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

“Oh, aye. You are well deserving of being called the Distinguished Duke, what with being the very pinnacle of sartorial splendor in all your fancy finery. Imported silks, costly cashmeres, linens light as a whisper, leather soft as butter—you wrap yourself in naught but the best that money can buy. Yet I can’t help thinking at times that you are hiding behind the elegant tailoring. ”

Had he been hit with one of Gentleman’s Jackson’s punishing right uppercuts, Prestwick could not have felt more stunned.

Struggling to maintain his composure, even though his knees were feeling a trifle rubbery, he drew himself up to his full height. Yet despite an attempt at voicing a lordly sneer, his words came out as barely more than a whisper. “So, like my father, you too think me a coward?”

“Oh, not in any way that you mean. Just that mayhap you tend to keep your feelings too much under wraps. As if you was afraid to show your real self.”

“What utter fustian!” It was absolute nonsense, he added to himself. As if he were uncomfortable in his own skin! After a moment, he mastered his sputtering indignation enough to go on without an audible snapping of his teeth. “You are entirely mistaken if you think?—”

“Avast there! Are the two of you going to spend all day lollygagging about in idle conversation when there is work to be done?” A mop of carroty curls appeared, just visible above the tops of the waving grasses, followed by a set of hazel eyes whose steely squint fixed the duke and his valet with a slightly accusatory look.

“You had better get moving. Nonny has already snared two fat hares, and while I have brought Zara one load of firewood, we are going to need a good deal more to make a proper meal of it.”

Although not entirely upset at the interruption, Prestwick still slanted the young lad a glowering look as he shuffled by. It was bad enough being badgered by a headstrong hellion. He was damned if he was going to start taking orders from a sprat who looked to be barely out of leading strings!

In his experience, children did not speak to their elders unless spoken to—and certainly not in such disrespectful terms. However, dignity prevented him from answering with any more than a muttered “ Hmmph .”

As his back was turned, he could not quite tell whether the sound coming from Stump was a chuckle. Too irritated for words, he contented himself with taking a number of measured kicks at the loose stones in his path.

By the time he had trudged back to the small encampment, he was nursing some very sore toes to go along with his bruised feelings.

Good Lord.

Zara raised her eyes from the fire just long enough to catch a glimpse of the smoldering scowl on the gentleman’s face.

By the looks of it, he was hotter than the bits of kindling she had been coaxing into flame.

Without a word, he dumped the load of gnarled driftwood by her side and stomped off to take a seat upon one of the rocks jutting up from the sand.

And the ungrateful wretch had the audacity to criticize her manners!

She frowned as she snapped a branch in two and fed it into the now crackling blaze.

Though clearly a gentleman of rank, he was behaving like a beastly boor.

Indeed, as he wrestled off what had no doubt been a very expensive boot and began to inspect a rent in his stocking, she could swear that he uttered a word that should not have been said in front of any female, lady or not.

It was, of course, no surprise. Her recent experiences had only confirmed her opinion that privileged peers were naught but a bunch of worthless wastrels.

And this specimen, whom she had had the misfortune to fish out of the deep, looked to be particularly odious.

Vain, arrogant, selfish, spoiled—the dratted fellow could not even lower himself to gathering up a few twigs without kicking up a frightful dust, despite all she had done for him.

Like saving his elegant neck.

Giving a slight turn to the makeshift spit, Zara slanted another quick glance at him.

The rumpled garments might be still slightly damp and the ruined footwear squishy but there was no denying that he oozed Quality from every refined pore.

It was not that he was an overly imposing figure.

His shoulders, though broad, lacked a muscled bulk, his chest was lean, and his face a shade delicate to be considered a paragon of masculine perfection.

Yet there was a certain lithe grace to his movements—despite the pained hobble—that gave him an unmistakable presence.

She found herself studying the downcast features a tad longer than she intended.

His nose was a pinch too long, the mouth a touch too arrogant for her taste.

But try as she might, it was difficult to find fault with his eyes.

They hinted at a surprising depth of character, given the shallowness that she expected.

And the color was an unusual shade of blue—a rich aquamarine swirled with sea green highlights.

She would have to remember the exact nuance of hue when she had a moment for her paintbrushes and pigment?—

“ Ouch! ”

Her lip curled at the sound of the stifled yelp. It served him right, she thought, forcing away any more musings of a positive note on the odious man. Indeed, as she gave a small jab to the roasting meat, she found herself hoping his pampered flesh had been rubbed raw!

“Here you go, ma’am.” The gentleman’s grizzled companion let the small gathering of sticks tucked beneath his arm slip to the ground. “Ain’t awful handy at this sort of chore, but it may help keep the coals going a tad longer.”

Zara smiled. “I thank you for your effort, Mr. …”

“Oh, forget adding any mister to my moniker.” He gave a leathery grin.

“Everyone calls me Stump. I have become so used to it I probably wouldn’t recognize me own proper name.

” His words trailed off in an appreciative sniff.

“Looks as though you managed to get a right nice meal going here, despite the tad of trouble we had earlier, Miss …”

A “tad of trouble” might be a slight understatement, she sighed, seeing as the loss of the sailboat had sunk the only hope of refilling her near empty purse. Still, as he could not know into what dire straits she had been plunged, she tried to match his own undampened spirits.

“Greeley,” she replied, with rather more cheer than she felt at the moment. “I am Zara Greeley. And these are my brothers.”

The two lads had just rounded the sheltering ledge of rock, Perry manfully balancing a stack of wood that reached past the tip of his chin while Nonny was carrying a tangle of twine and another freshly skinned rabbit.

Stump gave them a friendly nod. “And mighty resourceful fellows they look to be.”

“Oh, aye, we are used to doing a bit of foraging. And a good thing it is that some of us don’t mind working for our breakfast,” said the younger of the two, shooting a dark look at the duke as he staggered under the weight of his load “Otherwise we would all be going hungry.”

Though Zara gave an inward chuckle at the pointed jibe, aloud she voiced a gentle rebuke.

“That is hardly the proper way for a young man to address his elders.” Stump’s haughty companion might display the manners of an ill-bred mule but she would not give either of them reason to think her own family had been raised in a barn.

Perry ducked his head in contrition. “Sorry, Zara.”

“Your words should be directed to Mr … er, Stump.”

She was gratified to see her brother manage to murmur a handsome apology, which the valet acknowledged with a broad wink. “I can’t say I blame the nipper. I always feel a bit peckish on an empty stomach.”

The mention of food drew a look of longing from Perry. “Hasn’t that rabbit been roasting for an age? Any longer and it might turn to shoe leather.”

“It has been no more than ten minutes,” smiled Zara, noting that the peevish peer gave a pained wince at the mention of footwear.

She added a last basting of seawater, then pricked at the trussed haunch with the tip of her knife.

“By the time you finish stacking that wood in a neat pile, it will be ready.”

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, the lad fell to the task.

As she began slicing off chunks of the fragrant meat, she saw the gentleman finally raise his eyes from the perusal of his boot. The breeze had shifted, and his nostrils gave an involuntary twitch.

It did smell mouthwatering. She had managed to forage a bit of wild thyme, and used with a judicious splash of brine, the combination had added a piquant spice to the wild game.

Threading the juicy morsels onto the wooden skewers she had carved, she handed them out, one by one—first to Perry, then to Nonny, then to Stump.

After an exaggerated pause, she offered a share to the duke.

He drew back, a puckered frown on his lips. “Have you no plate or proper utensils? I have no intention of gnawing my food from a deuced stick!”

“Suit yourself,” she mumbled while taking a large bite.

Perry stopped chewing long enough to make a face. “I guess he is used to being served with the family silver, fine china, and cut crystal.”

Prestwick bit at his lip.

Rapping his knife sharply against a stone, Nonny mimed the ringing of a bell. “I say, have the footmen bring in the next course. And decant another bottle of that fine claret.”

The other Greeleys dissolved into laughter at the uncanny imitation of the duke’s clipped tones.

Even Stump allowed a small smile, though he swallowed it quickly, along with the last of his rabbit. “A most delectable repast, Miss Greeley,” he remarked, seeking to deflect any further teasing of the duke. “How did you come by such finely honed culinary skills?”