Page 36 of Married to a Frozen Duke
For your wedding day. The violets are at your request. The roses are at mine. Perhaps we might find middle ground in between. - A.
A. Not 'Montclaire' or 'Your Duke' but simply A.
"What does it say?" Robert demanded.
She handed him the card wordlessly.
"Middle ground," Henry read, having snatched it from Robert. "How romantic. Every girl dreams of middle ground on her wedding day."
But Ophelia was studying the violets, carefully placed among the grander roses. He'd remembered her mentioning them once, just once, and he'd remembered.
It didn't mean anything substantial, couldn't mean anything, and yet the gesture unsettled her.
"I need to prepare," she said, fleeing back upstairs before anyone could see her confusion.
A French woman, who was supposed to help her with her hair arrangement, arrived precisely at eight and chattered endlessly about the honour of preparing a future duchess. Ophelia sat silent as her hair was twisted and pinned into something elaborate that bore no resemblance to her usual simple style.
"Magnifique!" the woman declared. "You will enchant His Grace!"
Ophelia caught her mother's eye in the mirror, both knowing enchantment was the last thing on anyone's mind.
Nine o'clock brought the ordeal of the dress.
It took three people to get her into it; the stays laced tight enough to create a fashionable silhouette while making breathing a conscious effort, the petticoats layered just so, the silk dress itself requiring careful arrangement.
"Beautiful," Mary breathed.
Ophelia looked in the mirror and saw a stranger staring back. An elegant, refined stranger who might actually belong in a duke's world, until you looked at her eyes which were brown, ordinary, and terrified.
"The pearls," her mother said, producing a box. "They were your grandmother's."
"Mama, no, they're yours."
"They're yours now. Something old for tradition."
The pearls were warm against her throat, familiar when nothing else was.
Ten o'clock arrived too quickly.
Robert appeared in the doorway. "The carriage is ready."
"Already?"
"We need to arrive early to settle you before the ceremony begins."
"I need a moment alone, please."
They filed out reluctantly. Ophelia stood before her mirror and pressed her hand to her stomach, willing it to settle.
The willing failed spectacularly. She barely made it to the basin before her stomach emptied itself of the little tea she'd managed.
"Ophelia?" Her mother's worried voice came through the door.
"Just nerves!" she called, though she was anything but fine.
She was sick again, and then once more, until there was nothing left and still her body tried to reject this future.
Her mother entered without permission, took one look, and called for Mary. Between them, they cleaned her up, touched up her face, adjusted her dress.
