The Duke and His Destiny

by Felicia Greene

  Harding’s slightly confused smile was enough to bring a little mirth to her own soul. ‘How very specific you are in your pleasures, Miss Hartwell.’

  ‘I wish I were less specific.’ Brenda sighed. ‘It would make things ever so much easier.’

  There was a moment of slightly uncomfortable silence. Harding looked as if he wished to say something serious; Brenda, swallowing, knew that there was no real way to refuse to hear him.

  ‘Miss Hartwell… allow me to say something frank.’ Harding turned to face her fully; Brenda found a small part of herself was cowering in fear. Grave, naturally serious men like Harding had always made her feel so utterly silly. ‘Have you ever thought that some of the choices you have made for yourself in recent months, worthy as they are, may have been made because you believe that you do not deserve happiness?’

  Such a statement was so unusual that Brenda did not know how to respond. She stared at Harding, unblinking, not knowing if she wanted him to stop or continue.

  ‘I am not speaking of increased independence, or the company of good friends, or the acquisition of a great number of hobbies. All of those things are a balm to the soul, I imagine. My wife has certainly encouraged me to pursue a wider field of interests, and I have supported her every time she has successfully climbed yet another mountain of the spirit.’ Harding’s slightly softer expression let Brenda know that he was incapable of speaking about his wife without showing all and sundry how much he loved her. ‘I am speaking about your desire to never marry. To never twin your soul with that of another.’

  Brenda was silent. Her usual defences, strong as they were when persuading lesser beings, seemed utterly useless when set against Harding’s gentle, remorseless logic.

  ‘I have already spoken too much, I feel. Any more, and I would overstep my post.’ Harding silently rose, bidding Brenda to stay seated as she attempted to rise. ‘Forgive my pressing, Miss Hartwell. I hope that we next meet under happier circumstances.’

  Before Brenda could ask him to stay, or tell him that his words were more than welcome, Harding had left the room as unobtrusively as he had arrived. She sat for some minutes in complete silence, too overwhelmed even to cry, carefully considering what the man had said.

  You believe that you do not deserve happiness. There was truth there; a simple, devastating truth. One that Brenda hid from, her eyes filling with tears once more, as she sat in the library with clenched fists.

  Did independence mean sadness? Did love mean happiness? And if they did… what was she meant to do?

  Being useful was always an option. One that felt especially difficult after a night spent dozing in the library, an old blanket wrapped around her, Winston biting her feet at an ungodly hour to wake her. Brenda, sipping coffee in the privacy of her room as the laughter and chatter of the other guests floated up from the morning room, wondered if today was the day to choose idleness again. But when Matilda appeared at her door, brisk and full of evident energy, Brenda knew that disappointing her friend would be worse than a thousand years spent regretting every one of her decisions.

  ‘I have a special task for you.’

  ‘Matilda.’ Brenda looked levelly at her friend, frightened at the excitement in her eyes. It could only mean more scheming, and she was in no mood to combat it. ‘I warn you, I am in no condition to—’

  ‘No tricks. I promise.’ Matilda paused; in that brief period of silence Brenda heard apologies, condolences, and her heart overflowed with gratitude. ‘But it is a task that I think you will enjoy, however much you pretend that you do not.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Brenda tried to smile. ‘And why shall I enjoy it?’

  ‘Well…’ Matilda gently, shyly gestured to her waist. Her slightly thicker waist, now that Brenda looked at it closely. ‘It involves a secret.’

  ‘... Really?’ Joy filled Brenda’s heart, briefly drowning out her despairing thoughts. ‘Oh, Matilda!’

  ‘I know. People treat it as the normal thing, I know.’ Matilda smiled wider. ‘But I am treating it as a miracle. A miracle, and an excuse to organise.’

  ‘Organise?’ Brenda smiled. ‘Organise what?’

  ‘Every garment that I own, dear. I must decide what will flatter me as I grow wider, and what must be consigned to cedar chests in the attic. You have wider hips than me—know, dear, that I am not insulting you—and will show me what I will look like in a month or so.’ Matilda laughed at Brenda’s expression. ‘Come now. It is trying on gowns, without the interference of a maid. It is every woman’s favourite thing to do.’

  Brenda did enjoy trying on dresses. She had tried not to enjoy it; taking pleasure in fabrics and trimmings seemed diametrically opposed to the changes she had made in her life. But Matilda had a beautiful dressing room, full of light and colour—and more importantly, she had absolutely glorious gowns.

  Gowns that included her wedding gown. Her wedding gown, which had mysteriously been the very first garment that Matilda had insisted she put on.

  Matilda’s old wedding gown was exquisite in every way. If it had been any less beautiful—if there had been even the slightest tear in the lace, or rent in the damask—Brenda would have stridently insisted on performing any other task. But a small, stubborn part of her had coveted Matilda Weatherbrooke’s wedding gown ever since Matilda had become Matilda Harding, and the chance of putting it on and looking at herself was not to be sneezed at.

  In truth, the gown had made Matilda look somewhat fragile. Virginal, even; something that the wedding guests had privately laughed at, given the woman’s colourful history. But on Brenda’s broader, thicker frame, the dress was attractive in a way that was almost… brazen.

  ‘My.’ Matilda took in the sight with widened eyes. ‘I do not think I looked quite this lovely when I wore it.’

  ‘You looked a thousand times more lovely.’ Brenda looked critically at herself in the glass, noting bunches and folds in the fabric that were incomparably ugly to her mind’s eye. She looked as if she were play-acting at being a bride—wasn’t that meant to be bad luck? ‘Tell me quickly. Can it be altered to accommodate changes, or must it be confined to the attic until use can be made of it again?’

  ‘I believe it will have to be thrown in the cedar-lined chest, and buried under a heap of lesser dresses, until I am fit to be seen in something slender again.’ Matilda gently caressed her own thickening waist, her eyes alive with a soft excitement that Brenda found herself obscurely jealous of. ‘Or… or perhaps I shall give it to you, dear.’

  ‘It would be a very lovely and very useless gift.’ Brenda spoke smilingly, the words causing a pang somewhere deep within her. ‘I shall have no occasion to use it whatsoever.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Matilda’s face was a strange mixture of caution and curiosity. ‘Can… can you really think of no occasion, Brenda? None at all?’

  She must have spoken to Selby. They must have discussed her. Brenda, suddenly feeling very constricted by the fabric of the dress, spoke in a tone that hovered perilously close to harshness.

  ‘None at all, dear. How many dresses do we have left to try on?’

  ‘Many, dear. Many.’ Matilda looked at Brenda with infinite gentleness. ‘Shall I leave you alone to try them on?’

  Brenda was very sure she was going to cry. ‘Please do.’

  Matilda’s soft nod almost brought a sob to her lips. With another quiet smile, her friend was gone.

  Brenda sighed, blinking away her. She should take the gown off immediately; consign it to the chest along with the other dresses. Stroking the skirts with a loving, distracted hand, noting how much better the gown looked in daylight rather than illuminated by the corridor chandeliers, she prepared to take it off.

  Her eye caught the vase of flowers resting innocently on the windowsill. Roses, tumbling ones; Matilda adored the blooms, filling the house with discarded petals and swooning scent whenever the plants had a flush.

  You are being foolish. Brenda, unable to take her eyes off the blooms, shook her hea
d. Very foolish indeed.

  Slowly, as if trying to conceal her actions from an unseen onlooker, she sidled over to the vase. Gently wrapping her fingers around the neatly grouped stems, she withdrew the bunch from the vase. Letting it drip for an instant, letting the scent of the rich pink flowers wash over her, Brenda held the roses at her waist.

  As she turned back to face the mirror, she gasped. The flowers made the gown look different, somehow; made it look right. She no longer looked uncomfortable, or brazen, as if she were fighting with the fabric. If anything, she glowed.

  Was this what she would look like, if she were to marry? This glorious, light-filled woman, expectant somehow, as if she were on the verge of a discovery? Brenda closed her eyes, trying to control herself; she had dreamed so often, so deliberately, of weddings in her youth that she expected the desire to seem stale. She hadn't imagined the freshness, the deep throb of want, that would come from looking at herself in such a manner.

  She had not imagined marriage once since the day of her outburst. Since she had arrived at Poppy Grancourt's house, tearfully confessing her jealousy and rage, all thoughts of weddings had been determinedly banished. She had to live her life on her own terms; she had to practice solitude, discover her own talents and aptitudes and hopes, in order to be a woman worthy of true friendship... but really, had she ever thought that she would become a woman capable of being loved?

  That is what has changed. Her inner voice had never sounded quite so severe, and quite so sad. You have fallen in love with someone, you stupid girl, and now all dreams are allowed.

  The enormity of such an idea was staggering. Being really, truly in love with someone was bad enough; being in love with James Selby was another thing entirely. A man who left her confused, angry, surrendered to a passion that seemed a thousand times stronger than any semblance of reason... oh, it was not to be supported. Not to be borne.

  The door slowly opened. Brenda turned, expecting Matilda, ready to fling the roses across the room if necessary. Instead, her mouth falling open, she stared into the shocked face of James Selby.

  Of course she would find her here. Of course he would find her here, in a wedding gown, holding flowers. Brenda, so shocked she could barely breathe, half-expected a sudden burst of orchestral music from the heavens themselves.

  'I did not plan it...' What a stupid thing to say. Brenda let the sentence trail away, barely recovering under the force of Selby's stare. 'I did not. Whatever Matilda may have said to you, whatever excuse she made to have you come up here -'

  'I have not seen Matilda. I came here of my own accord, looking for Winston.'

  'Oh.' Brenda swallowed. 'Winston is not here.'

  'No.' Selby hadn't moved. 'No, he is not.'

  He was so close. Close enough to grip the collar of his coat; close enough to bring her mouth to his. Brenda, eyes wide, found that she could barely breathe.

  ‘Miss Hartwell. Brenda.’ Selby’s voice was shaking; it was as if he had taken her by the shoulders, or cupped her face with his hands. Every word burned like a touch. ‘Please, for the love of all that is holy, do not try to tell me that this is not destiny.’

  ‘I… I do not believe that destiny rules our actions.’ Brenda looked down at the soft, creamy white and blue of the wedding gown, not daring to look at Selby while she lied. ‘I do not.’

  ‘I do not have to believe. I know.’ Selby took a step forward; Brenda stared, unable to blink. ‘Not that destiny rules my actions. I know that you rule my actions, my sentiments, my thoughts. My desires. All of me.’ He paused, brow furrowed, as if the weight of his words were crushing him. ‘But if you are determined to ignore it, or deny it, or simply choose to lead a different life, please tell me in no uncertain terms to leave you and I shall—’

  No. Before she could say anything, or even think beyond that single word, Brenda let the flowers fall to the floor. She threw her arms around him, clinging to him, hot tears stinging her eyes as she whispered against the soft linen of his shirt.

  ‘I am determined to ignore it, but I cannot. I am determined to deny it, but I cannot. I was determined to lead—lead a life of solitude, and good works, knowing that to set one’s cap at a titled gentleman is nothing more than an obscene form of subjugation—’

  ‘Did it feel like subjugation, being with me?’ There was desperation in Selby’s voice. ‘Does it feel like subjugation being with me, here, now?’

  ‘No.’ Brenda murmured the word, sighing with broken, abandoned pleasure as she felt Selby’s arms move around her waist. ‘It feels like—like Paradise.’

  How strange it felt, telling the complete truth. She had expected it to feel as if she were giving something up, leaving her core empty. But as Selby looked down at her, his expression glowing with shared joy, Brenda realised that she had never felt so happy. So complete.

  She had never seen Selby so full of passion. So vibrant with frustration, with need, that his raw stare seemed to burn with inner fire. Brenda, her body full of a sensation so delicious that she felt as if she were floating, pulled his mouth to hers with a hunger that would have shamed her past self.

  She half-expected his kisses to lack a little of the fire that she had felt on the bed. How could any of those kisses ever find an equal, raw and searching as they had been? But Selby, pushing her against the wall of the dressing room with a strength that filled her with savage, intimate delight, began kissing her lips with all the lascivious, attentive focus that Brenda had longed for.

  A waterfall of kisses became a flood. A sweet, dark flood that pinned her to the dressing-room wall, deliciously helpless, as Selby lavished her mouth and cheeks and neck with kisses. Kisses that became licks, bites, as he pulled the wedding gown roughly downward until her shoulders and chest were bared to him.

  ‘Not that it matters, but why are you wearing Matilda’s wedding gown?’ Selby stopped for a moment, looking at her with a humorous twist of his mouth.

  ‘We were deciding if it was to be stored in the attic or used again.’ Brenda writhed in his arms, letting the dress slide further downward; it felt right to be bared to him again, however illicit it was to do so.

  Selby’s eyes moved over her bare breasts, his pleasure evident in his gaze. ‘And what decision was made?’

  Brenda smiled shyly. ‘Storage.’

  ‘Good.’ Selby kissed her again. ‘Then they will not find out what I have done until years from now.’

  As Brenda gasped in shock, he ripped her free of the constrictive bodice. Her arms were suddenly bare, scraps of delicately embroidered sleeve falling to the ground like autumn leaves.

  ‘Oh!’ Brenda looked at him, scandalised. ‘You are most callous!’

  ‘I am in most desperate need of your naked skin.’ Selby didn’t seem in the least bit guilty. ‘And now that I have it, in abundance, I shall pay for any and all damages that have been incurred. Once they are discovered, of course.’

  There didn’t appear to be anything left to say. Brenda threw her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, kissing him with a passion that was as ferocious as it was vast. Moaning in welcome as Selby’s mouth moved lower, her eyelids fluttering as his lips danced over her shoulders, then collarbones, then breasts, she tried to remember what he had promised her the last time destiny had pulled them together.

  Was it that he would kiss her here—that he would run his tongue over her nipples, just as before, the feel of him causing a firework-blast of sensation at her core? No, it was perfect, but it wasn’t that. Was it that he would hold her tightly in his arms, his hands moving to her thighs, holding her so firmly that she knew he would never let her go, not in his mind, not in his heart…

  No. It wasn’t that. What had it been?

  Selby’s hand moved to her inner thigh, brushing over her curls, making her shiver. All of a sudden, Brenda had her answer.

  ‘You said that you would kiss me here.’ She brought Selby’s hand to her mound, brazenly holding it to her entrance, biting her lip at the sw
eet, perfect warmth of his palm. ‘Do it. Please. I am ready.’

  Selby looked up at her, his tone doubtful. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I—’ Brenda huffed, her dignity vanishing in the face of her need. ‘Do not make me ask twice!’

  Selby’s answering laughter was quite the most beautiful thing she had ever heard. She laughed in response, her joy deepening her desire, watching in loving curiosity as Selby sank to his knees.

  She waited, her heart in her mouth. Her skirts were raised, the soft froth of the gown enclosing her like an embrace... and oh, lord, there was his mouth, kissing her thighs with the same ardency that he had lavished on her mouth.

  'Oh…' She couldn't resist a soft, wondering sigh as his kisses moved higher. Her thighs had never been touched with such tenderness; she was quivering, quivering as she had in the second bedroom where Selby had moved his fingers inside her, as his mouth climbed to her hot, needy core.

  'Ah!' She was right to have been scared, before; it was too good, too powerful, too perfect as his tongue delved between her curls, parting her lips, kissing and lapping at her most intimate self. She would melt. She would shatter into a million pieces, or wash away, or float into the air, because it was utterly impossible to stay still with Selby kissing her there, licking her there, his tongue flickering against her bud like a sweet, delirious flame. Brenda dimly realised that she was clutching at his hair, tangling his dark curls in her fingers as she yielded to him, her thighs spreading wider and wider as she lost all control over her desires.

  She didn’t want what had happened yesterday - that overwhelming, impossible feeling of coming apart - to occur when Selby wasn’t looking at her. Brenda knew it was probably strange, but the urge to see him as her pleasure took her was too strong. She needed to have his steady gaze trained on her, just as she needed his still, sardonic presence in every other area of her life, a constant companion…