The Duke and His Destiny

by Felicia Greene

  ‘Stop this.’ Brenda’s murmur to herself was sharper than usual. ‘Be useful. Think of something useful to do.’

  Why? Now the voice was positively irritating. Because otherwise you are going to moon and mope over James Selby?

  ‘No.’ Brenda smoothed down her skirts, her mouth twisted into a grim line. ‘Because there is always, always, some way to be of use.’

  The declaration sounded better in the supportive privacy of her bedroom than the dark, silent corridor, where even the strongest resolutions seemed to lack courage. Brenda, holding her candle high as she made her way down the stairs, found herself whispering the words in the manner of a prayer.

  ‘There will be some way to be of use.’ She tiptoed to the bottom of the stairs, wondering vaguely where she should go. Kitchens were always busy places, even at the dead of night; there would be overlooked crumbs to clear away, or a piece of cheese to eat. Brenda wasn’t entirely sure how eating a large quantity of cheese would be useful, exactly, but she was willing to begin the process in order to make discoveries.

  The alternative was going to a particularly atmospheric room; the library, for example, or perhaps even the gardens. Walking out onto the moonlit lawns, candle in hand, and… and considering destiny.

  Destiny was a powerful word. Brenda couldn’t in all honesty describe the vast majority of her life’s encounters as destined; despite all of her best efforts, most of the gentlemen she had met appeared to have arrived quite by chance. Whereas James Selby… James Selby, naked to the waist, standing in a lake like some ancient river god…

  ‘Be useful.’ Brenda pinched her upper arm with a slight wince, the candle flame wavering. ‘Sooner rather than later.’

  She hadn’t spoken to anyone about the encounter. That was unusual in itself. She had convinced herself that she hadn’t wished to involve Isabella, Poppy, Ellen and Matilda in such a foolish bit of nonsense, but… but here, in the darkness of the sleeping house, it was quite difficult to convince herself of anything so silly.

  A door lay half-open a little way ahead of her. Brenda furrowed her brow, trying to remember what the room was said to be; the tour at the beginning of her stay had been rather long, and she had been much more interested in the kitchens. Perhaps it was a storeroom, or the room where they kept the billiard table—or, thinking about it, a bedroom.

  Whose bedroom? Her inner voice could be decidedly unpleasant when it wanted. Brenda, deciding that no-one would be sleeping with the door ajar on a night as unexpectedly chilly as this, pushed the door fully open as she held her breath.

  The theatre! Of course. She sagged with relief, taking in the charm of the red velvet curtains; it was an odd conceit, having a small theatre in a private residence, but apparently the previous custodians of the Harding estate were more dramatic than the current duke. Brenda approached the stage, breathing in the traces of wood and greasepaint that seemed to accompany any place where plays were held, a small smile already on her face.

  There were many ways to be useful in a theatre. Even an empty one, one as well-kept as this, would have little jobs that needed doing by anonymous hands. Scraps of costume fabric that needed clearing away, sheet music that needed weighing down with something heavy, cobwebbed corners that required a strong shoulder and a lot of elbow grease…

  Brenda climbed onto the stage with more than a little clumsiness. Moving one of the curtains to one side, trying to avoid the thick tangles of rope that either weighted down or kept suspended a large portion of the whole structure, she looked up with the focused, determined expression of a hunter tracking prey.

  There was a thick, undisturbed layer of dust on one of the rafters. Brenda stared at it with a slightly wider smile, her general urge to be useful suddenly, happily focused onto one small point.

  That rafter couldn’t be very hard to reach, surely? Yes, no maid had apparently ever managed it—but the house was vast, and they were the first guests in quite some time, and none of the household staff would be quite so astonishingly willing to distract themselves as she, Brenda Hartwell, was. She would clean the rafter, clean it with the hem of her dress, and lose all of her distressing thoughts with each stroke.

  All she had to do was reach the rafter. Brenda, biting her lip, nodded happily to herself as she looked at one of the thick coils of rope hanging down from the distant ceiling. Climbing a rope was no difficult task—it would have been almost impossible in one of her old, restrictive garments, but a half-unlaced dress was almost as good as nakedness when it came to freedom of movement. She would need to wrap the rope quite tightly around her palm, of course, to make sure it would take her weight, but after that it would be little more than the most basic—

  The rope, already securely wrapped in her fist, went taut. Brenda heard a distant thump; a weight, something heavy, had fallen from the rafters. A weight attached to the rope—and if she remembered what little she had learned of scientific principles, if something came down…

  … Something had to go up.

  ‘Oh!’ A terrified cry escaped Brenda as her feet left the floor. She had to let go of the rope, but her palm was far too tightly coiled. Dropping her candle, hearing the sizzle and hiss as it extinguished itself, she reached out to another rope as she flew higher. Gripping it with all her might, Brenda was horrified to feel a knot loosen and then tighten around two of her fingers as she frantically clawed at it.

  She was trapped. Trapped in mid-air, to be precise, her hands raised high above her head. Trapped in a dark, sleeping house, with no staff awake and ready to cut down the most stupid woman alive.

  ‘Help!’ Why, when she needed a strident scream, could she summon up little more than a whimper? ‘Help! Please, help!’

  She had to be louder, or she would be hanging here until Christmas. Brenda, breathing deeply as panic threatened to unsettle her entirely, let out an embarrassing sob of relief as she heard footsteps in the corridor.

  Thank the Lord. Someone else was awake. Someone who would kindly, and discreetly, cut her down without waking half the house. It would be Isabella’s husband, perhaps; Victor Bale, who was rather shy, or perhaps even Ellen’s husband. Someone who would take this embarrassing secret to the grave, and very possibly beyond it.

  Really? Her inner voice chimed in, uncannily precise. Are those the most likely candidates? Who have you met unexpectedly in recent days, my dear?

  ‘No.’ The thought hadn’t even occurred to her. ‘No, no, no…’

  ‘Hello?’ Oh, Lord, his voice. James Selby’s voice. ‘Is someone… Oh.’

  Brenda stared, silent, as Selby looked at her from across the room.

  There was no possible way to exit this situation with any kind of elegance. The most she could hope for was a kind of residual dignity; the kind afforded to a very old woman, or a foolish child. She would, of course, be completely unable to speak to James Selby after this episode—hopefully he would do the decent thing and simply leave the estate. Possibly the country.

  Brenda swallowed. Quite why Selby had to look so damnably handsome when he discovered her like this, she really didn’t know. They way circumstances had presented themselves, well, it was…

  … It was almost like destiny.

  ‘Your Grace.’ She looked at him as haughtily as she could, swinging gently on the end of the rope as her hands began to redden. ‘Were you looking for me?’

  As a matter of fact, Selby had been looking for brandy. Looking for any sort of strong drink, up to and including the hideous grog that the groomsmen drank when the horses had been given their mash. Anything, anything at all, to help him sleep—to help him drown out his thoughts, which had become more and more unhelpful ever since the incident at the lake.

  He also needed to find some sort of rag for Winston. The puppy, which had ended up occupying the foot of his bed with a self-possession that was very admirable, kept chewing on his feet. Selby had finally given up, depositing Winston into a fluffy pile of clean sheets in an open drawer, and escaped the be
droom as the puppy began to snore.

  Perhaps if Winston were chewing on something that wasn’t flesh, and he were reasonably drunk, he would be able to stop thinking. Thinking in very specific terms about Brenda Hartwell; namely Brenda swimming in the lake, swimming to him, her dress clinging to her curves with brazen tightness as she smilingly curled into his arms… and every word he had ever exchanged with Brenda Hartwell, every ballroom conversation or tea room observation, now full of a new appreciation of just how fascinating the woman was to talk to.

  ‘Stop thinking.’ Lord knows he had never spoken aloud to himself during his working life; spies who expressed their innermost thoughts to the open air met swift and unpleasant ends. The words had slipped from him as he had walked down the corridor, searching for escape, searching for something…

  And now, in a completely unexpected turn of events, he had found Brenda Hartwell. Brenda Hartwell, hanging from the rafters of the theatre, her dress slipping low on her shoulders, her face an utterly quixotic mixture of terror and embarrassment.

  Were you looking for me? Selby realised, in that exact moment, that he had been.

  Brenda sighed. ‘You are going to say something insufferable. I just know it.’

  ‘Entirely incorrect. I am going to say plenty of insufferable things.’ Selby couldn’t help smiling at Brenda’s aggrieved air—how could anyone resist teasing someone so deliciously ripe for teasing? ‘I have a whole basket of them, ready to use at the least provocation.’

  ‘If you are going to behave in such a manner, sir, then leave me for someone else to discover. Grancourt, or Harding—yes. Harding.’ Brenda looked down at him triumphantly, the effect somewhat spoiled by her bound wrists and untidy hair. ‘He can be counted upon to behave correctly.’

  ‘It is clear you no longer read scandal sheets, Miss Hartwell. The consensus is that after his wildly romantic marriage, Harding should be treated as a man incapable of reason.’ Selby raised an eyebrow, slightly offended at being so casually dismissed by a woman in such clear need of rescue. ‘And with all due respect to my friend, he lacks the strength in his upper body to achieve an effective rescue.’

  ‘Why?’ Brenda frowned. ‘Are you suggesting that I am too heavy for rescue?’

  ‘I beg your pardon? Of course not!’ Selby wondered how the situation had run so far beyond his control, considering one of the conversationalists was tied and suspended. ‘Oh, for—look. Just hold still.’

  With a short sigh, he made his way to the coiled rope that lay at the side of the curtains. Throwing his jacket carelessly to the floor, wrapping a spare scrap of cloth around his palms, he began climbing up the weighted rope that had catapulted Brenda into the rafters.

  As he climbed closer to Brenda, her scent washed over him again; her new scent, that determinedly soapy, starched scent which meant she was looking to attract absolutely no-one. Unfortunately, although Selby’s mind understood such a concept extremely well, his body had not received the message. She smelled fresh, fresh and clean and… and edible. Or rather, lickable.

  Certainly kissable. Just as kissable as she had been by the lake, in fact.

  Yes. Kissable. That was the adjective Selby wrestled with as he climbed the rope, his shoulders aching. Brenda Hartwell had become eminently kissable—or perhaps she had always been kissable, always, and without the artifice of flirtation her kissable qualities were much more easy to see. The absence of flirtation, the gentle, clean scent that clung to her, the… the fact that she was tied at the hands, the curves of her body fully displayed as she breathlessly waited for him, presented to him like the most delicious form of gift…

  ‘You planned this.’ The words came out without Selby even thinking about it. ‘You have to have planned this.’

  ‘Is that first in the basket of insufferable things? I do hope it is a very shallow basket.’ Brenda’s glare was withering as Selby came level with her, the effect slightly marred by the soft flush in her cheeks. ‘Why on earth would I arrange such a ridiculous tableau? I am hardly presenting myself in the most becoming fashion, hanging here.’

  ‘... Bound at the wrists, and unbound at the bodice?’ Selby knew it was a deeply improper thing to say, but couldn’t help himself. ‘Do you honestly not believe that gentlemen find women compelling in such a state?’

  There was a short, reflective pause. Brenda stared at him, her grey eyes full of what looked like equal parts shock and embarrassment.

  ‘I see.’ She took a deep breath; Selby struggled manfully against the urge to watch the curve of her breasts as they rose and fell. ‘Is… is this something that Matilda should probably tell me about?’

  ‘Only if you find yourself willing to re-enter the fray when it comes to marriage. In that case, then our new Duchess is certainly the person to talk to.’ Selby hung from the rope by one arm, the other resting on his hip. ‘I am sure she, along with ladies all over the world, have spent considerable amounts of both money and time arranging to be caught in just such a scenario.’

  ‘That, Your Grace, suggests a level of calculation that I am entirely unwilling to partake in.’ Brenda huffed; Selby had to admit it was a magnificent huff. ‘Honestly. It is as ridiculous as suggesting that you somehow orchestrated being discovered in the lake yesterday.’

  ‘Hardly.’ Selby rolled his eyes, obscurely embarrassed. ‘Muddy and wrestling a small, yapping animal? Hardly becoming.’

  ‘Shirtless, damp, and wreathed in flowers. And holding a puppy.’ Brenda spoke quickly, almost thoughtlessly. ‘Ladies have prayed for such circumstances.’

  Selby stared, a sudden shock of new thoughts briefly crowding his mind. Remembering with a jolt exactly where he was, and exactly what he was supposed to do, he reached up to Brenda’s bound wrists.

  ‘It’s a simple tangle. I can release it quite quickly.’ Why did he sound so damned hoarse? ‘When the tension gives, you must cling to me as rapidly and tightly as possible.’

  ‘Oh.’ Brenda’s eyes were very wide. ‘Is… is there some sort of alternative?’

  ‘Yes. Falling to the ground and breaking any number of limbs.’ Selby swallowed, wishing his muscles didn’t suddenly feel so much weaker than normal. ‘Is the idea of touching me so very repellent to you, Miss Hartwell?’

  ‘No.’ The answer came quickly enough for Selby to feel an entirely new sort of shock. ‘No, it is not.’

  There is was again; that odd, bone-deep shiver which suggested something ancient, something powerful, clicking smoothly into place. Selby shook his head slightly, trying to fight a growing feeling of inevitability, as he gently untied the knot that had Brenda’s wrists so tightly bound.

  The rope made a slow, rough sound as it suddenly loosened. With a cry small enough to be termed a squeak, Brenda threw her arms around Selby’s neck as Selby quickly grabbed the rope in his cloth-covered palm. They hung suspended, Selby’s shoulder now complaining in a mute but determined fashion, close enough to one another to hear the twinned, rapid beating of each other’s hearts.

  Cling to me as rapidly and tightly as possible. Selby dimly remembered saying those words, but hadn’t fully considered their import. He had thought about Brenda’s arms around his neck, of course, and her breath in his ear; both of those things were both predictable, and welcoming. What he hadn’t thought about—what he had deliberately avoided thinking about, if he were honest—was the full splendour of her body pressed tightly against his, all softness and abundance and full, joyous curves. Her thigh raised to rest against his hip, her skirts a rustling champagne froth that now enveloped them both in surprising, deeply pleasurable femininity…

  ‘Forgive me.’ Brenda’s voice was small, and breathless. ‘I do not like heights. I imagine you have spent much of your life rescuing people from tall places.’

  Selby had indeed spent many years performing anonymous feats of derring-do. One of his exploits had involved a wounded princess atop the battlements of one of Bavaria’s most splendid castles, complete with snow on the turrets�
�� but even that memory, complete with frost in the air and starlight in the eyes of the onlookers, faded into obscurity compared to what he felt with Brenda Hartwell in his arms.

  ‘I have.’ He cleared his throat, acutely aware of how hard he was becoming. He hoped the volume of Brenda’s skirts would obscure his shame. ‘In fact, I rather like them. More and more, every day.’

  ‘Yes.’ Brenda took another deep breath; Selby bit his lip, wishing he couldn’t feel the soft, yielding weight of her breasts quite so clearly. ‘And… and please disregard what I said about our meeting by the lake. I have been somewhat exercised by the unusual nature of this evening.’

  Exercised was not the word Selby would have used. Unfortunately, none of the other words that came to mind were repeatable. He hung motionless in the air, his shoulder aching less and less as other parts of his body became more worthy of attention.

  ‘Well?’ Brenda blinked. ‘Are we going to go down?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ Selby paused, knowing that what he was about to say was at least three steps beyond foolish. ‘But… Miss Hartwell, allow me a small courtesy. Tell me—have you ever considered the idea of destiny?’

  Brenda’s eyes widened; Selby felt a small wave of triumph ripple through him. It wasn’t just him, then; it wasn’t his spying senses sparking away at nothing. ‘In what way? What do you mean, destiny?’

  ‘The idea that some things are destined to occur, of course. That certain people are meant to go to certain places and… and do certain things.’ Selby didn’t know why his shoulder had been aching a moment ago; now he could hang all day, with Brenda’s body tight against his as she clung to him. ‘That however much the individuals in question try to avoid their fate, fate is waiting for them. Has… has anything given you cause to consider such an idea, in recent days?’