"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 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 her 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 know, 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.
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.
Chapter 10
Bloody hell.
Twitching at the tails of his cravat, Prestwick watched the two riders trot off down the drive, sorely tempted to set off on a journey of his own.
Preferably to Athens. Or perhaps Constantinople.
But no matter how far he traveled, thought the duke with a baleful grimace, he doubted he would be able to find any escape from the storm of emotions that the exasperating Miss Greeley had stirred up inside him.
Further tugging at the rumpled folds only knocked them more hopelessly askew. Abandoning the effort—as well as his fumblings to put some order to his own inner disarray—he turned on his heel and stalked toward the stable. A rousing gallop would wreak even more damage to his wardrobe, seeing as he was not dressed for riding, but the slap of the wind might help knock him back to his proper senses.
Head down, still mentally chastising himself for being a damnable fool, Prestwick collided with someone else who was moving at the same agitated pace—but in the opposite direction.
"S-sorry, sir." Nonny picked himself up and ducked to brush at the bits of mud and chaff clinging to his trousers. The downturned face did not fully hide the quivering of the lad's mouth or his distraught expression.
Quickly forgetting his own worries, Prestwick frowned in concern. "Here now, what is the trouble?"
The answer came floating out from the stalls as a jeering bray.
"Good Lord, what sort of gentleman has never ridden a stallion?" mocked Harold. "But don't worry, I shall send Givens to purchase a donkey, seeing as that is the only beast you know how to handle."
"Harold is naught but a horse's ass, lad," murmured the duke. "Pay him no heed."
"But he is right, sir." Nonny's voice betrayed a taut embarrassment. "And your cousin was not the only one to laugh on hearing that my only riding experience is traversing the rocky trails of Mount Parnassus astride the bare back of a donkey."
The duke clenched his teeth on realizing that his cousin had taken great pains to humiliate the lad in front of Lady Catherine and her escort.
"I have no notion of how to go on as an English gentleman." Nonny jammed his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "I wish we had never set sail from the Aegean Sea. I—I feel more like an ignorant foreigner here than I ever did in Greece."
"Being a true gentleman has naught to do with the cut of your coat or the skill with which you handle the reins. Those things can be easily learned, but not so such qualities as courage, loyalty and honesty."
The lad scuffed his boot against the rough stone floor. "But how will I ever hope to fit in, when I can't mingle in Society without making a cake of myself?"
"We can start by having Givens saddle the bay gelding. After a few pointers from me and several turns of the paddock, I daresay you will pick up the hang of it in a trice."
"You mean to take the time to teach me to ride?" Nonny looked at him with near reverence. "But I heard the grooms saying how you are one of the most bruising horsemen in all of London."
"I have taken my share of tumbles, and so shall you." The duke put a hand on the lad's shoulder and turned him around. "Come along."
* * *
A shaft of light cut across her cheeks, rousing her from a fitful doze. Rubbing a fist across her eyes, Zara sat up, though the bit of sleep had brought little refreshment to either body or spirit. However, the prospect of remaining abed, staring at the patterned wallpaper with only herself for company, was enough to make her throw off the coverlet and make for the door. She had heard her brothers mention something about the stables, so perhaps she might find them among the bins of oats and bales of hay.
Why, even were she to find naught but the horses, it was preferable to being alone.
As she crossed the graveled walk, she found herself wondering whether the duke might look at her differently if she were to wear a riding habit made to her own measurements, its shape fitting her every curve, its color complementing the exact shade of her eyes, its gossamer soft wool swishing round her legs with an ethereal lightness.
Then, picturing the paragon of perfection swathed in emerald green, Zara dismissed the idea with an inward snort.
And pigs might fly!
Not even the most skilled of seamstresses could make a silk purse out of a sow's ear! Her ungainly height, suntanned skin and unruly tresses would never allow her to resemble a demure London miss. And even if she managed, by some small miracle, to masquerade as a fine lady, the cat—so to speak—would be out of the bag as soon as she opened her mouth. Expensive fabric and clever stitching might cover a number of flaws, but they would be of little use in keeping under wraps a headstrong nature and barbed tongue.
Unless, of course, the needle were used to sew a gag over her lips.
With a wry smile, she lifted the gate latch. It was well that she could laugh at her own faults, for they were legion, and the alternative was much too depressing...
A hoot of laughter brought her chin up. To one side of the main stable, she spied Perry perched on the top rail of the paddock fence. From her angle, it was impossible to see what had elicited such mirth, but after a step sideways she caught sight of her other sibling just as he hit headfirst into the soft earth, his nose only inches away from the massive hooves of a big bay horse.
Instinct caused her to cry out in alarm.
"There is no need for worry, Miss Greeley. Memphis possesses a placid temperament and your brother possesses a hard skull." Prestwick shifted the leading rein from one hand to another. His coat hung on one of the nearby posts and he had rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, revealing lithe forearms, the muscles smooth beneath a light dusting of golden hair. "He will come to no harm."
Realizing her mouth was still half agape, Zara snapped it shut and wrenched her gaze away from the intriguing sight of his bare flesh.
Nonny's boot was already back in the stirrup. "I nearly made a full circuit that time around, sir!"
"Aye, you are doing quite well, lad," nodded the duke. "This time, remember to keep your heels angled down and your weight more centered over your knees."
"Yes, sir!" Unmindful of the liberal amount of mud now adhering to his person, Nonny gathered up the reins with unbridled enthusiasm.
"Soften your hands," reminded Prestwick. "A good horseman does not jerk at his mount's mouth. The commands come more from the pressure of your thighs." With a flick of the long line, he set the gelding into a steady trot.
Zara watched in some surprise as Nonny rose smoothly up and down from the saddle in rhythm with the horse's gait.
"Excellent!" Prestwick's expression broadened into a smile that set her pulse to galloping. "Another lesson or two and we shall be able to take a ride through the south meadows."
"And me, sir?" piped up Perr
y. "You did say I might have a lesson, too."
"So you shall, imp. Tomorrow, after breakfast we shall begin to put you through your paces. I don't doubt that the two of you will soon be racing neck and leather over the heath."
Both lads grinned from ear to ear.
Repressing a strange little lurch of her insides, Zara leaned up against the fence. Once again the duke had thrown her off stride. Why, it actually appeared as if he liked her brothers, though his own family ties should dictate the opposite. A moment ago, she had been on the verge of snapping out an ugly accusation concerning his motives, but after watching his face as he worked with Nonny and Perry, it was impossible to question his intentions.
His words, too, had a genuine warmth to them. "They are nice lads, with more pluck and intelligence than most grown men," he murmured as he stepped back to join her at the rail. "You should be quite proud of them."
"Oh, I am," she answered. Then, for some odd reason, she found herself blurting out an impetuous admission. "Though I cannot say the same for myself, sir. My behavior of late has been far from laudable. I acted very churlishly earlier this afternoon. And just now, I—I stood ready to think you capable of plotting to harm Nonny."
She rather expected a gruff rebuff, but instead he remained silent, his brows drawing together in a pensive tilt. With a tug of the rein, he brought the gelding to a halt. "That is enough for now, Nonny. Why don't you and Perry take Memphis in to the stable and have Givens show you how to give him a proper rub down. A gentleman should know how to care for his mount."
As soon as the lads had led the big bay from the paddock, Prestwick switched back to the more serious topic. "You can hardly be blamed for suspecting the worst, Miss Greeley. But I assure you that you have nothing to fear from me."
"No?" It came out halfway between a question and a statement.
"No," he said flatly. "And while it is obvious you don't like me at all, I wish that you might at least trust me."
A Stroke of Luck Page 12
