Page 143 of Married to a Frozen Duke
"I suppose I should go," Ophelia said, rising carefully from her chair and trying not to show how the movement made her stomach lurch. "Gentlemen, please try not to destroy anything while I'm gone. Margaret, would you like to come with me? We can prepare together, and it will give you a chance to avoid whatever mayhem my brothers are about to cause."
Margaret looked pathetically grateful for the escape route and quickly rose to follow Ophelia from the room. As they climbed the stairs toward Ophelia's chambers, with Mary trailing behind muttering about timing and French temperaments, Margaret ventured a question.
"Your Grace, is His Grace really as intimidating as everyone says? Edward tells me he's much improved, but the stories I've heard about his coldness and pride are rather terrifying."
Ophelia paused on the landing, considering how best to answer. "Alexander can be intimidating when he chooses to be, and there are moments when his ducal manner isquite overwhelming. But beneath all that, he's actually rather vulnerable and surprisingly kind. He simply spent so many years protecting himself from feeling anything that he's forgotten how to show emotion without feeling exposed."
"That sounds rather sad," Margaret observed.
"It was sad," Ophelia agreed, resuming their climb. "But it's getting better. Every day he becomes a little more comfortable with being human rather than just being a duke."
They reached Ophelia's chambers, where the promised French woman was indeed having what appeared to be a passionate argument with herself about the various challenges presented by English weather. The woman threw up her hands dramatically when she saw Ophelia, launching into a rapid stream of French that seemed to be equal parts greeting and lamentation.
"Madame la Duchesse, you arrive at last! But regard the atmosphere, the moisture in the air! It conspires against us, this English weather. How am I to create magnificence when nature itself works against my art?"
"I'm certain you'll manage something wonderful, Madame Dubois," Ophelia said soothingly, settling into the chair before her dressing table while Mary began laying out the various implements of torture that would transform her into a proper duchess for the evening. "You always do, despite the atmospheric challenges."
The next two hours passed in a blur of preparations that would have been exhausting even without the constant battle against nausea. Ophelia's hair was curled, pinned, repinned, and adorned with pearls that had belonged to Alexander's grandmother. Her face was subtly enhanced with powder that promised to give her a healthy glow despite her pallor. The corset was a particular challenge, as even the gentlest tightening made her stomach rebel, and they finally had to compromiseon a level of support that would maintain the gown's silhouette without actually causing her to faint.
The gown itself was a masterpiece of golden silk that caught the light like captured sunshine, with delicate embroidery that must have taken dozens of hours to complete. It was, Ophelia reflected as Mary fastened the final hooks, exactly the sort of gown a duchess should wear to prove her marriage was a triumph rather than the disaster everyone had predicted.
"You look magnificent, Your Grace," Margaret breathed, having observed the entire transformation with wide-eyed fascination. Her own preparation had been simpler but no less effective, her pale blue gown complementing her fair coloring perfectly.
"I look like someone playing dress-up," Ophelia corrected, though she had to admit the overall effect was rather impressive. "I suppose that's what we all do at these events; play elaborate games of pretend where everyone knows the rules but no one admits they're playing."
A knock at the door interrupted her philosophical musings, and Alexander entered, already dressed in his evening attire. He stopped short when he saw her, his expression shifting from distracted concern to something that made Ophelia's heart perform those acrobatics she'd noticed becoming more frequent lately.
"You look..." he started, then seemed to run out of words, which was unusual enough for Alexander that Ophelia couldn't help but smile.
"Adequate?" she suggested teasingly. "Presentable? Sufficiently duchess-like?"
"Beautiful," he said simply, moving closer with that intent focus that still sometimes took her breath away. "Though you look rather pale. Are you certain you're well enough for this evening?"
"I'm perfectly well," Ophelia assured him, though she could feel her traitorous stomach beginning to rebel against the combination of nerves and the rather overwhelming scent of his cologne. "Perhaps a little nervous about your speech. Six drafts seems rather excessive, don't you think?"
"Seven, actually," he admitted with a slightly sheepish expression that was still new enough to be charming. "I added another classical reference this afternoon. Cicero on the nature of friendship and alliance. I thought it might be appropriate given the theme of reconciliation."
"Alexander," Ophelia said gently, reaching up to touch his face in a gesture that had become wonderfully familiar, "you don't need Cicero or philosophical metaphors or elaborate rhetoric. You just need to be yourself."
"Myself is what got us into the original disaster," he pointed out with a wry smile. "Perhaps a little classical assistance wouldn't be amiss."
Before Ophelia could respond, another knock heralded the arrival of Mrs. Morrison, looking harried in a way that suggested crisis.
"Your Graces, forgive the interruption, but the guests are beginning to arrive, and Lord Frederick is already in the brandy. He's telling the story about the vase and the wager to anyone who will listen, and I thought you should know before he reaches the truly embarrassing parts."
Alexander sighed with the expression of a man who had expected disaster and was oddly relieved to have it arrive early. "Of course he is. Thank you, Mrs. Morrison. We'll be down momentarily."
As the housekeeper departed, Alexander turned to offer Ophelia his arm. "Shall we go face our doom together?"
"Such optimism," Ophelia murmured, accepting his support gratefully as another wave of nausea threatened her composure."Though I suppose if we survived our wedding, we can survive anything."
The descent to the ballroom felt rather like approaching a battlefield, with the sounds of conversation and laughter growing louder with each step. The entrance hall had been transformed into something from a fairy tale, with flowers and candles creating an atmosphere of elegant enchantment that bore little resemblance to the usually austere space. Ophelia noticed with amusement that someone, probably Mrs. Morrison, had indeed removed all the spherical objects from view, though whether this was precaution or paranoia was unclear.
The ballroom itself was already filling with guests, a glittering array of society's finest all pretending they hadn't come specifically to see if the Duke and Duchess of Montclaire could manage a social event without catastrophe. Lady Jersey held court near the refreshment table, her expression suggesting she was prepared for drama and would be rather disappointed if none materialized. Lord and Lady Carrington stood near the windows, and Ophelia noticed with satisfaction that Lord Carrington still looked rather sour about the village incident, though he'd apparently decided attending was better than being excluded from what promised to be the event of the season.
"Ophelia! Your Grace!" Her mother's voice carried across the room with maternal authority, and Ophelia turned to see her parents approaching, her father looking uncomfortable in his formal attire but determined to do his duty, her mother radiating the particular combination of pride and concern that only mothers could manage.
"You look beautiful, dear one," Mrs. Coleridge said, embracing her daughter carefully so as not to disturb the elaborate construction of her hair. Then, more quietly, "though you're rather pale. Are you feeling quite well?"
