Page 142 of Married to a Frozen Duke
"Your Grace, forgive the interruption, but Lady Jersey has arrived. She insists on speaking with you about the seating arrangements, and she's brought what appears to be half of her acquaintance with her. They're currently examining the ballroom decorations with what I can only describe as aggressive interest."
Alexander's expression shifted to one of long-suffering patience. "Of course she has. Heaven forbid we should have a single moment of peace before the actual event begins." He looked down at Ophelia again, clearly reluctant to leave her. "Will you be all right with your brothers? I promise to return before they can destroy anything significant."
"Go," Ophelia urged him with a smile that was only slightly forced. "I'll keep them under control, and Mary can help me dress shortly. Everything will be perfectly fine."
Alexander bent to kiss her forehead, a gesture that would have been unthinkable in their early days but had becomewonderfully habitual, then straightened with the air of a man preparing for battle. "Gentlemen, I trust you can behave yourselves for the next hour without supervision. Charles, the vases in the hallway have been temporarily relocated, so you needn't worry about accidentally destroying any more priceless artifacts. That particular anxiety can wait until the ball itself."
"You relocated the vases?" Charles asked, looking both offended and relieved. "Because of me?"
"Because of statistics and probability," Alexander replied smoothly. "The likelihood of disaster increases exponentially with the number of Coleridges in proximity to valuable objects. It's simple mathematics."
With that parting shot, he left the room, his footsteps echoing with ducal authority as he went to confront whatever crisis Lady Jersey had manufactured. The moment he was gone, all four brothers turned to stare at Ophelia with identical expressions of suspicion.
"Tell us sister, is something amiss?" Robert demanded without preamble. "You're pale as parchment, and you've been pressing your hand to your stomach for the past ten minutes."
"Nothing's wrong," Ophelia protested, but even to her own ears, the denial sounded weak.
"You're a terrible liar," Henry observed, moving closer to study her with uncomfortable intensity. "You always have been. Remember when you tried to convince Mother you hadn't been reading the books Father had forbidden? You looked exactly like this—guilty and slightly green around the edges."
"I'm not green," Ophelia objected, though she could feel her complexion betraying her as another wave of nausea rolled through her stomach.
"You're definitely green," Charles confirmed, then his eyes widened with sudden understanding. "Oh my goodness, you'renot ill, are you? Because if Alexander's been exhausting you with all this ball preparation, I'll personally..."
"I'm not ill," Ophelia interrupted quickly, recognizing the martial light beginning to gleam in Robert's eyes. "I'm... that is, I might be... oh, botheration, I'm increasing, all right? But Alexander doesn't know yet, and I want to tell him properly after the ball when we're alone, so you absolutely cannot say anything."
The silence that followed this announcement was complete and rather comical. All four of her brothers stared at her with expressions ranging from shock to delight to something that looked suspiciously like tears in Robert's eyes, though he would certainly deny it if questioned.
"You're going to have a baby?" Edward said finally, his voice unusually gentle. "Phee, that's wonderful! When did you know?"
"I've suspected for about two weeks, but I've been hiding the morning sickness because Alexander's been so focused on making tonight perfect, and I didn't want to distract him," Ophelia explained, feeling oddly relieved to have told someone, even if it wasn't the person who most needed to know. "Mother will probably guess the moment she sees me, because mothers always know these things, but I'm hoping I can maintain the pretense through the ball at least."
"You're hoping to get through an entire evening of rich food, overwhelming perfumes, and social anxiety without being sick?" Henry asked skeptically. "Phee, you were sick at your wedding from nerves alone. Adding morning sickness to that equation seems like a recipe for disaster."
"I wasn't sick from nerves alone," Ophelia protested. "The flowers were overwhelming, and my stays were too tight, and the whole situation was impossible."
"And tonight will be different because...?" Robert prompted.
"Because tonight I'm not a terrified bride being forced into marriage with a stranger. Tonight I'm a duchess who's actually happy in her marriage, celebrating with her husband who, despite all probability, I've come to love rather desperately."
"Even though he's still rather pompous?" Charles asked with a grin.
"Even though he's occasionally pompous," Ophelia agreed, smiling despite her queasy stomach. "He's been trying so hard to be more relaxed, more human. You should see him with the tenants now—he actually remembers their names and asks about their families, and last week he helped one of the farmer's children retrieve a kite from a tree. He climbed the tree himself, can you imagine?"
"The Duke of Montclaire climbed a tree?" Edward asked incredulously. "Our Duke of Montclaire? The man who once told me that spontaneous physical activity was for people who couldn't afford proper planning?"
"The very same," Ophelia confirmed with obvious pride. "He tore his coat and got sap in his hair, and he was rather angry about it afterward, but he did it because little Tommy Watson was crying, and apparently Alexander cannot bear to see children cry."
"He's gone soft," Robert said, but there was approval in his tone. "You've changed him."
"I've done nothing of the sort," Ophelia protested. "He's simply allowed himself to be more of who he always was beneath all that ice and propriety. The man who stood at the altar covered in my sickness and still married me was always there; he just needed permission to exist."
Margaret, who had been silent through this entire exchange, suddenly spoke up. "That's the most romantic thing I've ever heard, Your Grace. To see past someone's defences to who theyreally are and love them for it—that's what all the novels talk about but rarely achieve in their descriptions."
"Don't let Alexander hear you comparing our life to a novel," Ophelia warned with a laugh. "He has very strong opinions about romantic fiction and its unrealistic portrayal of human relationships."
"Even though he's living a romantic fiction himself?" Henry pointed out. "Proud duke brought low by love for unsuitable bride, learning to be human through the power of affection; it's practically Gothic in its drama."
Before Ophelia could respond, Mary appeared in the doorway with a determined expression that brooked no argument. "Your Grace, if you're to be ready in time, we need to begin immediately. The woman who is to fix your hair has arrived, and she's having some sort of French crisis about the humidity and its effect on curl retention."
