A Stroke of Luck by Andrea Pickens

Author:Andrea Pickens
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: ePublishing Works!
Published: 2014-01-21T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

He had thought things could not get much worse, but apparently he had been wrong. Fisting the sheet of scented ivory paper into a tight ball, Prestwick chucked it into the flames and reached for the decanter of brandy.

"Lady Farrington driving you to strong drink?" Shouldering his way through the closed door without the benefit of a knock, Stump moved over to the hearth and added another log to the fire. "Can't say I blame you. That old battle ax can chop anyone's sanity into mincemeat within thirty seconds. Then there is her lapdog of a grandson, waitin' to chew on the scraps."

Prestwick grunted and filled his glass nearly to the brim. "It is not merely my great aunt and Harold who are cutting up my peace of mind."

"Ye didn't enjoy your excursion into town with Miss Greeley and the lads?" asked the valet with an air of great innocence.

"Stubble the jokes," growled the duke. "You do not have a subtle touch when it comes to humor."

"Aye, a bit heavy-handed in most things," agreed Stump, turning his back to the fire to hide a broad grin. "Would you be wanting anything else? A bottle of port? A magnum of champagne? A barrel of Bruichladdich?"

"A pot of hemlock," he muttered, draining the brandy in one gulp.

"Aw, it can't be that bad."

"Ha!" Prestwick stared glumly at the curling wisps of ashes. "I just received word that Lady Catherine Ellesmore and her father arrived today at their country estate. Along with a houseful of guests."

The valet took up the poker and began to stir the coals. "I would have thought the news would be cause for celebration."

Prestwick frowned, feeling the furrows on his forehead dig deeper. It was true. He should be looking forward to the company of the lovely young lady who, with her polished manners and perfect behavior, never caused so much as a spark of exasperation to flare up in his breast.

So why had sight of the elegant script and the Ellesmore crest left him feeling rather cold?

Hurriedly pouring another drink, he raised the glass to his lips and let the fiery spirits burn a path down his throat. Would that the trail of his own feelings were as easy to discern. Of late, they had been straying off in the oddest manner, causing his mood to rise and fall as if he were still being buffeted by a stormy sea. It was most unfathomable—he was normally steady as a rock, impervious to any of the waves of raw emotion that he saw roiling around him.

Passion was all very well in the score of a symphony or the brushstrokes of painting. He admired such heated intensity in music and art, but he preferred that it remained confined to paper or canvas. When it threatened to engulf his own senses, whether in a burst of hot anger or a swell of light laughter, it was... rather uncomfortable.

And perhaps rather frightening.

Coward! he jeered at himself. There it was again, the dreaded word, snaking up in an ugly curve, ready to sink its fangs into him.

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