Page 50 of Married to a Frozen Duke
"Name one interesting thing you did before today."
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Because what had he done? Gone to Parliament, attended balls, managed estates, fulfilled duties. Nothing that would make anyone remember him as anything other than 'that Montclaire duke, the cold one.'
"See?" she said. "Today you became interesting. You're the duke who stood at the altar covered in vomit and still finished the ceremony. That's... actually quite impressive."
"It's humiliating."
"It's both. The best stories usually are."
A fiddler in the corner struck up a tune, and several couples got up to dance. It was nothing like the formal dances of society ballrooms; this was energetic, casual, people actually enjoying themselves rather than performing for witnesses.
"I love this song," Ophelia said wistfully.
"You know it?"
"Our cook used to sing it. When I was little, I'd sneak into the kitchen and she'd teach me the words."
"You spent time in the kitchens?"
"Where else was I supposed to go? My brothers were always fighting or scheming, my parents were always worried about money or reputation. The kitchen was warm and safe and nobody expected anything from me there."
Another piece of the puzzle that was his wife. Alexander filed it away, though he wasn't sure why he was collecting these pieces. What did it matter if she'd hidden in kitchens as a child?
"Would the young couple like to dance?" A cheerful older woman appeared before them. "You look like you could use a lift in spirits!"
"We don't..." Alexander began.
"We couldn't..." Ophelia said simultaneously.
"Oh, come now!" The woman grabbed Ophelia's hands, pulling her to her feet. "A pretty girl like you should be dancing on her wedding day!"
The room went silent. Every eye turned to them.
Alexander felt the blood drain from his face. They knew. This woman had just announced to everyone that they were the couple from the morning's disaster.
"Leave them be, Martha," someone called. "They've had a tiring day."
"All the more reason to dance!" Martha declared. "Come on, Your Lordship, dance with your bride!"
Your Lordship. Still not the right title, but closer.
Ophelia looked at him, and he saw his own panic reflected in her eyes. But then something shifted in her expression; a sort of resignation mixed with determination.
"One dance couldn't hurt," she said quietly. "We're already a spectacle."
She was right. Refusing would just make them more of a story. At least if they danced, they might seem human instead of tragic.
Alexander stood, letting the blanket fall back on the chair, grateful his trousers had mostly dried. He was still shirtless under his damp waistcoat, but at this point, what was a little more indignity?
The fiddler, sensing drama, started a slower tune. Alexander offered his hand to Ophelia with formal correctness, and she took it. Her fingers were warm, callused in unexpected places. Not a lady's hands, despite her breeding.
They took position, and he was surprised to find she knew the steps. Not perfectly as this wasn't a dance taught in drawing rooms, but well enough.
"The kitchen staff?" he guessed.
"They had gatherings sometimes. They let me watch, and eventually join in."
"Your parents allowed that?"
