Page 25 of Married to a Frozen Duke
“And who doesn’t want you either, from the sound of it.”
“No. She made that quite clear but she’ll do her duty, she said. Bear my children. Run my household. Stand by my side until one of us dies.”
“Cheerful.”
“She also said she wouldn’t pretend to be happy about it. Or pretend I’m anything other than what I am.”
“Which is?”
“A man forced into marriage with someone beneath him.”
Frederick was quiet for a moment. “Is that what you are?”
“Isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. You tell me. Is she beneath you?”
Alexander thought about Ophelia sitting in that chaotic garden, saying she wanted a life where she wasn’t constantly reminded she wasn’t good enough.
“Society would say yes.”
“I didn’t ask what society would say.”
“Then I don’t know. She’s… not what I expected.”
“Better or worse?”
“Different. She’s quiet but not weak. Plain but not… unappealing. She sees things. Sees through things. Through me.”
“That terrifies you, doesn’t it?”
“Nothing terrifies me.”
“Liar.” Frederick stood, preparing to leave. “You’re terrified that she sees exactly who you are; a man so concerned with appearances that he’d rather be miserable than risk society’s censure. And you know what the really frightening part is?”
“What?”
“She’s marrying you anyway. Which means she’s either desperate or she sees something in you that you don’t see yourself. Either way, you don’t deserve her.”
“She’s a Coleridge.”
“She’s a person. A person you’re going to hurt very badly if you’re not careful.”
After his cousin left, Alexander sat alone in his study, the afternoon sun slanting through the windows. In two weeks, he’d be married. In two weeks, Ophelia Coleridge would become Ophelia Montclaire, Duchess of Montclaire.
The thought should have filled him with dread. Instead, he felt something else, something harder to define. Not anticipation, certainly not that. But… curiosity? About what she’d be like as a duchess. About whether she’d really excel at being invisible as she claimed. About what she saw when she looked at him with those steady brown eyes.
He thought about writing to her. An apology, perhaps. Or at least an acknowledgment that the proposal had been badly done. But what would he say? “Sorry for being exactly what you expected”? “Forgive me for confirming your worst assumptions”?
Instead, he wrote to his solicitor, instructing him to be generous with the settlements. If he couldn’t give her affection or respect or even basic kindness, at least he could ensure she’d never want for anything material.
It was, he knew, a poor substitute for what she really wanted. But it was all he had to offer.
***
At Coleridge House, dinner was a subdued affair. Mr. Coleridge had finally emerged from his study, looking older and more tired than his years. He’d kissed Ophelia’s forehead, murmured something about hoping she’d be happy, then retreated into silence.
The brothers picked at their food, occasionally shooting dark looks at the empty chair where Ophelia usually sat. She’dclaimed a headache and taken a tray in her room, which fooled no one.
