The Duke and His Destiny

by Felicia Greene

  ‘My dear.’ Matilda’s smile was not that of a duchess. ‘I believe we can all guess at why such a mechanism exists. Your great-grandfather had a housekeeper he was very fond of, no? Who among us does not enjoy the thrill of the chase?’

  The ladies, Brenda among them, could not resist slightly embarrassed giggles. The gentlemen, to a man, briefly pretended that they were somewhere else entirely.

  ‘And now, dear friends, you have seen every inch of this glorious house.’ Matilda beamed. ‘Now before we all succumb to whatever historical vapours are clinging to the centuries of objects here, we shall make our way to the gardens for a cold but refreshing walk.’

  ‘A capital idea.’ Poppy moved happily to the ladder, assisted by Grancourt and followed by Isabella and Ellen. ‘Shall we look a the second flush in the rose garden?’

  ‘Of course!’ Matilda happily began ushering her guests down the ladder. ‘But I believe I have dropped my handkerchief—could someone retrieve it?’ She pointed to the offending handkerchief, lying oddly far from the group. ‘Please?’

  ‘Of course. I am closest.’ Brenda shivered at the low purr of Selby’s voice; how had she never realised how commanding the man could sound? ‘I shall retrieve it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Now Matilda herself was half-way down the ladder; had the rest of the guests really already descended? Brenda, a sudden suspicion flowering in her breast, moved over to the ladder as Selby went to retrieve the handkerchief.

  ‘You…’ She looked at her friend, keeping her voice low. ‘You are not going to do what I think you are going to do, are you?’

  ‘I cannot imagine what you mean.’ Matilda’s smile was far too innocent.

  ‘Then let me down.’ Brenda didn’t know whether to step on the ladder or not; it had seemed unbearably rickety as they had entered. ‘Let me down now.’

  ‘I shall return in half an hour.’ Matilda’s smile grew wider. ‘Thank me later, dear.’

  ‘I shall not thank you! I shall do anything but!’ Brenda’s voice rose to a shocked whisper. ‘I tell you, Matilda, if you… if you…’

  ‘Miss Hartwell?’ Selby’s voice came from the heart of the attic. ‘What has happened?’

  ‘I…’ Brenda turned, unable to form even the simplest words. In the same moment, the entrance to the attic was firmly, decisively shut.

  This was intolerable.

  Brenda turned to determinedly face the corner. Matilda’s knowing voice, not to mention her expressive eyes, had turned what had already been an embarrassing discovery into something that made her want to dissolve into ashes and dust.

  She could feel Selby’s eyes on her. Taking a deep breath, folding her arms, Brenda spoke as quietly and seriously as possible.

  ‘You needn’t look at me like that.’

  ‘I am not looking at you.’

  ‘Do not lie to me.’ Brenda shook her head, a hysterical bubble of laughter in her throat. ‘I know you are looking at me. You are looking, and smiling, and choosing something from your basket of atrocious things to say.’

  ‘With perception like that, you should have been working for the Crown alongside me.’

  ‘Quite a compliment.’ A very nice compliment, if Brenda were honest with herself—not to mention sincere. She deliberately avoided looking at Selby, his figure resting on the edge of her vision. ‘Nevertheless, my perception informs me that you are about to be insufferable.’

  ‘Not at all.’ There was a small, meaningful pause. ‘Of course, you must allow me to point out that once again, through no fault of our own, destiny has—’

  ‘This is not destiny. This is Matilda.’ Brenda turned, unable to keep her back to Selby. The seriousness in his face, the unguarded expression in his eyes, all combined to make an uncomfortably powerful impression. ‘I was foolish enough to speak to her the other day, and now she has concocted some sort of scheme.’

  ‘Yes.’ Selby smiled. ‘That is exactly like Matilda.’

  ‘It is.’ Brenda looked carefully at him, suddenly struck by a new and terrifying stab of what she realised was jealousy.

  How could she be jealous? She had wasted so many of her tender years on petty jealousies. Clearing her throat, alert to the sudden awareness on Selby’s face, she struck a deliberately casual tone.

  ‘She is a particular friend to you, of course. Matilda. You have a sort of—understanding.’

  ‘A brotherhood.’ The change in Selby’s voice, an edge of what Brenda realised was surprise, only increased the tumult in her breast. ‘That is what she calls it. And she is like a brother to me.’

  The Brenda of previous years would have considered such a defence heartily ridiculous. The Brenda standing in the attic was wiser, yes, but when something so outlandish was said…

  ‘Like a brother to you.’ She paused, not daring to look directly into Selby’s eyes. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’ Selby’s tone was emphatic; there was a rawness there, a depth that answered a question Brenda didn’t know she had been asking. ‘A brother, and a brother only.’

  The attic was suddenly too small, despite the space that surrounded them. Brenda breathed in the silent, dusty air, the sense of something unstoppable reaching to bind her, pin her to the moment, as Selby stepped forward.

  ‘Miss Hartwell.’ All traces of humour had vanished from his voice. ‘We are alone, unobserved, in a place that is by all accounts infamous for its romantic associations. It appears that destiny is calling to us.’ His eyes burned. ‘You said last night that destiny could be surrendered to, for a little while…’

  ‘The circumstances are not exact.’ Brenda’s voice shook. ‘Matilda spoke of a chase. I am certainly not going to be chased, and neither are you, so we must forget any ideas we have of surrender—’

  The attic entrance jerked upward once, then twice, as if something small but powerful was throwing itself against it. As Brenda and Selby quickly stepped away from one another, the air filled with the sound of excited barking.

  ‘Winston?’ Brenda looked quizzically at the puppy as it scrabbled up the ladder and into the attic, bouncing against an ancient ottoman as it yapped with joy. ‘I thought he was sleeping in the morning room!’

  ‘I thought he was terrorising my valet.’ Selby reached down to stroke Winston as the puppy began jumping at his breeches. ‘Apparently he is a very productive animal.’

  ‘An animal who should not, under any circumstances, be up here in the attic.’ Brenda reached down to seize Winston, who nimbly jumped away with a short bark. ‘Oh, Lord, Winston, am I going to have to… to chase you…’

  She looked at Selby. Selby’s expression, complete with raised eyebrow, seemed to confirm the import of what she had just said.

  ‘A chase, Miss Hartwell?’ Selby looked down at Winston, who barked again, before looking at Brenda with an utterly unrepentant smile. ‘How unusual. How coincidental. How very like—’

  ‘Destiny.’ Brenda reached out desperately to Winston, watching helplessly as the puppy sprang away. ‘I… oh, Lord—’

  With another yap from Winston, the chase was firmly in progress. For a puppy that had seemed so very impulsive and stupid when wiggling in Selby’s fist, Winston was very decisive when running away; he bounded around boxes and leapt over furniture, yapping in delight as Brenda began to follow him. After a few panicked moments of attempting to catch the creature, it became clear that she was the only one attempting such a rescue—Selby was hanging back, watching, with what looked like a smile on his face.

  ‘Well?’ Brenda finally turned, staring at him with an exasperated wave of her hands. ‘Are you going to try and chase this foolish creature?’

  ‘Oh, I am going to chase something.’ Selby bit his lip, looking at her with a gaze that Brenda couldn’t categorise. ‘You, or the dog. I am deciding which.’

  ‘You… you would not dare.’ Brenda blinked, wondering whether the thrill that rippled through her came from fear or something else. Something deeper. ‘You cannot possibly be thinking
of chasing me.’

  ‘Miss Hartwell.’ Oh, why did the man have to stare so? As if he could read the secrets of her heart, her soul, the basest parts of her? ‘You cannot possibly think that I will not.’

  Winston had vanished behind a box. Brenda knew that now was the time to break the odd spell that hung over the attic; time to throw her hands up and walk away.

  She also knew, with a stubbornness that shocked her, that she wasn’t going to do anything of the sort.

  ‘Well, Miss Hartwell?’ Selby’s stance had changed; he was tenser, watchful. As if assessing all the different escape routes that she could take. ‘What do you say?’

  ‘I say…’ Brenda’s throat was dry; her hands were trembling suddenly as she hid them in her skirts. Forbidden parts of her were quivering, melting. ‘I—I say, Your Grace, that you must catch me before you say anything else.’

  Had she actually said that? Had those words passed her lips? Even Selby looked shocked; for a split-second, Brenda wondered if one could simply die of shame. But the feeling tightening her chest wasn’t shame, not at all; it was excitement, pure excitement, sending sweet fire through every one of her extremities.

  ‘Be careful, Miss Hartwell.’ Selby’s smile was that of a wild creature. ‘I shall take you at your word.’

  ‘Fine.’ Brenda opened her mouth, as if to say something else—and then, joy bubbling up in her like a spring, she fled.

  She had loved running as a child. It had given her such a glorious feeling of freedom; a freedom that had been curtailed by restrictive dresses and rest cures and constant objections on the part of her mother, who feared that young Brenda would beat the boys instead of letting them win as polite ladies should. Now, as an adult woman, the feeling was back—the freshness of it, the lightness, tempered with a new, rich emotion that made her stumble slightly in her swiftness.

  Laughing, jumping over innumerable boxes and bags and rolls of fabric with a decidedly unladylike athleticism, Brenda let the attic become an obstacle course. An obstacle course that became more exciting, more tinged with the thrilling feeling of danger, as she saw Selby leap into hot pursuit.

  ‘You shall not catch me, Your Grace!’ She knocked over a large bolt of silk, gasping as it thumped to the floor behind her. ‘I am more agile than you think!’

  ‘I have spent inordinate amounts of time thinking of your agility, Miss Hartwell.’ Selby barely sounded as if he were out of breath, despite being just behind her. Brenda, beginning to pant, wondered exactly how Selby’s spying career had benefited his physical strength. ‘I have made certain assumptions.’

  ‘You should avoid assumptions when you consider Miss Brenda Hartwell, Your Grace.’ Brenda made a daring leap over a towering pile of yellowed papers, and cried out with delight as she managed it. ‘She shall surprise you!’

  It was glorious to run. It was also, she had to admit, glorious to be chased. Especially being chased by James Selby, forbidden as it was… oh, what would he do if he caught her…

  What would she let him do, if he caught her?

  What would she beg for him to do?

  ‘Be careful, Miss Hartwell.’ Selby’s voice was suddenly very close indeed. ‘I bring surprises of my own.’

  Brenda cried out again as his hand caught hers.

  How had he moved so fast? How had he cleared all of the obstacles she had thrown into his path? Why is was almost… well. Like destiny.

  ‘You have caught me.’ Brenda stared at Selby, her palm warmly enclosed in his. ‘You have won.’

  Selby’s eyes burned into hers. ‘Not yet.’

  He stepped forward.

  The next few seconds were deeply confusing. Instead of hard wooden floorboards under Brenda’s feet, there was suddenly empty air; the world was a dizzying, terrifying fall into nothingness. Nothingness that became a soft, fluffy landing; a landing that knocked the breath from her, the fear from her, wrapping her in a wool and goose-feather nest.

  She was still holding Selby’s hand. Holding it much, much tighter than before, in fact. Selby, who was lying next to her in the strange, soft place where they had landed. Why, it almost felt like a bed…

  Oh.

  ‘Oh, Lord.’ Brenda, a hand held to her mouth, looked up at the open trap-door. ‘We are in the second bedroom. In the second bed. I… I believe we may have discovered how our host’s erstwhile ancestor performed his trick.’

  A hidden trap-door.’ Selby’s voice was a mixture of confusion and admiration. ‘Simple, and effective.’

  ‘And largely undetectable, if it depended on the weight. No wonder His Grace did not find it.’ Brenda looked up at the ceiling, one hand idly creeping to her chin. Winston was staring down at her, his small canine face unaccountably smug—a single yap, and he waddled off, back into the darkness of the attic. ‘One person would not be heavy enough to make it drop. Two… two people would be needed…’

  The reality of the situation settled on her by degrees. She was in a bed, with James Selby… James Selby, who had chased her through the attic with a swift, animal hunger that had thrilled her…

  James Selby, whose body was pressed brazenly tight against hers. Strong, and lean, and full of a power that she could feel radiating through her own centre…

  ‘I should move away.’ Brenda wasn’t expecting to say the words out loud. She definitely wasn’t expecting her own voice to sound so doubtful, as if hoping to be convinced of a different outcome. ‘I… I should leave immediately.’

  ‘Yes. You should.’ But Selby’s arm was already moving to encircle her waist; how good he smelled, how clean and potent and exciting. So exciting that Brenda couldn’t suppress a small, dreamy sigh of pleasure. ‘And I should move away as well. Immediately.’

  ‘No.’ Brenda couldn’t stop herself; she bit her lip, wishing she could stop her hand as it crept along the linen of Selby’s shirt-sleeve. Touching him, feeling him touch her, was more illicitly thrilling than anything she had ever felt. ‘I mean, yes, of course, but… no…’

  Her voice trailing away, she stared into Selby’s eyes. No man had ever stared at her as if she were the most magnificent, exquisite creature in the world—as if her very presence was something astonishing. Something sacred.

  'Or… or we can stay for just a little while, Miss Hartwell.' Selby's voice was not the smooth, unhurried purr of the practiced seducer; if anything, he sounded decidedly rough. As if she, Brenda Hartwell, held all the power. 'Please, let us consider destiny for a… for a very little while.'

  'I...' When had the world ever been so soft, so fragrant, so infinitely pleasant? This had to exist outside of time; outside of the natural order of things. That way she could simply rest her head against the pillows, lips parted, and enjoy the pleasure that had already begun to flow through her in sweet, delirious waves.

  ‘Well?’ Selby gently pressed his forehead to hers; the new contact, the intimacy of it, thrilled her. ‘Do you agree?’

  ‘Your Grace…’ Brenda tilted her head upward, her lips a hairs-breadth away from his. ‘I will give destiny my full consideration.’

  Full consideration. If Brenda Hartwell knew how wildly attractive she was when she said those words, Selby had no doubt that she would have been happily married five Seasons ago. As it was, she was in his arms—and there was no better outcome, none at all, in his opinion. In his arms, in a very unexpected bed, and in a mood to welcome destiny.

  He knew there was a set pattern that he was meant to follow. Compliments, gentle stroking of the face—kisses, eventually. But Selby found himself so shocked by the fall from the attic, and so exquisitely alive at the prospect of being close to Brenda, that he forgot in what order he was meant to act.

  He kissed Brenda Hartwell. Kissed her deeply, lengthily, honestly; a kiss that sent a shuddering wrench of desire through his core. Reaching up to cup her face, marvelling at its softness, he coaxed her tongue to stroke against his own as he took in the pleasures of her mouth, her sighs against his lips, her ripe curves pressed
lushly against his body. Only when he pulled away, panting, did Selby remember that he wasn’t meant to begin quite so forcefully.

  Oh, hell. Brenda’s fingers were curled tightly around his neck, pulling his mouth back to hers; she didn’t seem to mind, not at all. Selby, tracing the edge of Brenda’s full lips with with tongue, let his blazing need for her rule his actions.

  He couldn’t spend forever at her mouth. Not when the rest of her body called to him so strongly. With a final, lingering kiss of her lips, his tongue stroking the roof of her mouth as a savage ache hardened his cock, Selby moved to the long white line of Brenda’s neck.

  ‘Ah!’ Brenda’s gasping cry inflamed him as he kissed her neck, running his tongue over her skin, grazing his teeth against her delicate flesh. ‘I… oh.’

  ‘Destiny behoves me to compliment you.’ Selby kissed her neck again, smiling as Brenda’s eyelids fluttered with pleasure. ‘Lavishly, and in a detailed manner.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ The slight touch of sarcasm in Brenda’s voice only inflamed him further. ‘Some learned expressions of delight concerning my hair, my eyes, the turn of my ankles…’

  As a matter of fact, Selby had been going to compliment her appearance. There was more than enough to compliment; he had composed silent rhapsodies concerning her hair, her lips, the soft swell of her breasts. Looking down at her, though, he found himself saying words that came from a much deeper and more honest place.

  ‘You are so witty. So clever, and so kind. Kindness upon kindness, and honest words, and courage that is as rare as it is lovely.’

  ‘My goodness.’ Brenda’s eyes widened. ‘Are… are those the compliments one normally pays, when briefly surrendering to destiny?’

  Selby swallowed. The convenient lie failed him. ‘… No.’

  Brenda did not answer. But her next kiss, full of a searching passion that brought a moan to Selby’s lips, gave him all the answer that he needed.