The Duke and His Destiny

by Felicia Greene

  A yes was too much to hope for, of course. As was a sudden, passionate kiss, followed by a sensual attempt at aerial disrobing and an athletic go at debauchery. Options flickered at the core of Selby’s being like any number of candle-flames as he waited, drowning happily in Brenda’s softness and scent.

  ‘Listen to me very carefully, Your Grace.’ Brenda’s voice had a note of seriousness that Selby hadn’t been expecting. ‘Even… even if I have considered the idea of destiny in recent days, that does not mean that I consider destiny the ultimate arbiter of mortal actions. Free will is, as always, of the utmost importance.’

  ‘Quite right.’ It was becoming difficult to breathe; difficult to do anything other than lean closer and simply kiss her. Selby found himself biting his lip again, fighting the need to have her mouth on his. ‘But… but if destiny had begun to pull one person towards another. Pull them strongly. Free will is all very well, but battling against such an enormous, overwhelming force is sure to—’

  ‘Hurt. Yes.’ Brenda’s sigh was infinitely lovely, and infinitely sad. ‘Hurt very much. But it is all to the good, in the end.’

  Well. That had to be the sweetest and most devastating rejection that Selby had ever experienced. With a slow nod, and a smile that was tinged with pain no matter how bravely he did it, he exhaled.

  ‘I see. Well then.’ He looked up at his grip on the rope. ‘Time to leave the clouds.’

  Slowly, not wanting to alarm Brenda, he let his palm slip down the rope. In what felt like far too short a time their feet brushed against the wooden floor of the stage, the air suddenly a little colder. Selby repressed a sigh, waiting for Brenda to move away from him, becoming more and more confused when she did not.

  She was still pressed tightly against him. Her thigh was still raised; her hands were still clasped around his neck. Selby, looking into Brenda’s eyes with what he knew was a slightly dumbstruck expression, wondered if he had been too hasty in giving his night up for lost.

  ‘Or…’ Brenda’s voice was slightly muffled in his shirt; Selby wished, quite violently, that he was as shirtless as he had been the previous day. ‘Or destiny, such as it is, could be considered temporarily.’

  ‘Temporarily.’ Selby repeated the word, his lips lowering to touch Brenda’s hair. The softness of her curls made his cock feel all the harder. ‘And what would that mean? To temporarily consider destiny?’

  ‘It means exactly what I said, of course.’ The faint air of bossiness in Brenda’s voice only made her seem more attractive to Selby. Perhaps it was the high-handed tone combined with the decidedly base feel of her in his arms. ‘’That free will can be… tiring. Very tiring. While giving into the—to the general pull of destiny, for a little while, could be… refreshing.’

  ‘Refreshing?’ Selby couldn’t resist a small, intimate smile. ‘Is that how you think you would feel, Miss Hartwell, after a good dose of destiny?’

  ‘I do not know how I would feel.’ Brenda’s expression was suddenly, deeply arresting. ‘But… but I find myself willing to find out.’

  The time for words, if Selby was any judge, had ended. Now was the time to slowly sink to the ground, Brenda in his arms, and show her exactly what giving into destiny meant. To kiss her, to let his fingers trail over her skin, caressing, teasing, coaxing her into giving up all of the abundant pleasure that he could feel waiting in her body, dormant, begging to be given expression.

  ‘Show me, Your Grace.’ Brenda’s voice had become a low, breathless whisper. ‘Please.’

  Am I giving in to her, or is she giving in to me? In the heat of the moment, Selby couldn’t tell—and neither, to his surprise, did he care. He let his hand move up to Brenda’s cheek, cradling the smoothness of her skin as he moved closer, closer, closer still…

  A loud bang echoed through the room. Selby and Brenda sprang apart as footsteps sounded in the corridor, Grancourt’s gruff baritone filling the still air.

  ‘Where the devil did I put my cigar case… of all the times in the day to crave, really crave a cigar, it has to be when I have left my cigar case on the other side of this infernal house…’

  A small interruption. Nothing, really; at most something to laugh at when more important business had concluded. Selby turned back to Brenda, a rueful smile already on his face, but stopped as he saw her expression.

  Something had changed. It wasn’t just fear in her eyes; there was something harder, a kind of resignation. A determination not to fall into temptation… Selby realised, with a small jolt of surprise, that he was being treated as the greater of two evils.

  He had never been the less favoured option before. In fact, he was more than used to being seen as the winning prize. Selby opened his mouth—to plead, to beg, he didn’t know—but Brenda was already walking away.

  As she brushed past him, her scent filled the air again. Selby, drugged with both the perfume of soap and his own desire, reached out a hand, then withdrew it. She was going, she wasn’t looking back—he had scared her, or Grancourt had scared her, or she had scared herself.

  But that was hardly a problem, was it? He certainly wasn’t looking to seduce anyone. It had been a mistake. If anything, he should be grateful to Grancourt that the whole silly business had been stopped.

  Selby wiped his brow, which was slick with sweat. Yes, he would feel grateful to Grancourt… just as soon as he had overcome the urge to kill him.

  The following afternoon, as clouds scudded merrily over the sunlit lawns, Brenda and her friends were taking tea. At least, they had begun with the intention of taking tea—but now, through what felt like no fault of Brenda’s own, it had become a ferociously-focused discussion group.

  ‘And then… well.’ She swallowed, trying to remove the acrid taste of tea from her mouth as Matilda, Poppy, Isabella and Ellen leaned forward, listening eagerly. ‘I walked away.’

  She had never had to explain an escapade to a group of eagerly listening female friends before. She had only ever been one of the listeners—and even then it had been for practical reasons, not purposes of friendship. Such confessions had only ever seemed useful for adversaries; they always contained such delightfully incriminating anecdotes… now, as the confessor, Brenda saw that information shared between friends was not always unwise. In fact, it was very comforting.

  Not all the information was ripe for sharing, of course. What had happened between her and Selby after they had descended from the rafters was far too raw, too private, for Brenda to share with any other living soul. Fortunately—or perhaps not, given the wide-eyed faces of her friends—even the driest descriptions of the evening’s events seemed to be providing more than enough interest for Matilda, Ellen, Isabella and Poppy.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Matilda’s teacup rattled against the saucer as she abruptly put it down. ‘Are you saying, Brenda, that you did nothing?’

  ‘I walked away. Walked away without a word.’ Brenda looked hollow-eyed at her own tea, wondering if she could summon up the energy required to drink more of it. Matilda, Ellen, Poppy and Isabella looked delicately at one another. ‘You must tell me now, all of you, that it was the correct thing to do. I know it was, after all.’

  ‘Well, yes. It was obviously the correct thing to do.’ Isabella took a sip of tea, apparently mulling over the end of her sentence. ‘Absolutely correct.’

  ‘Correct, and in keeping with the lofty ambitions that you have set for yourself.’ Ellen nodded, her voice slightly hollow. Brenda couldn’t help but see the hint of a smile on her face. ‘Correct on ever-so-many fronts.’

  ‘I agree.’ Poppy, a little younger than all of the other ladies sitting around the table, couldn’t effectively conceal the slight waver in her voice. ‘Of course I agree.’

  There was a short, heavy pause. Brenda, looking anxiously into the faces of her silent friends, felt a sudden burst of irritation that made her quite short of breath.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! You all clearly object to my conduct, even though it was scrupulously cor
rect!’ She pushed her teacup away, gritting her teeth as she suppressed a ruder exclamation. ‘Please tell me the—the source of your objections! Not least because I feel objectionable myself, and wish to know why!’

  The tension in the room abruptly broke as Ellen burst out laughing. Brenda scowled as Matilda, hand over her mouth, began to giggle as well.

  ‘Forgive us.’ Ellen wiped away a tear of laughter as her shoulders shook. ‘But bound at the wrists, in your nightgown, in a candlelit theatre at night? How on earth is such a series of circumstances possible?’

  ‘It would have taken days for the pleasure-house to have organised such an affair!’ Matilda’s eyes shone with humour. ‘However did you manage it?’

  ‘I did not manage it! None of it was in the least bit managed!’ Brenda sighed, shaking her head. ‘His Grace said something very similar. Honestly, if you had all seen him by the lake the other day—’

  ‘The lake? You never told us that you had seen His Grace by the lake.’ Matilda’s smile was positively catlike. ‘What an unusual omission.’

  ‘Yes. Very unusual.’ Poppy leaned forward. ‘Why would we all have wished to see him by the lake?’

  By now Brenda could easily sense that she had made an enormous tactical error. With another, deeper sigh, she haltingly told the story of coming across both Selby and puppy in the water. By the time she had relayed the base facts of the event, both Poppy and Matilda had their hands covering their mouths.

  ‘Shirtless?’ Ellen’s mouth had fallen open. ‘Covered in lilies?’

  ‘Yes, Ellen. You needn’t labour the point.’ Brenda sniffed, wondering why she felt the sudden urge to cry. ‘It seemed like an enormous series of coincidences, to say the least. But it happened. Just as the ridiculous accident in the theatre occurred.’

  ‘How very unlucky you both are.’ Matilda’s voice suggested nothing of the thought. ‘To keep finishing in these wildly romantic scenarios, with only the other to see it.’

  ‘Matilda, you are not helping.’ Brenda fought the urge to rap the table with her fist. ‘You are beginning to sound like His Grace. Talking of—of destiny.’

  ‘He spoke of destiny?’ Poppy’s voice was suddenly very dreamy. ‘He freed you from your bonds, and held you in the air, and spoke of destiny?’

  When put like that, the events of the previous evening had an enchantment to them that even Brenda could not pretend to ignore. ‘… Yes.’

  A soft, united sigh came from Ellen, Matilda and Poppy. Brenda, knowing that she was blushing, busied herself with removing some imagined speck of dust from her skirt.

  ‘And as I said, I walked away. I simply walked away from him. After telling him that destiny, while important, was in no way paramount when it comes to deciding the particulars of one’s life.’ She paused, biting her lip. ‘And… and it was the correct thing to do. When one considers the steps I have taken, and the promises I have made, to be better in all aspects.’

  ‘Yes.’ Ellen sounded decisive. So decisive, in fact, that Brenda wondered if she wasn’t simply pretending. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Quite.’ Poppy sounded even less certain than she had before. ‘As we said before, dear. Whatever you think best.’

  ‘Oh, really.’ Matilda rolled her eyes. ‘Must I honestly feign happiness at how myopically you are ignoring destiny?’

  ‘Yes. You must.’ Brenda looked at her imploringly. ‘Please.’

  ‘... Oh, alright.’ Matilda’s face showed entirely too much pity for comfort. ‘Ignore it, dear. It will probably fade away to nothing if unexamined.’

  ‘Quite. That is what I thought.’ It wasn’t what Brenda thought, not at all, but she buried that rebellious idea away with all the others. ‘I am glad that we are all in agreement.’

  The silence that followed was slightly mutinous, and the conversation that eventually began seemed a little cloudier than before. Brenda attempted to feign interest in the matters that were being discussed, half-sure that the others were simply pretending too, before deciding with a short sigh that she was no longer being a good friend.

  ‘I shall take my leave, dears. I am being complicated, and complicated people cannot drink tea and be cheerful for any length of time.’ She looked apologetically at Matilda, who smiled softly. ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Ellen’s tone was equal parts knowing and sympathetic. ‘Take a turn on the lawn. Read something delicious. Distract yourself.’

  Brenda nodded gratefully, silently thanking the Lord that she had decided female friends were worth the trouble. ‘Thank you. I shall.’

  As Brenda left the room, the door shutting, the group of women leaned towards one another. Exclamations tripped over a number of tongues, giving the rather grand room something of a festive air.

  ‘Destiny! How perfectly marvellous.’ Poppy sighed again, the sound thick with longing. ‘It was destiny that drew Henry and I together.’

  ‘It was most certainly not.’ Matilda laughed. ‘It was my incredible talent for feigning a broken ankle, and you know it.’

  ‘You may have greased the wheels of destiny, yes, but how could you have disorganised the inn so perfectly? How could you have forced the coach driver to abandon us?’ Poppy’s satisfied smile could have melted butter. ‘Destiny, my dear. Destiny.’

  ‘I rather believe it was destiny that led me to Victor.’ Isabella smiled, her eyes full of a memory that other women could not see, but could not fail to appreciate. ‘I must have known from the first.’

  ‘I consider my union with my husband utterly free of destiny.’ Ellen nodded. ‘And I consider all of you as foolish as geese.’

  ‘Nonsense. Your former mistress could have gone to the pleasure-house on any other day, at any other time—but she went that day, and that time, when my brother was unexpectedly present.’ Poppy nodded. ‘That, Ellen, is pure and unadulterated destiny.’

  ‘I see I am to be given no quarter.’ Ellen’s sly smile suggested she was nowhere near as put out as her words suggested. ‘Well then, Matilda? Are you to play the part of destiny where our newest friend is concerned?’

  ‘Of course I am going to plan something. I am going to plan any number of things, and deploy them as and when I deem it necessarily.’ Matilda rested one hand on her chin, looking at Ellen, Poppy and Isabella with a touch of melancholy. ‘I am only saddened by the fact that I can discuss none of my plans with Selby. He is normally the fellow architect in my schemes.’

  ‘I do not see why he cannot be consulted.’ Isabella looked quizzical. ‘If anything, it would give any plan even more chance of success.’

  ‘Very likely.’ Matilda’s slow smile was very feline indeed. ‘But Selby is such a dreadful know-it-all in every other situation. I am determined, absolutely determined, to keep him in the dark.’

  As the next morning dawned, the sun bright and insolently cheerful as it shone on the stones of Harding’s estate, Brenda felt even more turbulent than she had the previous day. Now that she had revealed secrets, given up a piece of her heart for close inspection, she could not help but feel that something larger and more complex had been put into motion.

  Matilda, of course, had to be suspected immediately. Brenda watched her friend like a hawk as they sipped morning coffee, then ate their rolls, then began to speak of how the day would unfold. She felt sure that something would happen at breakfast, then sure that something would happen while answering letters, then sure that something would happen during the morning walk of the grounds… but as luncheon approached, with no plot uncovered or scheme foiled, Brenda began to wonder if she had simply imagined the pertinent interest of her closest friends.

  Selby, to her trembling surprise, had been present for every one of the morning’s activities. In a large, chattering group of friends it had been easy to avoid him; Brenda had certainly done so, feeling a pleasant amount of moral superiority throughout. Unfortunately, even if superiority had been enough to sustain her in her younger years, it now felt very thin against the profound, bone
-deep awareness of James Selby that fluttered in Brenda’s chest like a trapped bird.

  How had she never noticed the man with such intensity before? How did no-one openly stare at him, the way he walked, the way he managed to be the centre of attention and utterly overlooked at the same time? His very presence was confounding, ferocious, almost violent… and, Brenda had to admit, pleasant. Horribly, horribly pleasant.

  She wondered if he would find her alone. She wondered if he would write her a letter, imploring her to come to him. A thousand possibilities rose and fell in her mind as the day wore on, dulling her awareness, distracting her terribly—which meant, as Brenda climbed into the attic, she had no sense of a trap being sprung.

  Matilda had laughingly suggested a tour of the attic over breakfast; the idea had been seized upon by all, the space entered as a united group by means of a rickety ladder, and much sneezing. Isabella, Ellen, Poppy and Brenda held parasols over their heads to prevent dust falling onto their clothes, exclaiming at spider webs and marvelling at the sheer size of the room, while the gentlemen listened to Harding give a potted history of the house.

  ‘I wish I could tell you more. I really do.’ Harding’s self-effacing smile seemed to light the gloom. ‘But my wife is the true historian.’

  ‘I have developed a love for nosing through the library of this venerable place.’ Matilda smiled dreamily as she looked at her husband, who looked at her with such gentleness that Brenda wanted to kick something. ‘My dear husband’s great-grandfather was something of an engineer. He delighted in building corridors that led to nowhere, hidden passages—the strangest kinds of optical tricks. But this attic is said to be the crown jewel of his artistry.’

  ‘Really?’ Brenda looked around the vast space, unable to conceal a note of doubt in her voice. ‘Forgive me, Matilda, but it looks quite simple in terms of its construction.’

  ‘You are right. It does.’ This time it was Harding who had spoken, his usual cautious tone hiding a note of unexpected humour. ‘But somewhere in this room—a fact which truly delights my wife—there is some mechanism, some trick, which takes one from the attic to the second bedroom. I have examined the room several times, and have failed to see how it is done. As for why—’