Page 37 of Married to a Frozen Duke
"No one needs to know," her mother said firmly.
"The Duke will take one look at me and know I'm terrified."
"Then he'll know you're human, which isn't a bad thing."
But Ophelia remembered his perfect control, his careful distance. He wouldn't want a human bride with human weaknesses; he'd want someone as controlled as himself.
Half-past ten arrived and they couldn't delay longer.
The carriage ride to St. George's passed in tense silence but for the rain pattering on the roof. Ophelia sat between her parents, her father had finally emerged, looking older than his years while her brothers rode in a second carriage.
The church loomed through the rain, big and imposing. There were already carriages there, far more than expected for what was supposed to be a small ceremony. Everyone wanted to witness the Coleridge-Montclaire alliance, or perhaps disaster or possibly both.
"Ready?" her father asked, speaking for the first time all morning.
"No."
"Good. Only fools are ready for marriage."
Inside, the church was a cave of whispers and flowers and too many faces for what was meant to be private. Ophelia recognized some distant relatives and society matrons who hadn't been invited but came anyway. Was that Lady Jersey? Of course it was; the patroness of Almack's wouldn't miss this scandal for the world.
"Breathe," her mother whispered.
But the flowers filled her nostrils with their cloying scent and her empty stomach clenched dangerously.
She was led to a small antechamber to wait. Through the door, she could hear the organ beginning its solemn tune. Her cue would come soon enough.
"I can't do this," she said suddenly.
"Yes, you can," Robert said firmly. "You're a Coleridge, and we don't run."
"We also don't marry Montclaires!"
"Well, we do now."
The organ changed its tune and she realised that it was her time to go.
Her father offered his arm. "Courage, little violet."
The childhood nickname nearly undid her completely.
They emerged into the main church, and every head turned. The whispers rose like a tide:
"So pale!"
"Pretty enough, I suppose."
"The dress must have cost a fortune."
"Trying to buy respectability."
"Did you see the duke's face when he arrived?"
The aisle stretched before her, endless as a lifetime. And there, at the altar, stood Alexander.
He was perfection itself in dark blue coat and cream breeches, his cravat a work of art, his expression unreadable. He watched her approach with those grey eyes that gave away nothing.
Her father placed her hand in Alexander's and she felt his fingers warm and steady where hers were ice.
