Page 55 of Taken By the Broken Duke
Why did this place—her home for years—feel suddenly so foreign?
Her brow furrowed as memories stirred, half-formed and elusive. Dreams of waking here before, of this same dislocation, teased the edges of her mind. Waking up to…Horatio? Her chest tightened, and she bolted upright, sleep scattering like autumn leaves.
No—this couldn’t be. She should not be at Wetherby at all! She was supposed to be at Ravenscourt. Where Horatio lay ill. Where he needed her to tend to him.
She tossed the bedclothes aside and crossed hastily to her wardrobe. The doors swung open with a creak, revealing nothing but a dressing gown and a spare nightdress. The emptiness felt like a mockery. No shoes. No slippers. Barefoot, she turned to the door, dread rising with every step. Her fingers curled around the handle, yanking hard.
It didn’t budge.
She rattled it again, harder this time, her palm slipping as panic took hold.
The door was locked.
A tremor coursed through her then, followed by the sharp sting of fear blooming in her chest. She could not remember how she had come to be here, only the aching certainty that she was imprisoned, cut off from the one person who needed her most. She wanted to be by his side,neededto be by his side. She began to pound on the door desperately with the heel of her hand.
“Let me out! I'm locked in! Let me out!”
Each word was louder and more frantic than the last. She lost track of how long she had been shouting—minutes? Hours?—but at last, a sound broke the silence: the measured tread of footsteps beyond the door.
She stumbled back, her chest heaving, and fixed her gaze on the handle as it turned with agonizing slowness.
The lock clicked. The door creaked open.
It revealed a woman whose presence was as unyielding as the oak behind her. She was dressed in severe black, her gown a shapeless expanse from neck to hem, her hair scraped into a bun so taut, it seemed to pull her face smooth. Thin lips pressed into a line of displeasure, and her dark brows formed a forbidding shelf across her pale countenance.
“Who are you?” Juliet demanded.
The woman regarded her with the dispassion of a governess appraising an unruly charge. “We havehadthis conversation before,” she tutted, her tone clipped. “I have told you who I am. We have been introduced by your aunt and uncle. Do try to remember, dear.”
“I have never seen you before in my life!” Juliet retorted, her disbelief sharpening into defiance now.
The woman raised a single brow. “And yet, I have seen you every day for a month.”
“A month?” Juliet breathed. “I have been here for a month?”
“No. I have been in Lord and Lady Wetherby’s employ for a month. Before that, they were attempting to manage your behavior themselves, with some assistance from the household staff. You, my lady, have been here for most of your life.”
Juliet pressed a trembling hand to her temple, as though she might steady the world that suddenly felt as though it had turned upside down. Her voice wavered as she spoke. “How—how long has it been since I was at Ravenscourt? Since Horatio was wounded by the poacher…”
The woman paused, a flicker of something unreadable passing over her otherwise impassive face. Then, she drew a measured breath.
“You have never been to Ravenscourt Castle, dear child, nor have you ever met His Grace, the Duke. I know nothing of an injury, and neither do you. Since your illness began, you have not left this house and have rarely left this room. I am your nurse, and my name is Mrs. Swift.”
Juliet gaped at her, the words registering but refusing to take root. “That is not true. It cannot be true…” she whispered, her voice scarcely audible. “I was at Ravenscourt. I lost my pet mouse,Archie… and the—the Duke helped me find him. We were caught together—there... there was a scandal—”
“A scandal that resulted in the Duke agreeing to marry you to salvage your reputation,” Mrs. Swift replied evenly, inclining her head slightly, as though indulging a fanciful child. “And then, as these stories often go, he fell in love with you, and the marriagebecame one in truth as well as in name. A charming tale, my lady. But atalenonetheless.”
“No!” Juliet insisted, her voice gaining strength as her memories surged forward. “I remember Horatio! I remember Ravenscourt!”
For the first time, a flicker of sympathy softened Mrs. Swift’s rigid features. She clasped her hands before her, her voice lowering to something almost tender.
“Child,” she began, the word steeped in an unwelcome pity. “I have cared for many who have suffered the maladies of the mind. I know how vivid your dreams may seem to you, how utterly real. But that does not change the truth—they are dreams, nothing more. And while you are unable to reconcile yourself to the nature of reality, you must remain confined. For your own safety.”
The finality of her words struck like the cold clang of a cell door closing, and Juliet staggered under the weight of them, her breath quickening as panic clawed at her chest. To be imprisoned was a purely physical torment. To have her memories of Horatio dismissed as dreams was far… far worse.
“How do you know it is all fantasy?” Juliet demanded, desperately.
“Because I have been informed by your Aunt and Uncle of your fabrications and their concerns for your safety. And because I have observed you with my own eyes over the last month.”
