My Captive Duchess (The Reeves of Reeves Hall #1)

Chapter 1

Jane

March 1821, England, ten years later

O nce upon a time, an orphaned girl was sent to live in the household of prosperous relations. Her prospects were few, for she had little in the way of fortune or looks. She was not treated unkindly by these relations, but her place in their home was lowly, only a short step above that of the servants. There she lived for some years, playing second, or perhaps more accurately, third fiddle to her cousins, two gracious and gregarious young ladies who had every expectation of making a fine marriage.

Their sights were set on one gentleman in particular, a most sought-after bachelor of their acquaintance. He was none other than the Duke of Coleford, a man endowed with every desirable attribute. He was rich, handsome and well-born. Other traits that might have been considered defects, or at the very least a detriment to his desirability, were eclipsed by this fact of him being rich, handsome and well born. That he was self-effacing and painfully shy was well known, but this was seen simply as a manifestation of the greatness of his mind. That he had a tendency to stammer when in the presence of company was thought to be charming. That he was a poor horseman and preferred sedentary pursuits to sportsmanship was celebrated as one of his delightful eccentricities.

In short, the handsome duke could do no wrong—until the day he committed a most grievous misdeed. And what, one may ask, was this great felony? None other than this. The Duke of Coleford fell in love with me, the orphaned girl who had been taken in so charitably by her relatives. Not only did he fall in love, but he also proposed marriage. The good people in the Somerset village of Coleford, as well as society in the wider world, were all agog at this news. How could it be that such an illustrious personage should align himself with a mousy looking nobody? It was outrageous. It beggared belief. It could only be that the young hussy had used womanly wiles and vile trickery to ensnare the duke.

Numerous wise and well-meaning persons paid visits to him, offering earnest advice. All was done to try to prevent this great misalliance from occurring. But although the duke was of a diffident nature, on this matter he stood firm. He would marry Jane Price, and no one was going to stop him from doing so. And thus, in a small ceremony attended by few, he married me. A year later, we welcomed into the world our daughter, whom we named Chloe.

It sounds like a fairy tale, does it not? And for a short time, it was. Giles, my very own duke, was a gentle, loving husband and father. He rescued me from a lonely life of drudgery and shone a bright light over my world. However, unlike the fairy tales of yore, we did not get to live happily ever after. Our happiness lasted precisely three years, two months and five days.

I think on this now as I sit, wearing my widow’s weeds, and wait for Mr Oakley to tell me my fate. He is the Coleford family solicitor, and he has come to discuss matters relating to Giles’s estate with me. I barely register his words, for I am too numb with shock and grief. This is the way it has been since the news was conveyed to me of Giles’s accident. He had, against his better judgement, accepted an invitation to participate in a local hunt, during which he had been unseated by his horse. Poor Giles had fallen, broken his neck and died instantly. Those are the dry facts which my mind cannot grapple with just yet. Instead, I stare at a glittering piece of lint on the shoulder of Mr Oakley’s jacket. Perhaps I should call Simms, Giles’s valet, to run a brush over it. Or would the gentleman mind so very much if I leaned forward and flicked the offending item away?

I am so preoccupied with this that I almost fail to grasp the import of Mr Oakley’s words. “The Coleford estate is subject to an entail, which requires it to be passed in its entirety to the next male heir, along with the dukedom. That would be the late duke’s cousin. I have written to inform him of the duke’s passing, and he has written back to say he shall arrive at Coleford Hall on 3 rd April to take possession of his inheritance.”

My sluggish mind is slow to take in the ramifications of this statement. I am conscious of one fact only—that in less than two weeks’ time, Coleford Hall shall no longer be my home. That is not a bad thing in and of itself. I have never felt truly comfortable in this great mausoleum of a house. And without Giles’s cheery presence, it is a cold, unwelcoming place. Absently, I mumble, “We shall have to move to the London house.”

I catch a pitying look upon Mr Oakley’s countenance before he quickly schools his features to make it disappear. “I am afraid not, Your Grace,” he says gently. “The London house is also part of the entail.”

“I see,” I murmur, though I do not really see. Where are Chloe and I supposed to live now?

As if in answer to my silent question, Mr Oakley goes on to explain, “Ordinarily, as dowager duchess you would be entitled to live in the Dower House. However, that house has been rented out and is not available.”

Of course. Had I been thinking clearly, I would have known this. A sense of doom engulfs me. I cannot quite keep the tremor from my voice as I ask, “Then where are we to go?”

Mr Oakley interlaces his fingers and directs his gaze at me as he speaks, “There is one house which does not form part of the entail, for it belonged to the late duke’s mother. It passes now to you, Your Grace.”

“What house is this?” I ask, for I have not heard of it.

“Penhale Manor, Your Grace,” replies the solicitor. “It is located in Cornwall, a few miles east of Newquay.”

“Cornwall,” I repeat blankly. I am not at all familiar with that county.

Mr Oakley smiles kindly. “Yes, Your Grace. I have not been to see it, but I understand it is of good size. If you wish, I can write to request the house be prepared for your arrival.”

I nod my assent, not trusting myself to speak, and feeling overwhelmed at this sudden change in my circumstances—coming at a time when all I wish to do is grieve. The solicitor clears his throat. “There is one further matter to discuss,” he says ponderously. “It is to do with your funds. Your Grace will understand, of course, that all income from the land on the Coleford estate now goes to the new duke. However, the late duke’s mother also left him a lump sum, a part of her dowry, which is invested in the funds. It yields an income of around ￡400 a year. It is no great fortune, but that sum now goes to you, Your Grace. I was surprised there are no other funds for you, however, I believe it should provide a sufficient income to live on in reasonable comfort.”

“I am sure it will be more than sufficient for our needs,” I say softly. Giles and I had been used to living a quiet life, neither of us predisposed for grand balls and the great gatherings of the ton. Our pleasures were simple—walks in the park, sketching and of course, a great deal of reading. This new life at Penhale Manor will suit me and Chloe very well, I tell myself, though our surroundings will be foreign and new to us at first. I let my mind wander, emerging briefly from the numbness of grief to imagine a characterful and cosy house where I shall spend the rest of my days. We shall live simply but comfortably, away from the gossip of the ton. There, I shall raise my daughter, instil in her good Christian values, undertake her education, and in the fullness of time, see her married to an upstanding local gentleman. A trickle of hope begins to banish some of the dull, aching gloom that has beset me. We shall start anew, Chloe and I, and everything will work out.