The Duke and His Destiny

by Felicia Greene

  The Duke and His Destiny

  by Felicia Greene

  The Harding Estate, a gracious arrangement of stone and spring flowers nestled into the heart of the English countryside, normally enjoyed very peaceful mornings. When a cry of frustration echoed through the kitchen, sending sparrows flying off the roof to far-away perches, Brenda Hartwell burst through the door with an expression of deep concern.

  ‘My goodness!’ She looked at Poppy Grancourt. ‘Is something the matter?’

  ‘No, dear. Forgive the outburst—I believe my husband is teaching me to be angrier. How unpleasant.’ Poppy’s smile proved it was not the case. ‘I have simply forgotten to ask Cook for fresh herbs today. We were going to eat the most delightful salad—I asked Matilda to let me take charge of the kitchens, and she most kindly agreed. Now we have nothing but plain leaves, and I fear I have ruined everything.’

  ‘Do not worry, Poppy.’ Brenda adjusted her bonnet, trying to tuck a stray lock of hair into its proper place before giving up with a sigh. ‘I shall collect the herbs.’

  ‘Brenda, you shall not.’ Poppy looked at her, faintly scandalised. ‘You shall get so terribly brown.’

  ‘I imagine so—but then, I am no longer interested in being fashionable. And I shall take a shawl.’ Brenda shrugged. ‘Or perhaps I shall not. I am no longer susceptible to whims concerning modesty.’

  ‘Do not tell me.’ Poppy smiled. ‘Is this a part of becoming a better person?’

  ‘The nail is hit upon the head, Poppy.’ Brenda smiled. ‘The herbs await me.’

  With a smile on her face and a song in her heart, she ran out of the door and onto the lawns. The kitchen garden, its walls glimmering in the distance, seemed to beckon her—still, there would be better herbs growing near the lake. Wilder ones.

  And to think. As Brenda began walking, her inner voice whispered. None of this would be yours, dear, none of it, if you hadn’t had a nervous crisis in front of Matilda Weatherbrooke.

  It was difficult for Brenda to think of her previous behaviour. Behaviour that had culminated the previous year in a rash visit to Matilda Weatherbrooke’s house, clutching the newly-minted duchess by the shoulders, and informing both her and her friends that they were nothing more than undeserving guttersnipes who had stolen dukes from under the noses of true ladies like her. That was how the tirade had begun, at any rate—but it had ended, somewhat mysteriously, with Brenda weeping in Matilda’s arms. Weeping, sniffing at intervals, and asking the assembled women most piteously why no gentleman wanted to marry her.

  To her deep surprise, they had told her. Told her in no uncertain terms, and with a firmness that bordered on outright unpleasantness, that she was a scheming, cunning, false-faced creature with no loyalty to her sex and still less to those she deemed unworthy. And Brenda, finally reaching a moment of clarity, realised that they were completely right.

  She was a vile person. She had been horrible to Isabella Thurgood, spread terrible rumours about Ellen Maldon, patronised Poppy Grancourt furiously—and the less said about her feelings for Matilda Weatherbrooke, the better. On the overstuffed chaise-longue in the Maldon townhouse, Brenda had realised that she was a thoroughly nasty woman… and she had resolved, with every last ounce of her strength, that she would do something about it.

  She would become a better person. And she would stop thinking of men, all men, every man, in order to do it.

  Her parents would have raised strenuous objections had they been alive. Alas, they were not. Brenda took her considerable funds, her sharp mind, and her desire to win at all costs, and had applied all of them to the task of becoming a woman worthy of friendship.

  It had worked. It had worked spectacularly.

  It was almost embarrassing how much nicer being a better person was. The energy that she had previously expended through sniping, conniving, betraying and calculating could now be spent on more joyous pursuits; cultivating friendships, maintaining them, and spending her considerable funds on whichever charitable concern most tugged at her heartstrings that particular day. And, of course, shocking the ton with yet another declaration that defied respectable opinion.

  Brenda had known full well that she was being scandalous. It wasn’t done to tell impressionable young ladies during their first Season that they should concentrate on making friends among themselves, rather than attempting to attract some callous gentleman that would only ruin their summers. It certainly wasn’t done to encourage them to wear looser, freer garments, so they could move more effectively.

  Being brave, being ready to be lonely, had brought her unimaginable rewards. Apologising for the terrible way in which she had behaved before her epiphany had brought her even more; friendship, community. A kind of family, even. A family that had invited her to stay at the Harding estate for a spring retreat; the Bales, the Maldons, the Grancourts, the Hardings… it was wonderful to be invited to stay among the people that had formerly left her half-mad with jealousy; the beautiful Isabella Bale, for instance, or the kind and gentle Poppy Grancourt. Ellen Maldon, too, who was still a little cool with her but warming by degrees. Their husbands were pleasant too, once Brenda had removed them from the gilded book entitled Dukes in her head; Bale, Maldon, Grancourt, Harding—Harding, who had so politely extended the invitation to his country seat.

  And Selby. James Selby. The distinctly unattached James Selby, rumoured to be a former spy, with an inscrutable gaze that seemed to prove every rumour true.

  Brenda sighed, shaking her head as she walked along the tree-line, the edge of the lake shining in the corner of her eye. She hadn’t thought about James Selby that much—had deliberately avoided thinking about him, in fact, because thinking about tall, handsome, smirking dukes with interesting conversational skills and mysterious pasts was something she had spent entirely too much time doing as a younger woman. It would be a waste of time, when everything around her was so utterly glorious.

  The Harding Estate was glorious. The company of her friends was glorious. Her future seemed glorious, for the first time in her life—full of solitude, yes, loneliness, perhaps, but independent in a way that young married women could only dream of. All because she had given up the silly idea, the truly ridiculous assumption, that destiny would hand her the perfect husband as if he were a dish of sweets.

  ‘Well, really. I was foolish beyond measure.’ She murmured happily to herself as she gently placed herb after herb into her basket, the spring sunshine warm on her face. Soon the tree-line was at an end; the lake lay before her, shining, splendid. ‘Believing that the universe would simply deliver me the man I am to marry, wreathed in flowers, bearing… bearing gifts…’

  She stopped, mouth open, staring at the lake. Staring, to be exact, at who was in the lake.

  James Selby. Shirtless. Covered in flowers—water-lilies. Holding, if Brenda’s eyesight was correct, a puppy.

  A small, drenched puppy. A spaniel, clutched to his bare chest.

  Brenda swayed. She half-wondered, in the swooning shock of the moment, if she would drop her basket.

  Wreathed in flowers. Bearing gifts. The thought tugged at her insistently. How… fascinating.

  James Selby, standing wetly in the lake with a wriggling puppy in his fist, was unsure exactly how to behave. At most, he had expected a passing gardener or gentleman out on his morning walk—being shirtless was hardly an issue when meeting another man. Meeting a lady under such unusual circumstances, on the other hand, called for an aplomb that was difficult to muster while holding a damp animal.

  Not just any lady, either. He hadn’t been expecting to meet Brenda Hartwell upon his arrival at Harding’s country estate—and given her recent condemnation of society at large, Selby had been rather n
ervous that she would be full of insults. He knew that she was now much cleverer than she had been before, and much wittier; that meant that she had to be more cutting, too. He had deliberately avoided her after introductions had been made, and told himself rather firmly to not think any more about her.

  Looking at Brenda now as she stood on the edge of the lake, he wondered if he had made a mistake in doing so. He knew, at least vaguely, that Miss Hartwell had begun to choose clothes for her own pleasure rather than whatever the fashion plates dictated. Given her openly stated lack of interest in what gentlemen thought of her new mode of dress, Selby had tried not to look at her with anything more than the lightest and most casual glance. Now, however, with her standing before him, he found himself making rapid and instinctive judgements about Brenda Hartwell in a way he never had before.

  She was attractive. Very attractive. Not beautiful; beautiful was a standard set by the ton, by the newest novel or perfumer’s advertisement, and Selby had never given it much thought. Women could be attractive in any number of ways—it depended on an energy, a charisma, a kind of appetite for life. Brenda, from what Selby could see in the afternoon light, appeared to be bursting with all three.

  How had he never seen her before with wild hair, muddied clothes and a basket of flowers? She was quite the most arresting sight he had discovered in some time. Selby, struggling with the yapping puppy while staring at Brenda, wondered why he had never truly noticed her before.

  ‘Your Grace.’ Brenda’s startled half-curtsey had more grace to it than any number of the mannered expressions Selby endured from ladies at balls. ‘Do you require assistance?’

  ‘I believe I required assistance a little while ago, when I saw this creature attempting to drown itself.’ Selby held up the struggling puppy with what he hoped was a dashing smile, cursing himself for having removed his shirt. Such a meeting was embarrassing enough without one of the parties being in a state of undress; he could see Brenda was embarrassed, and felt obscurely irritated with himself for causing such a state. ‘Now, alas, the time for assistance has passed.’

  ‘I see.’ Brenda turned to look at the distant house, then back to Selby with wide, fraught eyes. ‘But—but I can hardly leave you. That would not feel right at all.’

  ‘Quite.’ Selby didn’t know why he was agreeing; she could certainly be of no practical help to him. Perhaps he simply wished to look at her a little more, and think about how much time he had wasted not looking at her. ‘I can probably think of a way for you to assist me.’ The puppy sank its needle-like teeth into his forearm; Selby repressed a yelp, glaring at the wet creature with abundant venom. ‘Perhaps I could throw you this demon.’

  ‘Oh, no? How can you even jest about the poor creature!’ Two high spots appeared in Brenda’s cheeks; Selby held the puppy to his chest, feeling chastened and oddly excited in equal measure. ‘You are to swim here and hand him to me. I shall put him in my basket.’

  ‘Why are you to keep him? I swam out here to retrieve the little devil. All you did was wander by.’ Selby looked at the puppy, who looked back at him with large, soulful eyes. ‘I do not think you deserve him.’

  ‘What I deserve is of no import. What the dog deserves is to be in the company of someone who does not make cruel jokes at his expense.’ Brenda set her basket down on the grass, folding her arms; Selby watched the rise and fall of her breasts, feeling more acutely shirtless than ever. ‘Come now. Stop paddling around.’

  For a lady who had spent at least five Seasons being as pliant and agreeable as possible, Brenda had developed rather a bossy side. Selby couldn’t help but find her newly strident tone as attractive as everything else about her. Looking down at the puppy again, who looked back at him with the patient expression of an old friend, Selby realised that he was going to follow Brenda’s orders.

  ‘Alright.’ He spoke a little more softly, watching the colour on Brenda’s cheeks deepen. ‘I will come to you.’

  Holding the puppy aloft like some sort of offering, ignoring its irritated yaps, he began to swim towards her. He swam very well—his previous spying career had made it necessary to move well in all contexts—and for a glorious minute, Selby was sure that he was making a good impression. Just a little further, another athletic sweep of his arm, and he could stand in the shallow waters of the lake edge like some sort of classical statue, bearing flowers and dogs in the manner of a harvest deity…

  As he reached the shallows, he attempted to stand erect. Unfortunately, with a cry that couldn’t be described as godlike no matter how partial the listener, he slipped in the soft mud with a wild wheeling of his arms.

  ‘Oh, Lord!’ He watched Brenda start forward; as the puppy began slipping from Selby’s grip, he saw Brenda catch the wiggling creature in her gloved hands. She did not attempt to catch Selby, who collapsed into the mud with an inarticulate stream of blasphemy. After spending a moment on his hands and knees, looking down at his ruined breeches, he slowly and clumsily stood up with a sigh.

  ‘Goodness. He is a lively little fellow.’ Brenda was stroking the puppy’s head; Selby watched the creature whine and wiggle with pleasure, wondering if he would do something similar if Brenda caressed his head and ears in the same way. ‘I can see why he led you such a merry dance.’

  ‘It was hardly a difficult chase.’ Selby shrugged; a lily slipped wetly off of his shoulder, falling back into the lake with a small splash. ‘I am at least as active as a hound, especially a small one.’

  ‘Yes.’ Brenda looked down delicately. ‘And about as dressed as the average hound.’

  ‘Oh, goodness.’ Selby remembered, with a swift stab of awareness, that he was practically unclothed. ‘I shall put on my shirt immediately.’

  ‘Well… I suppose.’ Brenda was concentrating intensely on the grass. ‘But really, the harm is already done.’

  Selby had certainly never considered himself a blushing kind of man. After a comment as clumsily brazen as Brenda’s, however, he wondered if the slight burning he felt in his cheeks would ever go away.

  They stood for a moment in fraught, meaningful silence. The puppy’s yaps faded away as he looked from one human to the other, his wide-eyed expression full of foolish enthusiasm.

  ‘Winston.’

  Selby thought he had imagined the word. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Winston. That shall be his name. And seeing as he has already dampened my gloves, I believe that you should take him. He will make an atrocious mess of the flowers in my basket, thinking about it.’ Brenda handed a wriggling Winston back to Selby, who reflexively hugged him to his chest. ‘Please try not to let him jump into the lake again.’

  ‘I did not let him before! Lord knows where he comes from—he looks like a village whelp!’

  ‘Well, now he is your whelp.’ Brenda folded her arms. ‘Winston now belongs to you.’

  ‘I see.’ Selby looked down at Winston, who looked back at him with utter adoration. ‘Now that you have saddled me with a hound and upbraided me as to his keeping, is there anything else you wish to say to me?’

  He rather hoped she had more to say to him. He hoped that she wished to do something to him, whether that was wagging her finger at him or picking a lily petal from his bare shoulder. Or leaning closer to him, taking no notice of the mud and lake-water covering his body, and parting her lips for a long, dizzying kiss…

  ‘No.’ Brenda sounded doubtful; there was room for hope in her tone, and Selby hung tight to it. ‘No, I do not think there is anything else.’

  Selby knew he was moving beyond the bounds of correct conversation, but he found he couldn’t stop himself. It was as if their discourse was slipping into an ancient pattern; something far vaster than the two of them, far grander, was making itself felt. ‘Are you… are you completely sure about that, Miss Hartwell?’

  Brenda paused. Selby watched her lips deepen in colour as she bit them, hoping against hope that parts of his anatomy remembered they were all-but-exposed.

  ‘... Ye
s.’ She said it with a breathless half-sigh, one that only increased the pain that Selby felt at hearing it. ‘Completely sure.’

  She curtseyed. Before Selby could think of a way to detain her further, she was tramping resolutely back to the lawns. Winston yapped excitedly at her retreating back, as if shouting at her to stay; Selby, looking down at the puppy with new admiration, felt rather envious of the animal.

  ‘She even stroked your ears.’ He said it with a touch of mild jealousy, stroking the puppy’s head. ‘Aren’t you a lucky little horror.’

  One of the firmest resolutions that Brenda had made, when deciding to be a person more worthy of friendship, was not to mope. She had been much given to moping before, believing that gentlemen of a certain calibre required sighing and swooning over at intervals throughout the day. Not only love, imagined or true, had been an excuse for delicately languid reflection—Brenda recalled with some embarrassment than any number of small setbacks, from a torn petticoat to a cloudy day, had led to tearful afternoons spent in front of a mirror or sprawled elegantly on the lawns of her country seat.

  Now, alas, moping was not allowed. It had been replaced with the idea of being useful; a somewhat uncomfortable idea, and a dispiriting one when viewed from midday onwards. But Brenda, sitting awkwardly in her bedroom as evening slid slowly into night, already felt too dispirited to do anything else… and as she caught sight of her furrowed brow in her mirror, she realised with a shiver of horror that moping was on the horizon.

  ‘No.’ She murmured distractedly to herself as she stood, almost knocking her hairbrush onto the floor. She had already begun to undress; the maid had unlaced a quarter of her bodice before Brenda had sent her away, unaccountably irritated at the cheerfulness of the young woman’s manner. As she looked around her room, noting with a pained expression that there was nothing to tidy, mend or fold, she wondered how on earth she was meant to be of any use to anyone.

  You were terribly useful yesterday morning. Her inner voice had been more powerful than usual lately; Brenda could almost imagine how it looked, spiky and judgemental, one finger wagging. You helped James Selby out of the lake with an unhealthy amount of eagerness.