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

Chapter 24

Jane

M orning comes, and with it a faint throb down below as my body recalls what it did the night before. As consciousness returns, I cannot stop my hand from wandering there and searching out that joyful nub. I stroke it gently, feeling it respond to my touch with a little echo of delight, but the sensation is muted. The excitement I felt last night is gone, and I do not need to think why. It is Broek that makes me feel that wild wantonness. And Broek wishes to marry me.

My resistance to such a notion has taken a blow. Marriage will grant me the freedom presently denied to me to go out and about should I so please. I have always lived a quiet life, first with Giles at Coleford Hall, then alone at Penhale Manor. Even so, I could visit the shops, exchange pleasantries with village folk and go out for vigorous walks. That last I am able to do at present, for the grounds of Reeves Hall are extensive, but it would be a welcome boon to be able to do the other things too.

Marriage would give me a secure and comfortable home here, as well as provide Chloe with a father who would care for her wellbeing. I have not missed the growing affection between Chloe and Broek. She is happy here. With the fortitude of children, she has adapted remarkably well to the change in our circumstance and learned the use of all the contraptions around her. Some days ago, I heard her call out imperiously, “Connect Horis,” then have a lively conversation with the man about a bump to her knee. She has almost forgotten that once we used to light our home with candles and that water would have to be brought up to our rooms in a jug. All these curious innovations do not feel strange to her, but natural.

Then of course, there is that other matter. That to do with what we did last night, and what Broek promises to do to me every night. I cannot deny that I am enthralled by the notion.

And yet I am not quite ready to agree to his proposal. I did not lie last night. I have come to care about Broek and think of him as a dear friend. While I believe Broek has come to care for me and know that he will never harm my person, I do not yet think that he loves me nor I him. It cannot be love we feel—how can it be, when we are always arguing? My love for Giles was never like this. No, it is impossible. We cannot marry.

There again, perhaps I ought not to think of romance but be pragmatic. After all, I have already been fortunate to find a great love and should hardly expect to find another in this life. No, love I will not expect, but affection and respect I require, as well as another vital quality—trust. I cannot marry a person who does not trust me wholeheartedly, and yet he will not trust me with his family’s secrets until I do marry him. Which comes first, the chicken or the egg? I rail in frustration and throw off the covers. Best to be getting on with the business of the day.

At breakfast, Broek is his usual quiet and stern presence. Yet do I detect a softening in his glance? I study his countenance again, paying special attention to the expression in his eyes. He notices this and lifts a brow. “Have I grown a second head?” he enquires softly.

“No indeed,” I reply with a smile. “I was merely wondering whether that scowl you wear is a mask to conceal a very soft heart.”

“Then cease wondering. You of all people should know, Jane, that my heart is anything but soft.”

Liora joins in our conversation. “We call him Grumps,” she tells me, eyes twinkling in merriment.

I consider this. “Some might think it a fitting name, but I shall not use it.”

“But do you not agree that he has a grumpy disposition?” This time it is Simor who enquires.

The question makes me pause. Broek is often, serious, yes, but during my stay at Reeves Hall, I have seen his many good qualities. Moreover, he has reasons to be grave. “I do not think it a fair assessment,” I reply thoughtfully. “Broek has the cares of the world upon his shoulders and holds a great responsibility for the welfare of this family. What you see as grumpiness is merely a manifestation of all these cares.”

My words seem to have pierced Broek’s equanimity, for he stands and throws down his napkin. “While you continue this fruitless debate,” he says harshly, “I have work to get done.” He strides out of the room, followed by our three sets of eyes.

“Now you have bungled it,” exclaims Simor. “My brother will not thank you for painting him in such light.”

“Though it is true what you say,” reflects Horis. “Broek does carry all these cares and has done so ever since we left Uvon.”

“Yes, but he should not,” grumbles Liora. “We do not need him to act as our protector, for we are all well capable of taking care of ourselves.”

This does not sit well with me. I must remonstrate. “Tell me, who is it that works tirelessly to manage and grow your family’s wealth? Correct me if I am wrong, but was it not Broek who went to London to oversee your shipping business and make investments in the stock exchange?”

They stare at me. “You seem mightily protective of my brother,” Liora declares suspiciously.

“Broek has explained to me the circumstances that caused you to leave Uvon, and I have grown to think of him as a friend.” No more than that, I tell myself.

Now it is as if I am the one to have grown two heads. After a moment of surprise, Simor snorts, “A friend who keeps you captive.”

That is unfortunately true. Quietly, I say, “I am working to earn his trust. He must know, and so should you all, that I would never disclose your family’s secrets to the world.” I rise to my feet. “Now please excuse me.”

I walk out of the dining room with a heavy feeling in my heart. Much as I have started to care for the Reeves clan, the truth remains that I am their captive, and they do not trust me.

I am half-way down the corridor before Simor catches up with me. “Your Grace,” he calls, causing me to halt my steps and turn to face him. His face is unusually grim. He goes to speak then stops, looking behind him. “Come with me,” he decides, leading me further down the corridor then opening the door to a small room furnished with an overflowing book case along one wall and a wide desk, its back to the window. On it sits another of those large screens similar to the one Broek had in his basement room. “This is my study,” he explains. “We may speak privately here.”

I follow him inside and stand in the middle of the room as he shuts the door behind him. Once that is done, I enquire, “What is it you wish to speak of?”

Abruptly, he asks, “Did you mean it when you said earlier that you would never disclose my family’s secrets?”

I have to look up to see into his eyes, for like all his brothers, he is tall. His features are so like Broek’s, but a softer and younger version. I hope he can read the sincerity in my expression as I reply, “Yes, of course.”

“How do I know you would keep your word?”

I shrug impatiently. “You cannot know it. You must take it on trust.”

“Why should we trust you, Jane?” he asks softly, dispensing with the formality of my title.

I pause, considering the question. Why on earth should they trust me, a stranger that has intruded into their midst? I sigh heavily. Trust is a curious thing, difficult to gauge. Finally, I say sadly, “Your family has been betrayed enough, by your Mother, by that wicked Tarla. You do not need yet another betrayal. I am forever in your debt for saving Chloe, and I understand what could be the consequences of any loose talk about your family. I am not a gossip, Simor. I know how to keep things to myself, and I would not want it on my conscience to be the one that brought you down.”

He examines me thoughtfully. “If Broek spoke to you of Tarla, then he must trust you more than you think,” he ponders.

“Not enough to release me,” I respond.

He is quiet, thinking the matter through. Finally, he says, “I cannot go against my brother. If it were up to me, you would be free to go, and not only because I trust your word, but because I also think our fear is overblown. I do not believe a loose word or two from you would bring the world crashing around our ears. We have lived thus far with the curiosity and gossip around our family. We have been able to withstand it.”

“I do not want my life and my daughter’s life to be a prison,” I plead.

“No, I do not think you do.” He lets out a frustrated breath and says, “I cannot help you, Jane, but I know of one person here who would like nothing better than to see the back of you. You may have met Catana. She works with Wolkan to guard our security.”

“The glowering Amazon?”

He smiles. “That is one way to describe Catana. She is quite possessive of Broek.”

Possessive? I wonder if she has reason to be. I tamp down on the jealousy surfacing in my breast and try to think rationally. Catana is a guard, so she would be well placed to help me escape. Her dislike of me is the very thing that could buy us our freedom, Chloe and me, Betsy too. What about Evans, my coachman? I have not seen him since the day of Chloe’s accident. I pose the question. “Where is my coachman, Simor? His name is Evans, and he drove us through the gates in my carriage.”

Simor replies, “Broek paid him off generously and gave him references, then took him to London on his last trip there. He had not seen anything much to gossip about, for he never entered the house.”

“Oh,” I say dispiritedly. I had hoped to have the means of transportation for my escape.

“I am sorry,” continues Simor. “I cannot help you further.” A shutter goes down on his expression, and I know this discussion is over.

I mumble, “Thank you, Simor. I will bid you good day.” With a weak smile, I let myself out of the room, then go seek out my daughter.

Throughout the day my mind considers all that I have learned. If I stay at Reeves Hall, I know that I will eventually succumb to Broek. The attraction between us is much too powerful. It is imperative therefore that I escape before I lose all will to do so, and Catana is my only hope. In truth, I do not want to leave him, but I must.

I have a troubling thought. Would Broek feel abandoned and betrayed by my escape? Probably, but surely he deserves it for being so unreasonable. After all, it is him that is keeping me captive. He must know that I refuse to live without my freedom. What else is there for me to do but to attempt an escape?

A voice in my head replies, “ You could marry him. ” Yes, that could be one solution, but I do not want to marry a man out of duress. It would make a mockery of the marriage vows. The more that time passes since my moment of wantonness last night, the more rationally I am beginning to see things. I cannot continue at Reeves Hall, much as I care for Broek, much as I am attracted to his person and much as I am enjoying the privilege of a hot bath in the tub each night. Freedom trumps all these things. And therefore, I must find a way to speak to Catana.

This decision sours my mood at luncheon and dinner, where in a departure to my usual cheery disposition, I am morose and unwilling to speak more than the basic civilities. I feel Broek’s scrutiny, as ever, but I keep my head bowed and eat my food, excusing myself at the first opportunity. I cannot afford to develop any tender feelings for the man. He is the one putting me in this impossible situation.

Later in the evening, after I have put Chloe to bed, I go to the washroom and run the water for a bath. If I am to leave this place soon, then I shall enjoy my fill of this particular luxury. I divest myself of my clothing and enter the tub, submerging my body in the welcoming warmth of the scented water. Ah yes, this is good. I can feel my peevishness leach out of me, measure by measure.

“You are angry with me.” Broek’s voice breaks into my contented haze. “You refused to even look at me at dinner.”

I let out a long breath. “I was, but I am not so now,” I murmur. “You may thank this marvellous bath for the improvement of my humour.”

“I shall bear that in mind whenever you are out of sorts with me again,” he responds a trifle huskily.

“Hmm.”

“Tell me, Jane, what made you so ill-disposed towards me today?” he enquires, piercing my sense of serenity.

“Is it not obvious?” I respond acidly. “In case you have forgotten, Broek, you are holding me captive here. That is surely sufficient a cause for one’s anger.”

“ Onscreen ,” he says. A moment later, I see him on a screen I had not realised existed on the opposite wall of the washroom. He is in that subterranean room where he plays God with his probes that spy on the world.

“There is one solution to your captivity, Jane,” he rumbles, leaning forward on his elbows and looking fixedly at me through the screen, though I know he cannot see me.

“Yes indeed,” I reply quickly. “It is to release me.”

“I wish to look into your eyes as we speak of this. Let me see you, Jane.”

“Absolutely not!” I exclaim in shocked disapproval.

“Jane, do not play games,” he glares, holding on to his patience by a thread. “We are well past this false modesty. Now let me see you so we can talk this out properly.”

“Why can we not do so in the way of civilised people, when we are both dressed appropriately?” I enquire sullenly.

“Jane.”

“Oh, very well. Onscreen .”

I know the exact moment when he catches sight of me. His eyes flare, and I feel a corresponding throb in the lower part of my body. I am underwater, so I do not suppose he can see much more than an outline of my figure. At least, that is what I tell myself.

“Jane.” His voice is hoarse. “Have you had any further thoughts about our marriage?”

“I have thought about it carefully, Broek. I regret to tell you my answer is no.” His mouth compresses to a thin line, so I hurry to explain, “I am tempted, believe me I am.” My own voice grows husky as I admit, “I have grown to care for you, Broek, more so than I would wish.” My eyes search his as he sits grimly at his desk. Resolutely, I continue, “But I will not marry under duress a man that does not trust me to set foot outside his home.”

He is silent as stone. “Trust me, please, Broek,” I plead, “and I will show you that trust is not misplaced.”

Still, he does not speak. Feeling my throat constrict, I lower my eyes to my exposed body. My hands fly to cover my bosom and mound in a late show of modesty. Trust . It is a reciprocal thing. If he cannot have any faith in me, then I cannot feel easy baring myself to him. He must see the gesture, for his next words are cold and implacable. “Then we are at an impasse, Duchess. Offscreen .” And just as coldly, I am dismissed.