strayed from the opulent comforts of his London townhouse, sorry he had ever caved in to the wheedling pleas of his mother's family, sorry he had agreed to use his ducal influence to help straighten out his rackety uncle's twisted affairs, sorry that he had ever met such a disconcerting clan as the Greeleys.
Sorry, sorry, sorry.
Oh yes, he was a sorry fellow indeed.
* * *
And here she had thought that their august sovereign George III was the only mad monarch in the realm. Ha! Zara gathered up a brick of peat and let it drop into the barrow with a satisfying squish. If all titled English gentlemen were as queer in the attic as the King of Spades, she was heartily glad she had never been introduced to the drawing rooms of London Society.
She considered herself a fairly shrewd judge of character. Her eye for detail, sharpened over the years by her study of art, had been honed to a fine point by the need to survive. It allowed her to penetrate the veneer of polished smiles and practiced compliments and detect the tiny flaws and hairline cracks that went unnoticed by most other people. But the dratted duke remained cloaked in mystery, despite her attempts to strip away the layers of contradictions surrounding him.
No amount of salt or seaweed could disguise the elegant cut of his clothing or the costliness of their materials. That alone would have given notice of his being a Gentleman of Quality. Yet even without the fine tailoring dressing his person, there was a natural aristocratic bearing about him that made it obvious he had been born to a life of power and privilege. So how to explain the unspoken bond of friendship between the duke and his disabled valet? Even an unsophisticated country miss knew that it was nothing short of extraordinary for a gentleman to allow a servant to behave as an equal.
A muttered growl from the duke caused her brow to furrow. His snippy whining and preening manners bespoke a pampered aristocrat. But along with the sulky sentiments, he had shown hints of having a dry sense of humor. And beneath the surface glare of disgruntled disapproval in his eyes, she had also caught glimpses of deeper, far more complex emotions than mere pique.
Unless she was terribly mistaken, The Duke of Prestwick was far more thoughtful and intelligent than he appeared. Why, she wondered, did he wish to keep such qualities hidden away?
Another slanted glance in his direction showed that he had begun to master the rhythm of shoveling. His boot drove in the blade with authority and a flick of his wrists drew it in a sharp line through the spongy peat, cutting out neat block at nearly the same pace as Nonny. Zara found she couldn't help watching his long, lithe fingers in action. There was nothing indolent or lazy about their graceful movement. Surely they were used for something more meaningful than knotting his cravat in a Trone d'Amour or Mathematical.
Almost of its own accord, a blunt question slipped out from her lips. "You have unusual hands. Pray, where did you acquire such a dexterous touch?"
The tip of the spade hovered in mid-air for a moment, then slowly lowered to earth. "I play the pianoforte." His expression seemed to challenge her to laugh.
Music? Although she possessed only a rudimentary talent of her own, she admired all forms of the art, from the stirring chords of a symphony to the lilting notes of a sonata. "What sort of music do you favor?" she asked, the lump of sod in her hands forgotten. "The harmonious precision of Haydn? The cerebral symmetry of Mozart? Or the more untamed emotions of Beethoven?"
He looked at her as if she had been speaking in Cantonese. "Y—you are familiar with the nuances of such composers?"
"You may find it difficult to countenance, sir, but we were not raised as wild savages," she replied tartly.
"I—I meant no offense. It's just that it is rare to encounter anyone who actually knows the difference between a fugue and a fandango."
"Surely even someone tone deaf
Sorry, sorry, sorry.
Oh yes, he was a sorry fellow indeed.
* * *
And here she had thought that their august sovereign George III was the only mad monarch in the realm. Ha! Zara gathered up a brick of peat and let it drop into the barrow with a satisfying squish. If all titled English gentlemen were as queer in the attic as the King of Spades, she was heartily glad she had never been introduced to the drawing rooms of London Society.
She considered herself a fairly shrewd judge of character. Her eye for detail, sharpened over the years by her study of art, had been honed to a fine point by the need to survive. It allowed her to penetrate the veneer of polished smiles and practiced compliments and detect the tiny flaws and hairline cracks that went unnoticed by most other people. But the dratted duke remained cloaked in mystery, despite her attempts to strip away the layers of contradictions surrounding him.
No amount of salt or seaweed could disguise the elegant cut of his clothing or the costliness of their materials. That alone would have given notice of his being a Gentleman of Quality. Yet even without the fine tailoring dressing his person, there was a natural aristocratic bearing about him that made it obvious he had been born to a life of power and privilege. So how to explain the unspoken bond of friendship between the duke and his disabled valet? Even an unsophisticated country miss knew that it was nothing short of extraordinary for a gentleman to allow a servant to behave as an equal.
A muttered growl from the duke caused her brow to furrow. His snippy whining and preening manners bespoke a pampered aristocrat. But along with the sulky sentiments, he had shown hints of having a dry sense of humor. And beneath the surface glare of disgruntled disapproval in his eyes, she had also caught glimpses of deeper, far more complex emotions than mere pique.
Unless she was terribly mistaken, The Duke of Prestwick was far more thoughtful and intelligent than he appeared. Why, she wondered, did he wish to keep such qualities hidden away?
Another slanted glance in his direction showed that he had begun to master the rhythm of shoveling. His boot drove in the blade with authority and a flick of his wrists drew it in a sharp line through the spongy peat, cutting out neat block at nearly the same pace as Nonny. Zara found she couldn't help watching his long, lithe fingers in action. There was nothing indolent or lazy about their graceful movement. Surely they were used for something more meaningful than knotting his cravat in a Trone d'Amour or Mathematical.
Almost of its own accord, a blunt question slipped out from her lips. "You have unusual hands. Pray, where did you acquire such a dexterous touch?"
The tip of the spade hovered in mid-air for a moment, then slowly lowered to earth. "I play the pianoforte." His expression seemed to challenge her to laugh.
Music? Although she possessed only a rudimentary talent of her own, she admired all forms of the art, from the stirring chords of a symphony to the lilting notes of a sonata. "What sort of music do you favor?" she asked, the lump of sod in her hands forgotten. "The harmonious precision of Haydn? The cerebral symmetry of Mozart? Or the more untamed emotions of Beethoven?"
He looked at her as if she had been speaking in Cantonese. "Y—you are familiar with the nuances of such composers?"
"You may find it difficult to countenance, sir, but we were not raised as wild savages," she replied tartly.
"I—I meant no offense. It's just that it is rare to encounter anyone who actually knows the difference between a fugue and a fandango."
"Surely even someone tone deaf
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