Page 3 of Married to a Frozen Duke
"Mama, do you think the roses mind being pruned? They seem to protest so vigorously."
Miss Coleridge carefully trimmed another stem, wincing slightly as a thorn caught her glove. The afternoon light filtered through the drawing room windows, casting everything in shades of honey and gold, including her mother's drowsy expression.
"I'm sure they recover admirably, Ophelia." Mrs. Coleridge's voice carried the soft quality of someone emerging from what was definitely not an afternoon nap. "Though perhaps they'd protest less if you hummed to them. You have such a lovely voice."
"I doubt my humming would improve their disposition." She placed the rose in her arrangement, then frowned. "It certainly couldn't make them any thornier."
Her mother's gentle laugh filled the comfortable silence that followed. This was her favorite time of day. The house quiet, her brothers elsewhere, just the soft tick of the clock and the whisper of stems against glass.
"You're very thoughtful today," Mrs. Coleridge observed. "More than usual, I mean."
"Am I?" She adjusted another bloom, though it needed no adjusting. "I suppose I was wondering what we're having for dinner. Cook mentioned something about lamb."
"That was yesterday, dear."
"Was it? How foolish of me." She knew perfectly well it was Thursday and Cook always made fish on Thursdays, but maintaining conversations about nothing in particular had become something of an art form. It was safer than discussinganything of substance, which invariably led to topics she'd rather avoid; her age, her prospects, her future.
The peace was shattered by the distinctive sound of the front door meeting the wall with unnecessary force, followed by boots, multiple pairs, thundering across the entry. Her shoulders tensed automatically.
"The cavalry has returned," she murmured, setting down her scissors.
Mrs. Coleridge sighed. "And in such fine voice."
Indeed, Robert's booming tones were already echoing through the hall, punctuated by Henry's drawl and what sounded like the twins arguing about horses? Hazard? It was difficult to tell and ultimately unimportant. Whatever had them annoyed would spill into the drawing room momentarily.
She was proven right within seconds. The door burst open and Robert strode through, still in his riding coat, mud on his boots, and a letter clutched in his fist like a weapon. His face was the particular shade of red that suggested either apoplexy or news from the Montclaires. Given the paper in his hand, she suspected the latter.
"Those, insufferable..." He caught sight of his mother and modified his language with visible effort. "Those blackguards."
"Robert!" Mrs. Coleridge protested weakly.
Henry followed, already heading for the brandy with the purposeful stride of a man who knew he'd need fortification. "I take it we're discussing our dear neighbours?"
"The Montclaires," Robert spat the name like something rotten. "The old Duke is dead."
"How... unfortunate," their mother managed, though her tone suggested she found it anything but.
The twins tumbled through the door next, Charles already reaching for the decanter while Edward collapsed dramatically into a chair. "No longer among the living," Edward confirmedcheerfully. "I heard it at the club. Apparently, the funeral was a frightfully big event. All black horses, black plumes, the full theatrical production."
"Good riddance," Charles muttered, pouring generous measures all around.
Ophelia remained in her corner, keeping her hands busy with the flowers. Deaths and funerals were matters for the men to discuss. Her opinion was neither needed nor wanted, which suited her perfectly.
"But that's not the best part," Robert said, waving the letter with unnecessary vigor. "Oh no, the old rogue had one last insult to deliver."
Henry took the letter, scanning it with the practiced eye of someone who'd read too many legal documents. His expression shifted from mild interest to genuine surprise to something that might have been unholy amusement.
"My goodness," he murmured. "He's actually done it."
"Done what?" Charles demanded.
Henry cleared his throat and read aloud: "'Let it be known that too long have Montclaire and Coleridge lived at daggers drawn..."
"Pretty words for forty years of spite," Edward interrupted.
"...and therefore,'" Henry continued, "my heir shall take to wife Miss Coleridge within one year of my decease, or the Montclaire estate shall pass into trusteeship."
The silence that followed was complete. Even she stopped arranging flowers, her hands frozen mid-gesture.
