Page 105 of Married to a Frozen Duke
"But Your Grace," Mr. Wheeler stammered, "the rent..."
"Is forgiven, as my wife has apparently already informed you." His tone suggested this forgiveness came at a cost, though whether to the Wheelers or to Ophelia wasn't clear. "You have six months to recover before any payment is expected."
"Your Grace, we don't know how to thank..."
"Don't thank me. Thank the duchess. This was her doing."
The words should have been supportive, but they came out sharp, edged with something that made them feel more like accusation than acknowledgment. He turned back to Ophelia, and his expression was unreadable.
"The carriage is outside. We're leaving."
It wasn't a request. Ophelia bent to touch Lucy's forehead once more—cooler already, or perhaps that was wishful thinking—then followed Alexander out of the cottage. Behind them, she could hear the Wheelers' tearful relief, Mr. Granger's reassurances, the business of healing beginning.
The carriage ride back to Montclaire House was silent agony. Alexander sat across from her, staring out the window, his jaw clenched so tightly she could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. She wanted to speak, to defend herself, to demand he explained his anger, but something in his stillness warned her to wait.
It wasn't until they were back in his study, the door firmly closed, that the storm broke.
"What were you thinking?" His voice was deadly quiet, which was somehow worse than shouting. "Sneaking out of the house like a thief, going to the village without escort or protection, entering a cottage where disease is present..."
"I was thinking about a dying child whose parents couldn't afford medicine because her father's duke cares more about rental income than human life."
"I care about the sustainability of this estate, which provides livelihoods for hundreds of families. If I forgive one debt out of sentiment..."
"Out of sentiment? A child was dying!"
"Children die every day, Ophelia. It's tragic, but it's not something that can be fixed by throwing money at it."
"But this child, this death, could be prevented. And I prevented it. How does that make me wrong?"
"Because you acted without authority, without consultation, without any understanding of the broader implications..."
"I acted with compassion, something you seem to have surgically removed along with your ability to see people as more than entries in your estate ledgers."
"And this compassion of yours—did it extend to thinking about your reputation? About how it looks for the Duchess of Montclaire to be visiting diseased cottages like some common..."
"Like some common what? Say it. Like some common merchant's daughter who doesn't understand that duchesses don't soil themselves with actual human suffering?"
"That's not what I...”
"It's exactly what you meant. I actually use my position to help people instead of just sitting in your museum of a house arranging flowers and pretending I belong here."
"You do belong here. You're my wife."
"I'm your burden. Your unfortunate necessity. The Coleridge contamination you have to endure for the sake of your inheritance."
"Stop saying things I have not said."
"Then tell me I'm wrong! Tell me you don't resent every moment of this marriage, every reminder that you're tied to someone so far beneath your precious standards!"
He was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was different—tired, strained, older somehow. "You want to know what I resent? I resent that you assume the worst of me at every turn. I resent that you see calculation where there's caution, cruelty where there's responsibility. I resent that you acted today not out of pure compassion but at least partly to spite me, to prove some point about your moral superiority."
"That's not..."
"Isn't it? You could have spoken to me about the Wheelers. You could have made your case, appealed to my better nature...assuming you believe I have one. Instead, you left like a criminal, made unilateral decisions about estate business, and put yourself at risk of disease and scandal because you wanted to prove that your way, the Coleridge way of emotion over logic, is superior to mine."
The truth in his words stung because there was enough of it to wound. She had wanted to prove something, had taken satisfaction in defying his cold decree about the Wheelers.
"At least I did something," she said quietly. "While you were locked away with your solicitors all night, I actually helped someone."
