His Duty, Her Destiny. Juliet Landon

worry, George dear. Our guest won’t be demanding rapiers at dawn on this occasion. Will you, Sir Fergus?’ Her huge dark eyes blazed with scorn into the hard grey steel of her adversary, and she knew that her hit had damaged him as much as his earlier one upon her, perhaps more so, and that he would do nothing to counter it. Not then, anyway.

      The sharp clack of the latch hung heavily in the ensuing silence like the distant sound of lances shattering upon armour. No man would have escaped such a volley of insults with his life, and no woman would have walked from a room without leaving behind some kind of awareness that there was more to this than mere dislike of a man’s pedigree, however deeply embedded that had become.

      ‘I’m sorry, Ferg,’ said George. ‘I must have forgotten to tell her about your father. But still, she had no right to…tch! This is dreadful. I wish I’d asked Charlotte to be with us.’

      Sir Fergus placed a hand over his friend’s arm. ‘I think we both expected that kind of reaction,’ he said. ‘If we didn’t, then we should have done. Don’t take it too personally.’

      ‘Even so, it looks as if her line-up of suitors has given her big ideas. She may well prefer a title, but, if so, that’s not the Nick I know. Give her another year, Ferg, and then see. Eh?’

      Walking over to the window, Sir Fergus collected the two abandoned rapiers and leaned them against the wall. ‘No, I shall not wait,’ he said.

      ‘Oh…well…no, I can’t blame you, of course.’

      ‘I shall press on with it. I’m a fighting man and she’s a courageous woman to fight me back. We shall come to terms by and by, you’ll see.’

      ‘Well, I’m relieved to hear it. You were never one to give up easily, were you? Nevertheless, I shall go and speak to her. I’m determined you shall have a full apology before you leave.’

      ‘Not necessary, George.’

      ‘Of course it is, man. Help yourself to Nicola’s malmsey. I’ll be with you in a few moments.’

      ‘Nicola! Wait!’ George, Lord Coldyngham, called to the white butterfly disappearing round the bend of the passageway, striding over the stone-flagged floor towards her, though his request was ignored.

      ‘Oh, George,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘not again, please. I’ve heard enough on the subject to last me a year.’

      Catching up with her before she reached the door to the garden, he ushered her sideways along the gravel path and into the bright greenness of new growth and vine-clad arbours. A circular fountain held centre stage, its jet of water cutting across the sun and scattering its light into sparkling droplets that pattered down upon the darting silver shapes beneath. Yellow king-cups clustered around the edge. ‘Nicola, you’ve gone too far,’ he said, severely.

      She stopped and sat upon the wide stone edge of the fountain, trailing one hand in the water and looking up at him with feigned innocence. ‘And in future, George, would you mind allowing me to issue my own invitations? Would you and Lotti expect me to invite my friends to your home without telling you?’

      ‘I’m sorry. I sent him a message to meet me here. He came early, that’s all. Was he so discourteous to you that you had to insult him, a guest in your own home? That was not well done, Nick. Did you not know that his father was killed at sea scarce eight months ago?’

      Nicola’s eyes clouded as she took her bottom lip between her teeth, halting the prepared riposte. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

      ‘When was I supposed to tell you?’ he said, crossly. ‘I thought you’d have heard it from your noble friends. They seem to have plenty of gossip about births, marriages, deaths and—’ He stopped, abruptly.

      ‘Yes? And affairs, you were about to say? Don’t try to wrong-foot me, George. You forgot. Admit it. At least he now knows, as you do too, that I’ve just given him no more or less than he damn well deserves. It would hardly have penetrated his thick skull, anyway.’ She turned her face away angrily, recalling that morning’s shameful episode. ‘He’s done far more than that to me and nobody ever demanded an apology from him. Monster!’

      There was a quick unseen movement of her brother’s handsome eyebrows and a tightening of the lips to prevent a smile. He reached out a hand to clasp hers, well aware that there was much more to her hostility than she was saying.

      ‘George,’ she said, suspecting some imminent persuasion, ‘there’s really no more to be said.’ Sideways, she observed the long mulberry brocade cote-hardie with its precise pleats beneath the red leather belt. Everything about him proclaimed wealth and good breeding with never a trace of ostentation.

      ‘Yes, there is.’ He kept hold of her hand, and she knew that there was indeed more to be said and that she was not nearly so dismissive as she pretended to be. ‘In spite of the insults just now, Nick, Fergus is still willing to offer for you. He made a promise to his father when he was dying. Ferg was wounded in the same skirmish. They were fighting off pirates.’

      ‘Promise, fiddlesticks!’ she scoffed. ‘George, what nonsense.’ Her laughter did not last long, for she felt again the hard intimate pressure of Fergus’s body upon hers and knew instinctively that it could not have been the first time he had held a woman like that. Or exposed her breast, for that matter. ‘You’ve got it wrong. Whatever he’s told you, you’ve misunderstood. He no more wants to marry me than I do him, and if he’s told you different then he’s lying. There was never a moment when he could find a civil word to say to me, and most of the time I might not have been there at all. Why would he suddenly come and offer for my hand if not for links with the Coldynghams?’

      It took little effort for her to remember the time she had placed her eleven-year-old hand in Fergus’s while he was looking the other way. Without a word or a smile, he had pulled his hand away as if it had been scalded, leaving her close to tears at an insensitivity she could not begin to understand. She had never forgotten the snub, nor had she ever repeated the attempt. Even now, when she might have been expected to know how an age difference of five years will eventually close and disappear, the recurring humiliation of being a female child trying to hold her own against older lads in their own peer group had stayed in her tender young psyche and refused to fade with time. She had not nurtured it, just not forgotten the pain of rejection that accompanied each of his visits when only blind hero-worship forbade her to stop trying for his approval.

      Consequently, she had made a fool of herself time and again to the embarrassed amusement of all her brothers except Ramond. He had been the one to go back for her, the one who would pick dock leaves to salve her nettle-stings, the one to help her down a tree when the others had deserted her to follow Fergus. Dear Ramond. He was the offspring of the second Lady Coldyngham; George and Daniel shared the first. Nicola and Patrick shared the third, though she had died at Patrick’s birth. When an unexpected girl had arrived to interrupt the flow of lads, the chosen name had only needed to be docked by one letter to make it suitable. Similarly with the middle names: Leonie for Leo, Phillipa for Phillip.

      ‘It’s not nonsense,’ said George, ‘nor do I believe for one moment that Fergus is merely seeking a connection. I’m telling you, he wants to marry you. He’s changed, Nick.’

      Nicola jumped to her feet, snatching her hand away in annoyance. ‘He has not, George. He’s not changed one whit. And I’ll be damned if I’ll give myself to that…that churl just because of his father’s promises. He can go and look elsewhere for his breeding stock. I can have my pick of lords and earls any time I choose. Tell him he’s too late. Tell him I’d rather stay unmarried for the rest of my life than accept his patronising offer. Condescending…overbearing…superior…highhanded…’ Slowly, very slowly, her salvo fizzled out as she shook her head, her eyes filling with sudden tears. ‘Isn’t it ironic?’ she whispered.

      Surprised, George watched the transformation from indignant woman to rueful child. ‘Come here, love,’ he said, holding out a hand. ‘Tell me what’s ironic. That Fergus should want you, after all?’

      She