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

Chapter 3

Broek

“ W hat are we going to do about it?” asks Liora. Her legs and feet are bare as she reclines on the healing couch and receives an invigorating rub to the lower part of her body. I cast her a fulminating glance, annoyed that once again, she has beaten me to it. My body aches with tension, and all day, I have been promising myself a session on that couch.

Once upon a time, this would not have been a problem, for each room of our palatial home back in Uvon was equipped with all the creature comforts we required. Here on Strahmeck 2—or Earth, as the natives call it—there is but one such couch, salvaged from the ship before it took off for our home planet. Instead I am sitting on a chair next to the console, with Horis and Simor lounging by the window.

With an angry huff, I consider my sister’s question. What indeed are we to do about the rumours circulating that our family is part of a pagan cult that practises a form of witchcraft? It is a view held by the more ignorant members of this society, though I fear that some of these opinions are spreading into the wider world. I am not too worried that a justice of the peace will come knocking on our doors with an arrest warrant. It has been over three quarters of a century since the crime of witchcraft was abolished. Laws may have changed, however, but attitudes linger, and superstition is still rife in this part of the country.

We chose this land to settle in for the sparsity of its population and the vast acreage we could acquire at a reasonable cost. It is not fertile land, which would account for why we were able to purchase it so cheaply. No matter to us. We grow the crops we need in our glasshouses; the rest we purchase from the nearest towns. What we wanted, more than fertile land, was a place devoid of nosy neighbours, where we could maintain our way of life within the enclosure of our secure walls.

What in the name of Yol are we to do about these pesky rumours? It is not as if I wish to befriend the English populace—they are a backward and primitive people. We have been careful though to keep up the appearances of their society, even attending church service every Sunday, which I consider the dullest hour of every week. It seems that is not enough. Still they talk about us, damned halfwits with nothing better to do. A part of me wishes we could simply ignore them, but I know that rumours can escalate and become ever more outlandish unless they are nipped in the bud. Something will have to be done, but what?

Before I can speak, my middle brother, Horis, observes, “People fear what they do not know. The more we keep to ourselves, the more suspicious they become of us.”

“What would you suggest?” I bite back acidly. “That we invite them into this settlement so they can gawk at our screens and marvel at our ‘magical’ lighting?”

Simor, the youngest of us at five and twenty years of age, sits up with a gleam in his eyes. “That idea is not half bad,” he pronounces. At my frown, he hastily adds, “Not the gawking at our technology, but the invitation to our house. We could host a dinner party for a select number of guests. Wolkan is the chief of security and can ensure none of the guests venture where we do not want them to go.”

“Hmm,” murmurs Horis. “You could be onto something there. We would have to set up the dining hall and drawing room so none of our technology is visible, as well as put in some props—candlesticks and such like.”

Strangers in my home. Marvellous. I cannot help the scowl that takes residence on my face, especially when my sister throws at me, “Grumps, what do you think?”

“Do not call me that!” I growl menacingly, but Liora merely chuckles in amusement. I do not particularly care for this nickname my siblings have given me, although I cannot deny that with each passing year of our exile, I have become increasingly more irascible in disposition. I almost forget the merry person I used to be before our lives took this dark turn over a decade ago. In that first year aboard the ship bound for Earth, we were all numb with grief, as well as filled with rage at what had been done to us. But then, one by one, my siblings picked themselves up and recovered their spirits. All except me.

Perhaps it is because my sense of loss and betrayal was greater than theirs. On Uvon, I had been in my element, distinguishing myself in my studies and rising up the ranks to lead a multibillion-Krosor business empire. My successes had not only been in the field of business. I had had my pick of beautiful women in my well-spent youth, eventually settling down with the most beautiful and talented of them all—Tarla. Even after these many years, the thought of her, and her treachery, makes my chest ache with pain. But I must not think of her. With an effort, I direct my thoughts to the matter at hand. A dinner party.

“We shall have to invite the most influential people we know,” I muse. After a moment’s reflection, I suggest, “Sir Nicholas and Lady Calthorpe with their two daughters.” Sir Nicholas is a baronet whose estate lies some three miles from here, not far from the port town of Newquay. I have only met him on a handful of occasions. He is a self-important, blustery gentleman with a placid wife and several children, the eldest of which are two young ladies, out in society.

“Their two marriageable daughters,” says Liora knowingly.

“What of that?” I bark in annoyance.

She raises a brow but humours me with an explanation. “It occurs to me that merely holding a dinner party will not be sufficient to stamp out the rumours. What we need is a visible union between us and a respectable, well-regarded family.” We all stare at her in shock. Surely she does not mean… but yes, Great Yol, she does. “One of you, dear brothers, ought to marry into a family such as the Calthorpes,” Liora goes on to say.

“Have you taken leave of your senses?” exclaims Horis, echoing my thoughts exactly. “Setting aside why it should be one of us to marry and not you, how in heavens are we to have one of them live among us without our secret being discovered?”

“I will have you know, Horis,” quips Liora with a smug grin, “that since I have reached the grand old age of one and thirty, society considers me unmarriageable and on-the-shelf, so of course, I cannot be the one to marry.”

“That is beside the point,” I grit out, my patience with my sister at an end. “Marriage with an outsider is out of the question for all of us. We cannot be inviting any of the natives to live among us.”

“Hear me out, Broek,” Liora retorts. “I agree with you. We cannot invite an outsider to live here, but what if one of us were to marry and live elsewhere nearby?” She rises to her feet and pads over to a side table on which rests a copy of The Times . She picks it up and flicks to the obituary page, pointing with her finger at one of the notices. “It says here that the Duke of Coleford has passed away from an accident, leaving behind a young widow, one who will no doubt inherit Penhale Manor. This may finally be our opportunity to purchase the property.”

Penhale Manor is a nearby house that has lain empty ever since we moved here seven years ago. Only a groundsman lives there, a drunkard who spends most of his time at the village tavern—which suits us very well. The less people around us the better. For some time now, I have been keen to purchase Penhale Manor to afford us a greater measure of privacy as well as to enlarge our settlement, for in addition to myself and my three siblings, a crew of thirty-six people—all of them loyal family retainers—joined us on this exodus from Uvon. Already, several of them have entered into unions, even going so far as marrying in the local church to keep things official. With their growing families, we will soon need to expand our settlement.

Three months ago, I sent a letter to the owner of Penhale Manor, the Duke of Coleford, expressing my interest in purchasing the property, but my generous offer was rejected. It is unfathomable to me why this nobleman would wish to keep a nearly derelict house with land that earns him little income, which he never uses, even for a fleeting visit. The ways of these humans are still a mystery to me.

I take the paper from Liora’s hand and read the notice, thinking rapidly. We must strike fast and make the widow a generous offer she cannot refuse. Once Penhale Manor is in our hands, we can make the necessary refurbishments and have one of us live there with his bride, effectively acquiring a veneer of respectability and downplaying any rumours about our family. Of course, we would not be able to install much Uvonian technology at Penhale Manor and that person would have to live there as the natives do, perhaps trusting her enough to reveal our secret in due course. It cannot be me, I conclude. I have sacrificed enough for this family already. It is surely time for Horis or Simor to step up.

As my glance finds my brothers, they both instantly catch the drift of my thoughts and raise their hands in protest. “Not me,” says Simor hurriedly. “I am far too young to marry.”

“You are not!” I declare with a satisfying thump of my fist on the table.

“Well, but it will seem very odd that I should marry before either of my two older brothers,” he says smoothly, not the least bothered by my show of anger.

My eyes dart towards Horis, who wears a horrified expression on his face. “Great Yol, do not look at me!” he exclaims. “I am the least handsome of the four of us, as you all well know. It would take a miracle if I were to get any young lady to accept my suit.”

I let out an aggrieved sigh. It is a fact that Horis has not been as blessed as we have in terms of looks, but he is not ugly by any stretch of the imagination. The goodness of his heart shines through and renders his countenance most pleasing, in my view. Any young lady should count herself lucky to be his bride, but he does not realise this. I do wish I could instil some confidence in him. When all hell broke loose a decade ago, he had barely entered adulthood and was still gawky and shy. Then, with the upheaval of our banishment to Earth, he was denied the opportunity to spread his wings and to sow his wild oats—as the English saying goes.

Oftentimes, I feel keenly the weight of the responsibility that was thrust upon me when I shepherded my siblings and servants into this exile on Earth. The life I have lived here has been a far cry from the pleasurable existence I had on Uvon. For more than a decade, I have acted as protector and provider, ensuring we have sufficient wealth to live comfortably, settling squabbles and stepping into the role of leader—one that I never wished to take. On my darkest days, I have thought of leaving it all behind, setting out alone to sea for some far off destination, but of course, I have never done so. It may be arrogance to believe it, but what would they all do without me? Instead, day by day, I have sunk into gloom, turning into the morose person I am today. Perhaps I do deserve the nickname of Grumps after all.

As for me, I have no need to marry. Whenever I feel the urge, I seek pleasure with Catana, a young female who had been a servant in our household back on Uvon and who elected to come with us to Earth. She works now under Wolkan, helping to ensure our settlement is kept safe from curious eyes. Every so often, Catana and I spend some salacious time beneath the sheets, but I am careful not to take it any further than that. I have suspected, once or twice, that she harbours an ambition to form a union with me, and that can never be. After Tarla’s betrayal, I do not think I can ever give myself to another in that way.

My wandering thoughts come to a standstill as I notice three pairs of eyes directing their hopeful gaze at me. “Oh no,” I grumble. “I am not getting married.”

“Well, one of us will have to, and it may as well be you,” declares Liora with a shrug.

My mood, already sour, darkens considerably. “I am not getting married,” I repeat.

“How about this?” interjects Horis, ever the peacemaker. “We host our dinner party and see which of us garners the most interest from the ladies or gentlemen present.” He says this with a pointed look at Liora, who laughs good naturedly.

“I have no issue with that,” she says.

All eyes turn to me once more. “Hmph,” I grunt, then walk out of the room without another word.

I am restless, and it is not yet dark. Without thinking, I throw on a coat and head out of the house, striding briskly in the direction of the lodge. I know Catana is on duty there, and I am sure she will not mind if we snatch some moments of carnal pleasure together.

A few minutes later, I am at the door, giving it three knocks before I enter. Catana looks up from her console and smiles. “Broek,” she says, her voice low and husky.

I lean against the doorframe and give her a smouldering look. “Catana,” I respond. I say nothing more, letting my gaze wander over her voluptuous figure before returning to stare into her eyes. My invitation is loud and clear. She stands and approaches, hips swaying seductively, coming to a stop inches from me. She places a hand to my chest and feels the beating of my heart. I breathe deeply but otherwise stay still. It has been several weeks since I have fucked, and lust has my cock swelling uncomfortably in my trousers. Slowly, she removes my coat and throws it to the floor. Then her hands are at my throat, untying my cravat and undoing the ties of my shirt. She drops a kiss to my chest as she does so. I am about to grab the vixen and hurry things along when a loud clang interrupts us. Someone is at the gate.

“Damn,” I mutter in annoyance. In two quick strides, I am at the console, looking at the visual feed. A carriage has stopped outside the gates, and two persons are standing there waiting. “I’ll go,” I tell Catana. I open the lodge door and walk towards them. “Yes?” I ask, not caring if my tone is unfriendly.

A lady steps forward and asks for directions to Penhale Manor. I stare at her for a few moments, my mind trying to work out who she might be. She does not have the look of a servant. What business does she have at Penhale Manor? I grunt out a question, and she responds, “My business, sir, is that it is my home, and I am come to live there.” Surely this could not be the widow? My eyes land on plump lips and big brown eyes in a pale face that looks innocently seductive.

“And who might you be?” I ask sharply.

She straightens her posture, and with a regal voice announces, “I am the Dowager Duchess of Coleford, and Penhale Manor was left to me by my late husband. I would appreciate, sir, given the lateness of the hour, if you would kindly direct us to our destination.”

Hell and damnation, she is the widow. Have we left it too late to buy her off? Though perhaps she will take one look at the decrepit house that has been left to her and run away in fright. I examine her from head to toe. She is a diminutive little thing, no older than five and twenty. I cannot imagine her living alone in that draughty and dilapidated house. Tomorrow, or the day after, I will pay her a visit and make a generous offer she will surely not refuse.

With a huff, I turn to the coachman standing at her side and give him directions. Then without another look, I head back to the lodge and shut the door behind me. Catana awaits, hands on hips. “Well?” she asks.

I gaze at her pensively, my mind elsewhere. Finally, I say, “Penhale Manor’s new owner has arrived.” All desire has evaporated as I bend down and pick up my coat. “Excuse me, Catana, but I have much to discuss with my siblings.” With that, I turn and walk out of the door.