could differentiate between those two," quipped Zara with a faint smile.
"You would be surprised." She was gratified to note that his voice held the same dry note of humor as her own. "I have friends—intelligent friends—who would swear that an aria from Purcell's The Fairy Queen could be sung by the chickens in a barnyard."
The wry comment actually made her laugh. "Well, I do not claim to understand the nuances of opera, sir, but I am tolerably well-versed in the works of the German composers, for I prefer their works above all others."
"Indeed?" Again, his expression betrayed how unexpected her words were. But mingled with the surprise was an unmistakable enthusiasm that, in an instant, transformed his whole face. His jaw relaxed, his eyes lightened and his mouth was no longer set in a grim line. "I, too, feel they have been creating the most interesting compositions, at least for the past half century. One must, of course, give Haydn credit for his profound influences on modern music. He changed the way we listen to symphonies by bringing a certain order to chaos. However, I find I prefer the unbridled emotion of Beethoven, though, to be sure, he is not to everyone's taste."
"Oh, how can one not respond to such a powerful expression of feeling? His music is so individual, so poetic!" Finding it impossible to contain her own enthusiasm on the subject, she rushed on. "As for Haydn, you are not of the same opinion as Goethe, who said that his works are the ideal language of truth... "
Swept up in the exchange of ideas, Zara was unaware of how long the discussion had lasted until Perry tapped her on the elbow. Looking up, she saw that Nonny was leaning on his spade, regarding her with a quizzical look, while her younger brother was trying to steady the mountain of peat that was now looming above the sides of the barrow.
"Come, why are we all standing around wasting time?" she snapped brusquely, brought back to earth by the sight of the precarious pile. Disappointment at having the lively interchange of ideas come so suddenly to an end caused her tone to turn more brittle. "We can't afford to dally in idle conversation, not if we are to get the job done. Stump, perhaps you could take one handle and help me wheel the barrow to the shed while Perry takes your place tracing out more bricks of the peat."
"It is my fault for distracting you," murmured the duke. His spade flashed through the air. "Here, let me get back to work."
Distracting, indeed! Zara found herself watching the play of taut muscle through the thin fabric of his shirt. The show of strength was a subtle rippling rather than a beefy flex, and once again she realized that the appearance of his lithe frame, like much about the rest of him, deceptive—it was not nearly so undeveloped as she had supposed at first.
"Don't be dallying, Nonny," she said, though the mumbled rebuke was meant more for herself than her sibling. Ducking her head, she grabbed hold of the barrow handles as if they might afford her some grip on her wayward thoughts. As if in concert with such sentiments, a warning note reverberated in her head. What in the name of Hades was she doing, discussing such dangerous topics as passion and emotion with a total stranger?
Zara Greeley was pragmatic, not passionate, she sighed. She really couldn't afford to be anything else, not with all the responsibilities that had fallen upon her shoulders. With an inward sigh and a heave of her knees, she helped the duke's valet set the wooden wheel to bouncing over the mud and rocks.
Clack, clack, clack.
The staccato sounds were a loud reminder of the down-to-earth reality of her situation. Still, at times, she couldn't help indulging in a symphony of girlish fantasies—what it would be like to dance to the heady melody of a Viennese waltz, to wear frothy silk ball gowns and smile at smitten suitors.
If. If her father had possessed a modicum of common sense to go along with his adventurous spirit. If her
"You would be surprised." She was gratified to note that his voice held the same dry note of humor as her own. "I have friends—intelligent friends—who would swear that an aria from Purcell's The Fairy Queen could be sung by the chickens in a barnyard."
The wry comment actually made her laugh. "Well, I do not claim to understand the nuances of opera, sir, but I am tolerably well-versed in the works of the German composers, for I prefer their works above all others."
"Indeed?" Again, his expression betrayed how unexpected her words were. But mingled with the surprise was an unmistakable enthusiasm that, in an instant, transformed his whole face. His jaw relaxed, his eyes lightened and his mouth was no longer set in a grim line. "I, too, feel they have been creating the most interesting compositions, at least for the past half century. One must, of course, give Haydn credit for his profound influences on modern music. He changed the way we listen to symphonies by bringing a certain order to chaos. However, I find I prefer the unbridled emotion of Beethoven, though, to be sure, he is not to everyone's taste."
"Oh, how can one not respond to such a powerful expression of feeling? His music is so individual, so poetic!" Finding it impossible to contain her own enthusiasm on the subject, she rushed on. "As for Haydn, you are not of the same opinion as Goethe, who said that his works are the ideal language of truth... "
Swept up in the exchange of ideas, Zara was unaware of how long the discussion had lasted until Perry tapped her on the elbow. Looking up, she saw that Nonny was leaning on his spade, regarding her with a quizzical look, while her younger brother was trying to steady the mountain of peat that was now looming above the sides of the barrow.
"Come, why are we all standing around wasting time?" she snapped brusquely, brought back to earth by the sight of the precarious pile. Disappointment at having the lively interchange of ideas come so suddenly to an end caused her tone to turn more brittle. "We can't afford to dally in idle conversation, not if we are to get the job done. Stump, perhaps you could take one handle and help me wheel the barrow to the shed while Perry takes your place tracing out more bricks of the peat."
"It is my fault for distracting you," murmured the duke. His spade flashed through the air. "Here, let me get back to work."
Distracting, indeed! Zara found herself watching the play of taut muscle through the thin fabric of his shirt. The show of strength was a subtle rippling rather than a beefy flex, and once again she realized that the appearance of his lithe frame, like much about the rest of him, deceptive—it was not nearly so undeveloped as she had supposed at first.
"Don't be dallying, Nonny," she said, though the mumbled rebuke was meant more for herself than her sibling. Ducking her head, she grabbed hold of the barrow handles as if they might afford her some grip on her wayward thoughts. As if in concert with such sentiments, a warning note reverberated in her head. What in the name of Hades was she doing, discussing such dangerous topics as passion and emotion with a total stranger?
Zara Greeley was pragmatic, not passionate, she sighed. She really couldn't afford to be anything else, not with all the responsibilities that had fallen upon her shoulders. With an inward sigh and a heave of her knees, she helped the duke's valet set the wooden wheel to bouncing over the mud and rocks.
Clack, clack, clack.
The staccato sounds were a loud reminder of the down-to-earth reality of her situation. Still, at times, she couldn't help indulging in a symphony of girlish fantasies—what it would be like to dance to the heady melody of a Viennese waltz, to wear frothy silk ball gowns and smile at smitten suitors.
If. If her father had possessed a modicum of common sense to go along with his adventurous spirit. If her
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