Page 54 of Married to a Frozen Duke
The crowd was beginning to thin as people headed to their rooms. The storm showed no signs of abating, which meant they were all trapped here for the night.
"I'll go up first," Ophelia said. "For the bath. You should... perhaps see if Jeffords can find you a shirt somewhere?"
"From where?"
"The innkeeper might have something."
"Yes, because wearing the innkeeper's clothes is exactly how I planned to spend my wedding night."
She stood, then paused. "It could be worse."
"How? How could this possibly be worse?"
"We could be at your estate, hosting a wedding night dinner for both our families, pretending to be happy while they all stared at us and made horrible toasts."
Alexander considered this. "That would be worse."
"See? Perspective."
She left him there, and he watched her navigate through the remaining crowd with surprising grace. Several people nodded to her respectfully, and she responded with genuine warmth. How did she do that? Make common strangers like her so easily?
Chapter Thirteen
"Your Grace?" The innkeeper appeared with a bundle of cloth. "My wife found this. It is our son's and you're welcome to it."
It was a shirt. Clean, simple, obviously homemade, but a shirt nonetheless. Alexander took it with more gratitude than he'd ever felt for any of his hundred silk shirts at home.
"Thank you."
"Your wife, Your Grace...she's a real lady."
"She's a duchess," Alexander corrected automatically.
"No, I mean a real lady. Kind. Speaks to everyone the same, doesn't put on airs." The innkeeper paused. "You're lucky, if you don't mind me saying."
Lucky. There was that word again. Though not applied to the Coleridges this time, but to him.
"Indeed," Alexander said slowly. "I suppose I am."
The innkeeper beamed and left, leaving Alexander to contemplate this reversal. He'd spent all day thinking about the Coleridge curse, the bad luck of marrying into their family. But here was someone suggesting he was the lucky one.
He put on the borrowed shirt. It was rough cotton, too short in the sleeves, and pulled across his shoulders. He looked, he imagined, like a laborer trying to dress above his station.
Which was ironic, considering.
Jeffords appeared with his boots, which had been cleaned and dried by the fire. "Best I could do, Your Grace."
"It's fine, Jeffords. Get yourself some rest."
"Your Grace, about tomorrow, you should know that I've sent word to the estate. They shall send a carriage first thing."
Tomorrow. He'd have to face tomorrow eventually. But for tonight, he was trapped in an inn with his Coleridge bride, wearing borrowed clothes and his own humiliation.
He climbed the narrow stairs to their room, knocked quietly, then entered.
Ophelia was sitting on the bed in a borrowed nightgown, brushing her hair with a comb that had survived in her reticule. The evening light from the window made her look softer, younger. Less like a duchess, more like...
"The shirt fits," she observed. "Sort of."
