Page 35 of Married to a Frozen Duke
"Miss?" Mary's voice came with a soft knock. "It's time to begin preparing."
Such a small word for such an enormous thing, but there was no delaying the inevitable.
"Come in."
Mary entered with a breakfast tray, followed by Ophelia's mother, who looked as though she'd slept as poorly as her daughter.
"You need to eat something," Mrs. Coleridge said gently, though her eyes betrayed her own anxiety.
The sight of the toast and tea made Ophelia's stomach revolt. "I can't possibly."
"Just the tea then. You need something to sustain you."
Ophelia managed three sips before setting the cup down with trembling hands. "What time is the ceremony?"
"Eleven o'clock. The dress is pressed and ready."
The dress hung on the wardrobe like a specter—ivory silk with seed pearls, fashionable and elegant and everything a bride could want. Except she wasn't truly a bride but rather a sacrifice dressed in silk.
"Mama," she said suddenly, "was it like this for you on your wedding morning?"
Mrs. Coleridge's face softened. "Oh, my dear, I was nervous, of course, but also eager. Your father and I chose each other."
"What's it like to have that freedom to choose?"
Her mother sat on the bed, pulling Ophelia into her arms as she had when she was small. "It's freedom and terror all at once, knowing you've chosen and hoping you've chosen well."
"And if you can't choose?"
"Then you survive. You find moments of happiness where you can and build a life despite the circumstances."
"Did Aunt Cordelia survive?"
The question hung between them like a ghost.
"No," her mother said finally. "But you're stronger than she was, and the duke, cold as he may be, is not his uncle. He's not cruel."
"How can you know that?"
"Because a cruel man would have humiliated you at the proposal, would have made you beg. He didn't."
No, he'd merely made it clear she was necessary, like taking medicine for an illness.
A commotion in the corridor interrupted them; Robert's voice raised in anger, Henry's dry response, the twins attempting to mediate.
"What now?" Mrs. Coleridge sighed.
The door burst open and Charles stood there, face flushed. "The Duke sent something for Phee."
"Sent what?"
"Flowers. White ones. They're enormous."
She rose, wrapping her shawl around her nightgown, and followed Charles downstairs. In the entrance hall sat an enormous arrangement of white roses, orange blossoms, and unexpectedly, violets tucked among the grander blooms.
There was a card.
With trembling fingers, she opened it. The duke's handwriting was precise and controlled:
