Page 112 of Married to a Frozen Duke
"Is that such a bad thing? The unraveling?"
"It's terrifying," he admitted, and the honesty of it made her chest tight.
"I'm scared too," she said. "Scared of disappearing, of becoming someone I don't recognise, of losing myself in trying to be what you need."
"What I need and what I want are different things."
"What do you want?"
He looked at her for a long moment, and she thought he might actually answer, might finally drop his guard enough to tell her something real. But then his expression shuttered, and he stepped back.
"What I want is irrelevant. What matters is what's best for everyone involved."
"And what's that?"
"I don't know anymore."
They stood there, two people who had come so close to understanding each other but couldn't quite bridge the final gap. Outside, night was falling properly now, and somewhere in the village, Lucy Wheeler was breathing easier thanks to medicine Ophelia had provided against Alexander's initial judgment.
"I should dress for dinner," Ophelia said finally.
"Yes."
She turned to go, then paused. "Alexander? Whatever you're planning with those solicitors, whatever options you're exploring—could you at least promise to discuss it with me before making any final decisions?"
"Why?"
"Because despite everything, we are married. For better or worse, as the vows said. And I think we owe each other at least the courtesy of honesty about our future."
"Honesty," he repeated, as if testing the word. "You want honesty?"
"Yes."
"Then honestly, Ophelia, I don't know if we have a future. Every day we seem to hurt each other more, push each other further away. Your brothers saw it, the servants see it, the whole world probably sees it. We're destroying each other by degrees."
"Maybe," she admitted. "Or maybe we're just changing each other, and change always hurts."
"How can you still have hope after everything?"
"Because the alternative is despair, and I refuse to live that way."
She left then, before the conversation could circle back to arguments and accusations. But she paused in the doorway, looking back at him standing alone in his study, surrounded by centuries of tradition and duty.
"The Wheelers aren't the only ones who need saving, Alexander. Sometimes I think you need it just as much."
His expression when she said that, surprise, vulnerability, maybe even recognition, stayed with her as she climbed the stairs to her chambers. Whatever he was planning with those solicitors, whatever future he was orchestrating without her knowledge, she had a feeling it came from the same place as his cold pronouncements about the estate—a misguided attempt to protect through control.
The question was whether she could make him see that before he did something neither of them could take back.
As she prepared for dinner, she thought about the village, about the gathering at the Wheelers' cottage, about the people seeking her help. She thought about Alexander, alone with his brandy and his burden of responsibility. She thought about her brothers, probably raging about her situation at home.
Everyone seemed to have opinions about what was best for her. Everyone except her had a say in her future.
Well, perhaps it was time to change that.
She chose her gown carefully; not the most elaborate, which would seem like she was trying too hard, but not the simplest either. A deep green silk that brought out what little color her pale complexion offered, elegant but not ostentatious. She was the Duchess of Montclaire, whether that lasted another day or another decade, and she would conduct herself accordingly.
At dinner, they sat at their opposite ends of the ridiculous table, eating in silence that was somehow different from theirusual awkward quiet. This felt weighted with all the things they'd said and hadn't said, all the decisions being made in secret, all the futures being planned without consultation.
