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

Chapter 5

Broek

Two days later

I finish knotting my cravat with a flourish and glance at myself in the mirror with satisfaction. Cravats have been the bane of my existence these past several years. Once we emerged from our ship and began to live among the natives of Earth, we had to dress like them. Gone were the comfortable shirts and stretchy long pants of Uvon. In their stead were tight trousers, starched shirts, cravats and fitted tailcoats. For months, I chafed at the constriction of my new garb, though I eventually grew accustomed to it. Cravats, however, have continued to bedevil me. Not today though.

Today, I am in fine spirits, which is quite something for grumpy me. It does not take much effort to discover the reason for my good humour. Penhale Manor is within my grasp. I am sure of it. That fragile little thing will not last a day alone in that run-down house, let alone two. Last I saw it, the house had broken windowpanes and was overgrown with ivy. No doubt it is damp in there, rodent infested too. The housekeeper is gone, and the little duchess will be hard pressed to find a replacement in the village. Now that the gravity of the situation has been borne upon her, I can swoop in with my generous offer. She is bound to accept. Even though, for the past two days, my memory has kept on replaying how brave the little duchess looked in the moonlight, I cannot imagine that she will be brave enough to stay on in that wreck of a house.

In the dining room, I join my family for breakfast, where I partake in an excellent breakfast of Uvonian pancakes and eggs, together with a fresh brew of coffee—one Earth beverage I have found surprisingly enjoyable. I even smile as I pass the butter dish across to Liora before she even asks for it. She studies me in perplexion. “You are strangely cheery today, Grumps,” she observes.

“Maybe then it is time to consign that nickname into oblivion,” I reply.

“No, it is much too soon for that, but enlighten me. Why are you in such fine spirits?”

Horis laughs, stirring his own coffee. “Is it not obvious? He is going to Penhale Manor today where he will browbeat that little slip of a duchess into selling it to him.”

I sit back in my chair, feeling pleasantly full. “I do not think there will be any need for browbeating,” I point out. “Mark my words, she will jump at the chance to cast aside that ruin of a house. And with the generous sum I am willing to pay for it, she may easily afford a comfortable cottage somewhere else. I cannot think that she has decided to live at Penhale Manor permanently. She must be there merely to inspect the property with an aim of selling.”

And once the house is in our name, I think to myself, it will make a good home for Horis and his potential bride—after we make improvements to it, of course. The longer I have reflected on the matter, the more certain I am that his marriage will solve several problems in one go. It will allow him to emerge from his shell of reserve and grow in confidence while bringing him the joy of procreating his own family. And in addition to all that, it will achieve our objective of putting a stop to the rumours about us.

There is a knock at the door and Wolkan walks in, bearing a sealed missive for Liora. We watch curiously as she takes it from him and breaks the seal. We are not in the habit of receiving much in the way of correspondence. “Ha!” she says, upon reading it, then looks up with a victorious smile. “It is from Lady Calthorpe, accepting our invitation to a dinner party next week.”

“Who else are we inviting?” asks Simor. He is sitting opposite me spooning jam onto his pancake.

“It would only be proper to extend an invitation to Edmund Horton, as he is our local vicar,” I respond.

“And how about Timothy and Verity Drake?” suggests Liora.

I nod in approval. The Drakes are a family whose modest estate lies some two miles to the south east of Reeves Hall. I have kept an eye on them, and other local families such as the Calthorpes, with the use of my nanoprobes. I know that Timothy Drake has a sister of marriageable age who could also be considered a possible bride for Horis. Yes, it would be a good idea to include them in our dinner party.

“And of course, we must invite the Duchess of Coleford,” adds Horis with a gentle smile.

“Whyever would we do that?” I growl. My interest in the duchess is simply to get her to agree to sell Penhale Manor. It would be pointless to get to know the young widow socially, since she will be gone from the house before we know it.

Horis takes a sip of his coffee before replying, “Simple courtesy would dictate that we include our nearest neighbour, not to mention the fact that we need another female guest to make up the numbers.”

“And of course, there is the cachet of her being a duchess,” pipes up Simor.

I feel a strange unwillingness to have her here, though I could not say why. There is something about this duchess that has me feeling a trifle unsettled. Perhaps it is guilt at the fact that I am conspiring to rid her of her house. I shrug uneasily. “I doubt she will still be in residence at Penhale Manor by next week,” I say, “but I see no harm in extending an invitation to her as well.” I stand. “And now, if you will all excuse me, I had best go visit this duchess.”

A few minutes later, I am astride my horse and galloping in the direction of Penhale Manor. Horse riding is another thing I have had to grow accustomed to here on Earth. No longer can I get into my own personal drone and program in my destination. No indeed. Nowadays, travel is on these curious four-legged beasts. It was not an easy thing to learn, though out of the four of us, Simor was the one that took to it as if he had been born to ride. I have made my peace with this mode of transport. On fine days such as this April morning, it can be quite a pleasant sport.

It is not long before I reach the turning for Penhale Manor. I guide my horse there and approach the house in a fine mood. As I get close, my exuberance falters. I stare at it in surprise. The ivy that had once covered a good half of the building is nowhere in sight. The broken windowpanes have been sealed with wooden boarding, and the overgrown weeds that had sprouted along the front yard are gone. A scowl forms on my face as I take in this unexpected sight and begin to wonder if I have come too late. Does the duchess mean to stay after all?

I jump down from my horse and tie the reins around the trunk of a nearby tree. In several quick strides, I am at the door and ringing the bell vigorously. Some minutes pass before it opens. A timid maid looks up at me and mumbles, “Yes, sir?”

“I am here to see your mistress,” I state firmly. “Tell her Mr Brook Reeves has come to pay a call.” Brook is the English name I have given myself. It is close enough to my real name that I do not mind it too much. And we decided Reeves would make an appropriate family name for us, similar as it is to our real name of Reevas.

The maid bobs a curtsy and steps back to let me inside. My quick gaze notes the cleanly swept hallway as I am led towards the drawing room. This room too is impeccably clean, the air fresh with the aroma of cut flowers artistically arranged in a vase that has been placed on a side table. “I will fetch Her Grace,” mutters the girl and beats a hasty retreat. I take my seat on a well sprung settee and look around me in dismay. Were it not for a crack in one of the windowpanes, one would hardly credit that as little as two days ago, this house had been a wreck.

I scowl in annoyance at the charming display before me. This could throw all my plans into disarray. Such effort as has been expended to spruce up this house can only indicate one thing. The duchess means to stay. At the same time, I wonder how that small slip of a thing managed such a transformation in only two days. I cannot help but feel an unwilling spark of admiration.

For several minutes I wait, my mind working at speed to reassess the approach I will need to take with the duchess. Soon, the drawing room door opens, and I am on my feet at once, pasting what I hope is an ingratiating smile on my face—smiling is another thing that no longer comes naturally to me. As my eyes meet hers, she comes to an abrupt halt. “You!” she says accusingly.

I sketch a bow. “Brook Reeves, at your service, Your Grace.”

She continues to stare. “But you are the gatekeeper,” she sputters. She looks me up and down, evidently confused by the smartness of my clothes.

“Pardon?” I feign a puzzled glance.

She tightens her lips and addresses me haughtily, “Who are you, sir, and what business have you here?”

My response is equally cold. “I am Brook Reeves, esquire, of Reeves Hall, and I am here to pay a courtesy call on my neighbour.”

She stares at me in confusion. “I—I do not understand. I thought you were the gatekeeper.”

I snort. “No, indeed I am not. I was merely taking care of some business at the lodge when you rang. I apologise if I have given you an incorrect impression of me.”

“I see,” she says quietly and with great dignity. “Then I too must apologise for jumping to the wrong conclusions, though you can understand my confusion after the manner in which we met. Please, Mr Reeves, do take a seat.”

We sit down, me on the settee and the duchess on a chair opposite. She links her hands in her lap and looks down at them, a becoming flush painting her cheeks. Silence reigns for several moments. I take advantage of it to study her once more. She is small, at least a foot shorter than me, and fine-boned. I do believe I could span the entirety of her waist with my two bare hands. Her light-brown hair is swept into a bun at the back of her head, but several strands have escaped and curl over her rosy cheeks. She looks up then and meets my eyes. Hers are large, a curious shade of hazel brown, and fringed with long lashes.

“It is an honour to make your acquaintance, sir,” she says in a stilted voice. Then for lack of anything else to say, she adds, “May I offer you some refreshment?”

I wonder what is going through her mind. Do I intimidate her? Or is she still feeling affronted at the rudeness of my manner towards her last we met? There is one other, tantalising consideration. Could it be she is sensing my growing attraction to her—perhaps also reciprocating it? Absurd thought!

“No need,” I say, then gentling my voice, “I was sorry to hear of the duke’s passing. Please accept my deepest condolences.”

“Thank you.”

Are those tears forming in her eyes? She blinks them back rapidly. I look away, suddenly uncomfortable. This emotion is a painful reminder of my own experience of grief after Mother and Father passed. Scrabbling around for something else to say, I grunt, “I am full of admiration at the great changes you have wrought on this place in such a short time. Do you mean to stay on here?”

She raises her chin. “Yes, of course. It is my home.”

“Please pardon the indelicacy of the question, but have you no other home? I had understood the duke to be a wealthy man.”

“Yes, he was,” she says on a breath. “Only his estate is entailed and now passes on to the next duke. This house is all that is entitled to me.” Ah yes, male primogeniture, another aspect of the backwardness of English society. For a moment I hesitate, not caring to deprive this strangely dignified creature of the only home she possesses. To be thrown out of one’s home is an experience I know only too well. But then I remind myself that she will surely be more comfortable in a tidy village cottage somewhere closer to her relatives. After all, my family adapted, and I shall be doing her a great service with my generous offer.

“I am not sure if Your Grace is aware of this,” I venture, “but some time ago, I wrote to the late duke, wishing to make a purchase of Penhale Manor. I am still very desirous of making this purchase and would offer a generous price for the house.”

The duchess stiffens. Her eyes flash as she says sharply, “The house is not for sale, Mr Reeves.” There is something curiously appealing about her fierceness.

Nevertheless, I persist. “As it borders my own lands, I am particularly desirous of it and would pay above the market value. I am willing to offer ￡3,500 for the house and grounds, which I am sure you would agree is a more than generous amount. I urge Your Grace to consider it.”

She bites her bottom lip. I notice it is lush and full. “Your offer is generous,” she agrees, “but once again I must tell you, Mr Reeves, the house is not for sale.”

I sigh, frustrated but not yet ready to concede defeat. I narrow my eyes at the duchess. Despite her strength of will, she is surely too young and pretty to live here unprotected. Rallying together the arguments I had formulated in my head while I waited for her, I say brusquely, “Your Grace, there are only two houses in this vicinity—Penhale Manor and Reeves Hall—and the nearest other habitable home is at least two miles distant, in the village itself. Forgive my forwardness for saying this, but I do not think this place is at all suitable for a gentlewoman living alone, without the protection of a husband.” I speak in earnest, for the safety of this small wisp of a female is growing in importance. I wish her to sell Penhale Manor not just for my own purposes, I realise, but also as a way to protect her from harm.

But then her eyes widen at my words, and I curse my indelicacy for reminding her of her recent loss. Nonetheless, I push forward with my argument, though irritation has me glower at the duchess as I growl, “Your Grace, you will be well served to accept my offer and use the funds to purchase a home more in keeping with your needs. It is simply not safe out here, so far from the village. There are highwaymen on the roads and unscrupulous men who would take advantage of a lone female. Truly, setting aside my own reasons for wanting this property, I do believe it to be a most honourable thing for me to take it off your hands. I urge you to reflect further on this matter.”

I have barely finished my speech before she stands, hands held stiffly at her sides. “Mr Reeves,” she says, “if the reason for your visit today is to convince me to sell Penhale Manor, then I believe you have wasted your time, for I am not selling. This is my home, and I am here to stay. Now, if there is nothing further to discuss, I will bid you good day.”

I too am on my feet, towering over the little slip of a duchess. My eyes take in the pleasing rise and fall of her delicate bosom. I sense her instinctive desire to step away and put some distance between us, but she stands her ground and glares at me with fierce determination. A peculiar feeling overtakes me—a strange craving to kiss her. What can I be thinking, wanting to embrace one of these primitive Earth people? “Duchess,” I rasp in a low voice, dispensing with formality. “There is another matter. I am holding a dinner party at Reeves Hall next Thursday, and I wish you to attend. My carriage will collect you promptly at seven. Good day.” Without another word, I take my leave.