In their brief time together, they could not seem to resist going to toe to toe in every moment. The woman from Morocco shoved him, and in turn the duke pushed. Provoked into prodding harder each time until hands were ringed around each other’s throats. Not violently, and not in a menacing way. Almost as if their own balancing act on the ground had been designed to see deeper into the other, find out what reality might lie beneath the matched sarcasm and sexual attraction.
An opportunity did appear. Death of a parent was not unusual for two to share either. Same as he said about his fears. Nothing special. The gravitational force of anything more than a silent acknowledgment of each other felt too great then. So… back to the regularly scheduled playful taunts.
“From our last meeting I though you would realize I do put up a fight.” But he might not, Graham wasn’t so sure admitting a fear could be a prize to someone else.
He began to climb up the ladder. A few pauses, a few glances cast down to see her follow. Once at the top he waited and heard the start of his name, soft as the braids of hair hanging down her back. The duke did not share a fear of heights. However, the sensation of vertigo, the sense of being precariously off the ground, was more than familiar. Graham did not offer a hand to a woman too proud to do more than slap it away. “I am right here. You have arrived. Step up on the platform, Dominique.”
She finally did. An acrobat waited and offered instructions he really could not hear in the middle of a storm he had allowed himself to be drawn into. Flummoxed by a demonstration of the performer using their arms for balance as one foot easily followed the other halfway across before nimbly returning back. And yet Grahm was diving head first, willingly but hopefully it would not be literal.
As much as he enjoyed trying new (and often perilous) things, the one they were in the middle of required talent. Concentration. And other points of control that Graham simply did not have the patience for. His boots were removed– someone would have the foresight to carry them carefully down for him. They were too expensive to be tossed recklessly to the ground.
Dominique grinned. So did he. A bit more bright-eyed than usual, with the walk ahead instantly sobering him. “I would not be so bold to think I can do what these acrobats here have trained a lifetime for. But. I will go first.”
Graham exhaled and stepped onto the tightrope. The sooner the lunacy was embraced, the sooner he could down another drink on the ground. The ones he had prior were merely liquid courage. More of a detriment than anything.
Not far into the slow walk, his focus narrowed to his base, to his legs. The acrobat shouted an instruction. Braços! Levante os braços! Unfortunately, Graham did not find it helpful.
With every step he felt the a wiggle and give of the rope. Near the midpoint of the journey a too-quick and overconfident step caused him to freeze. Knees bent, one arm out, one arm reaching to find the balance to ride out a tidal sway of the rope. What damn good were his arms then if not for grabbing towards anything other than the air?
But he saved himself. Only to take a few more steps forward. Another shaky footstep forced him to overcompensate by leaning too far, and Graham lost his footing.
There were moments that Dominique clung to ardently, for people were not reliable. Like the brief gusts of wind they blow into her life, unrestrained and alluring in the way they pick up sand or petals in their path. They flutter in the wind, twisting in a waltz that left her speechless, enamored by the thrill of it all. And yet, as soon as they come, the wind bids her farewell, leaving her in disarray to brush the sand off her tiled pathways, shoving petals into a dustpan to dip into the trash or let them wilt and return to nature. That was what people like Graham were to her — limitless and finite all the same. Limitless in their approach, bringing her to new heights, but they all tired of her — they all left her. Some had left her before she could even admit their presence, and those that staid were an illusion to her. She could pass her fingers through them and they would filter through like silk. Eventually she grew tired of these exchanges, tired of feeling both limitless and finite all at once, so she did what she knew best — she fought, pushed away.
She moved against the current that these gales provided, refusing to get caught up in them anymore; Dominique was a force in her own right, not one to cling to rocks through a storm, but to take it in full stride. It wasn’t the smartest approach, her governess warned her what a path shall lead to, but she didn’t care. It was a test, and anyone who couldn’t pass her trials simply wasn’t worth her time. If they couldn’t stay through her storm, why should she partake in their games? The ending was always the same anyway. But then, there was a shift of sorts, at least in the recent weeks since her time had dipped into London’s earl grey. Through gun smoke and fodder, it was in a forest that she met her match. One whose gaze didn’t waver from her steeled vision, one who shoved her just as hard. Graham challenged her, and for that she appreciated his presence, so long as it will last.
Their struck matches of lust and admiration had led them to this tent of all places tonight, with her grabbing iron rods and ascending to heights unimagined to her. It was another game of the many they played, each seeking where the other would bend, but both were stubborn creatures in their own right. Perhaps it is something both of their fathers left them to figure out. The chill of the metal centered her as much as it could. Her throat constricted, eyes squeezing shut with a tight swallow as she halted. His name slipped out to ground her, worried the sweat from her palms would lead her to an early grave marked by careless ambition. She stared ahead, past the tent and through the bars as she called for him momentarily, hoping the sound of his name would guide her away from wanting to look down. And surprisingly, he answered her call. He didn’t leave her standing there alone.
Her coffee coated eyes fled upwards, meeting his voice. He didn’t offer a hand, and even if he had they both knew how she would have responded. It was a small gesture, one that made her smile — one that made her feel less alone. Graham had a habit of doing that, one that left her feeling frustrated and confused, rare for a woman who always knew what she wanted. His words coaxed her forward, soothing her anxiety away. And once she reached the top, it took her everything not to exhale and collapse forward. Instead she remained level headed, grinned as if it were an easy feat, as if the next task were less perilous than the one they just conquered. He seemed to fit in this new plane, tenderly removing boots and setting them aside. Graham’s gaze and words held a different approach than she had known, one that suited the man. Then he stepped forward, and the world seemed to crumble.
Instructions were called to him, in a way that seemed to weather the man’s determination. Dominique didn’t bother shouting at him, not wanting to distract, hugging herself to not think of what laid below. Graham seemed to have faired well, until like her something changed at the halfway point. And then, he fell.
In that moment, Dominique didn’t have time to dwell on the fear that pulsed through her, didn’t have time to call for his name like she attempted before. Her hands shoved the instructor aside and with forceful steps she launched herself forward. It felt like an eternity to reach the bottom, and once she did her heart slammed into herself, landing on her side. Horn wedging itself in the net, she stayed there for a beat, breath rocky and body locking up on instinct. If he could see her eyes then, he would know pure fear burned in her. But if anything, anger fueled her more. With a jolt she freed herself from the netting, stumbling to her feet as she shakily and hastily made her way to him. Something felt wrong in her ankle, a slight stinging feeling which was evident in her gait.
Collapsing to her knees once at his side, her braids cascaded down her shoulder, offering a thin veil for them. Her palm tapped the side of his face for a reaction initially before it cupped his jawline, commanding his attention yet oddly tender in touch; almost like he could break underneath her touch. “What the hell was that” she grumbled finally after watching him momentarily before continuing. The party raged on around them, as if no one noticed the incident but the instructors who made their way down the ladders. Thumb caressing his jaw, she leaned forward and lightly captured his lips in hers. It was feather light, starkly different than their prior heated moments. And once they parted, her panted breath warmed the two, muttering against him. “Fuck you Duke of Sussex.” It was a loaded phrase, one that spoke of this moment in both humor and frustration, yet one that spoke for their moments leading up to this. He wasn’t supposed to make her worry, hell, she didn’t expect herself to either. But in his words, Sussex would have her head if another duke of theirs had died, and she couldn’t forgive herself if something had happened to him because of her.
