A Stroke of Luck (20 page)

"Miss Greeley has visited Italy and Greece," chimed in Lady Catherine. "I have made her promise to tell us all about her adventures."

A slight shudder passed down Prestwick's spine. Nodding a quick greeting to the others, he jumped in to keep the conversation from veering off in a dangerous direction. "Miss Greeley is quite a student of Italian art." Painting and drawing certainly seemed a safe enough subject for drawing room conversation. He could only hope that the young lady would follow his lead.

"Then you must have found Rome and Florence absolutely fascinating," remarked the Viscount Abbingford, who had recently returned from a tour abroad.

"Fascinating," repeated Zara. The muted response was the first word she had uttered since passing through the front door.

Abbingford smiled. "There is a portrait by Da Vinci..."

Prestwick slowly let out his breath as a discussion began on the Renaissance masters, congratulating himself on having weathered the first rocky shoals without mishap. The angle of Zara's chin was not quite so acute as earlier, and when Abbingford finished with his opinion, she replied with considerably more enthusiasm than before. Her comments contained nothing more provocative than an interesting insight into the artist's technique, and the duke relaxed enough to take a sip of his champagne.

"And then, of course there is the sculpture of Michelangelo," added Abbingford, clearly enthused by the subject. "Such power and—"

A warning cough cut him off. "I doubt the ladies are familiar with his works," said Lord Haverton dryly. "They are, after all, perhaps a tad too powerful for female sensibilities."

The young man looked rather embarrassed. "Er, right—"

"Not at all," said Zara. "Indeed, I find them some of the more intriguing creations of the Quattrocento. Take, for instance, the statue of David. It embodies a masterful aura of masculine strength and determination."

"I, too, appreciate art. So I cannot help but wonder why Mama has forbidden me to look at the book of engravings on Michelangelo's work," began Miss Littleton in an uncertain voice.

"However," continued Zara before the young lady could venture any further questions. "It does have one flaw—it is not anatomically correct."

The marquess nearly choked on his sherry, while Haverton paled and Abbingford turned a vivid shade of crimson.

"The proportions are all wrong."

There was a moment of awkward silence as Lady Catherine and the other two young ladies looked on uncomprehendingly.

"I—I don't understand," said Miss Littleton, her mouth scrunched in a moue of confusion.

"I should hope not," sputtered the marquess.

"Artistic license, Miss Greeley," murmured the duke quickly, trying to ensure that she did not elaborate on her observation. "Uh, speaking of Florentine masters, Abbingford, did you have a chance to view the frescos of Masaccio at Brancaccio Chapel. He is recognized as the first artist to employ perspective in his paintings..."

To his relief, Zara let drop the subject of nude men.

After exchanging a few more general comments on foreign art, the talk turned to topics closer to home, and then the group slowly drifted apart to mingle with the other guests.

Seeing that Zara was left adrift in the middle of the room, Prestwick stepped forward and offered his arm. "Come with me. I should like to introduce you to Lord Barton and his sister," he said quietly. His gaze strayed to the far end of the room, where a rather tall gentleman with receding ginger hair and a stout lady clearly past the first bloom of youth were conversing before the blazing hearth.

"Why?" Her voice came out as a pinched whisper. "So that I may sink myself into further disgrace?"

"No. Because you may find them both interesting and—"

"Prestwick, I am sure Miss Greeley does not wish to hang on your sleeve the entire evening. Come greet your other friends while your cousin introduces his relative to the rest of the guests." Lady Catherine had suddenly appeared to take his other arm, and though her tone was light, there was no mistaking the implied rebuke.

With a graceful little flourish of her wrist, she caught Harold's eye and summoned him over. "Be an angel, and see that Miss Greeley is made known to everyone present."

Harold gave an unctuous grin. "It would be my pleasure, though I am sure the young lady has already accomplished that feat on her own."

The duke had little choice but to relinquish Zara to his cousin, despite the fact that the other man's veiled sarcasm boded no good. As she turned and moved away in stiff-gaited silence, he could only keep his fingers crossed that their rubbing together did not set off any further sparks.

Such a hope quickly went up in smoke.

"How very... odd." Lady Haverstock's voice, even more shrill than usual, caused several heads to turn.

Prestwick could almost see reddish highlights in Zara's hair grow more fiery, but she appeared to be keeping her temper in check.

"You traveled all that way alone?" persisted the dowager countess. "Without a proper chaperone?"

"Not alone. My two brothers were with me."

The answer seemed to mollify Lady Haverstock. That is, until Harold chose that moment to clear his throat and, with an air of innocence, add further explanation. "Yes, and the care of two children must have made the journey even more harrowing." Seeing he had the attention of the lady and her friends, he went on. "How you managed to avoid any number of compromising situations along the way is, I imagine, a tribute to your strong spirit."

One of the other matrons frowned and gave a shake of her turbaned head. "Highly irregular."

"Spirit in a gel?" Lady Haverstock regarded Zara through the lens of her lorgnette. "Not at all the thing. But I suppose that since you mean to reside with Hermione—"

"Oh, that has not been decided." While outwardly innocuous, there was no doubt that Harold's words could be interpreted as a questioning on the part of Zara's own family as to her reputation.

The dowager's squint became more pronounced.

"That arrangement is merely temporary," agreed Zara coolly. "Indeed, my brothers and I are quite capable of looking out for ourselves."

Such a bold statement caused another rustling of silk and round of murmurs.

Drat the chit! The duke's lips thinned. Why couldn't she simply ignore Harold's sly goadings and leave well enough alone? He knew, however, that she was not one to retreat in the face of hostile fire.

"Prestwick." Flashing a winsome smile to soften the reproach, Lady Catherine gave his arm a light tap. "I fear you have not been attending to a word I have said."

"Forgive me." It was really not his concern if Miss Greeley chose to sink herself in the eyes of the
ton
, he told himself. Yet try as he might to concentrate on Lady Catherine's recital of the latest
ondits
from Town, his attention kept drifting back to the other conversation.

"And then, Lord Faverham said the creaking became so loud, it was apparent to all that the Prince Regent was wearing a corset—"

It was, however, a grumped "Hmmph" from across the room rather than any revelation concerning Prinny that caused the duke's head to jerk up. "Forgive me," he repeated tersely, ignoring the look of puzzled consternation that momentarily marred the Lady Catherine's countenance. "Do excuse me for a moment. Must attend to... something."

As expected, the young lady and the other couple demurred without question.

If only the feisty Miss Greeley would be as biddable, he thought as he moved quickly to ensure the sparks of trouble did not ignite into fullblown fireworks. As it was, he arrived by the dowager's side just in time to defuse her next question.

"Actually, it is I who am to blame for any confusion concerning Miss Greeley and her brothers. As Aunt Hermione is rarely in Town, and thus unacquainted with certain circles of the ton, I have taken it upon myself to make the necessary arrangements for Miss Greeley and her brothers." He had moved close enough to Zara to silence the retort he saw forming on her lips with a discreet—though none too gentle—squeeze to her arm.

The glittering lens of the lorgnette turned on him. "Well, if the Distinguished Duke is handling the young lady's affairs, there can be little question as to propriety." Her tone had become considerably more cordial, though the look she slanted at Zara was still a bit wary. But seeing that there was no further grist for gossip to be had, she took her leave and moved to join the marquess and his entourage.

Prestwick breathed an inward sigh of relief, yet the thought of how close they had come to an embarrassing scene caused his gloved hand to pinch even tighter. "At supper, you might try to avoid mention of your stint as a tavern cook, Miss Greeley. Unless you wish for the fat to really hit the fire."

On that sour note, the butler summoned them all to the dining room.

* * *

Zara stared down at the glittering table, feeling as out of place as a tin fork mixed in among the sterling silver place settings. She bit her lip, thinking the array of implements was daunting enough that perhaps she would be forced to revert to the use of her fingers out of sheer confusion.

A glance at the duke showed him chatting amiably with the buxom young lady on his right in between sips of his soup. Of course he was not ill at ease at this sort of entertainment. The man had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth! The thought of how different they were caused the creamy lobster bisque to curdle on her tongue. No doubt the memory of roasted hare on a spit would bring naught but a pucker of disgust to his handsome features.

Prestwick looked up suddenly and gave an encouraging smile that set her insides to sliding around like jellied aspic. Ignoring the quizzical lift of his brow, she dropped her eyes back to her bowl, seeking to drown the vision of his blue green gaze in a swirl of pale pink. But try as she might, it was impossible to banish the shiver of awareness that his presence sent down her spine. It was difficult to explain, but he reminded her of Michelangelo's David. Not, of course, in any anatomical measurement, she thought as her cheeks turned the same hue as her soup. It was more in having a certain aura of powerful emotion coiled beneath the calm exterior.

Drat!
The rich food must be affecting her brain! She had no business savoring thoughts of the Duke of Prestwick.

With or without his clothes on.

"The bisque does not agree with me either," confided the local parson as Zara laid aside her spoon. "Too heavy on the digestion. A simple beef broth is far more preferable, is it not, Miss Greeley?"

Cooking.
Zara sighed. On that subject she should be able to avoid making a cake of herself, seeing as she was far more conversant with the proper preparation of lamb stew than with the latest juicy tidbits of gossip from Town. At least it provided fodder for discussion throughout the interminable meal.

Finally, the last covers were removed and at a discreet nod from her father, Lady Catherine dutifully pushed back her chair and rose. "Come, ladies, let us retire to the drawing room and leave the gentlemen to enjoy their port and cigars."

Not used to standing on such strict ceremony, Zara hesitated a moment, earning her a gimlet glare from Lady Farrington and a muffled titter from Miss Driscoll. For an instant, she contemplated remaining put and requesting a glass of the fortified wine. But reason quickly squashed the naughty urge. Tempting though it was to tweak such stuffy rules, she had to acknowledge that however grating the duke's earlier lecture was upon her sensibilities, it did not lessen the truth of his words.

She must, for the sake of her brothers, strive to behave like a gently bred female rather than a hot-tempered harridan, no matter how difficult the task seemed. The realization caused a shiver to run down her spine.

As the others filed out the door, she bowed her head and forced herself to bring up the rear.

"I daresay we are not missing much." The lady who fell in step beside her was the one the duke had pointed out to her earlier. "My brother has admitted that the conversation tends to dwell on the same silly rumors and gossip that we ladies exchange, rather than any really interesting ideas."

Zara blinked, surprised that someone else might view the proceedings with the same sort of detached irony as she did.

"You do not look as if you are enjoying your first foray into Polite Society. But do not despair. Though vastly outnumbered, there are those of us who share your interests in art and music. When you come to London, I shall be happy to introduce you to several groups where a lively exchange of intellectual ideas is always welcome."

"H-how do you know of my interests," stammered Zara.

"Why, Prestwick made a point of taking me aside and explaining how you are in the habit of using your head as more than a perch for a stylish bonnet."

"P-Prestwick?" The duke had gone out of his way to do that? She felt her jaw go a bit slack.

"Oh, yes. You see, we have become great friends, as he and my brother meet each week to play duets. Charles is quite proficient on the cello and Deverill is a marvelous talent on the piano, so I am treated to quite a performance. I, on the other hand, am all thumbs when it comes to playing an instrument, but I do appreciate music." A wry smile then tugged at the other lady's lips. "But as usual, here I am nattering on without a thought to proper etiquette. Your cousin did not get around to formally introducing us, but I am Frances Woolsey."