before leaning in to capture the tip of her chin between his thumb and forefinger.
It had taken on an uncharacteristic droop, despite her show of bravado, and he lifted it so that he might catch a glimpse of her eyes beneath the lowered lashes.
“You bring a certain piquant spice to the table, Zara. Rather like McTavish’s Bruichladdich. ”
“You see what I mean—other young ladies inspire poetry comparing them to the moon or the stars, while I, on the other hand, bring to mind a slurry of crushed grain, fired by hunks of peat.” The quip was said lightly, yet he didn’t miss the shade of wistful longing.