Page 65 of Married to a Frozen Duke
"I know."
"Can you do it?"
She looked at him, this woman who'd survived the worst wedding day in history, who'd trudged through mud, slept in an inn, and still found reasons to laugh.
"Can you?" she asked.
"I don't know."
"Then we shall try together."
"Together," he repeated, tasting the word. It felt foreign but not entirely unpleasant.
"Unless you'd prefer to continue alone?"
"After yesterday? I don't think alone is an option anymore."
"No," she agreed. "I suppose not."
The footman opened the door. Alexander stepped out, then turned to hand her down. She took his hand, and for a moment they stood there.
"Progress?" she asked quietly.
"Progress," he agreed.
Chapter Fifteen
The entrance hall of Montclaire House was designed to intimidate, and it succeeded magnificently. Ophelia stood in the borrowed maid's dress, trying not to gape at the soaring ceiling painted with what appeared to be the entire heavenly host witnessing the glorious deeds of various Montclaire ancestors. The floor was so highly polished she could see her bedraggled reflection, which was somewhat unfortunate given the circumstances.
The servants were lined up in perfect formation—at least thirty of them, from the butler down to the smallest scullery maid. Every single face was carefully blank, but Ophelia could feel their curiosity radiating like heat from a fire. The new Duchess of Montclaire, arriving in a servant's dress. She'd wager this was a first in the estate's five-hundred-year history.
Mrs. Morrison, the housekeeper, stepped forward. She was exactly what one would expect of a ducal housekeeper—-grey hair, impeccable posture, and an expression that suggested she'd seen everything and was impressed by none of it. Her curtsey was perfect, though Ophelia detected a slight stiffness that suggested internal conflict between proper protocol and personal opinion.
"Your Grace,"Mrs. Morrison said, her tone studiously neutral. "Welcome to Montclaire House. I trust your journey was... comfortable?"
Alexander, standing beside her in his borrowed shirt and muddy boots, made a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been a cough. "Our journey was eventful, Mrs. Morrison. Her Grace's luggage was unfortunately destroyed in the storm. She'll need... everything."
The housekeeper's composure cracked slightly, her eyes widening. "Everything, Your Grace?"
"Everything," Alexander confirmed. "Send for seamstresses immediately. The best you can find. Her Grace requires a complete wardrobe as quickly as possible."
"Of course, Your Grace." Mrs. Morrison's gaze flickered to Ophelia with something that might have been sympathy. "Perhaps Her Grace would like to refresh herself while we make arrangements?"
"Yes," Ophelia said, finding her voice. "That would be lovely, thank you."
The butler, a man who looked like he'd been carved from disapproval and starched into submission, stepped forward. "Your Grace," he intoned to Alexander, "there are several urgent matters requiring your attention. The correspondence from London..."
"Later, Carrington. I need to change first. And send word to my grandmother's solicitor. Her Grace will need access to the family jewels."
Ophelia felt rather than saw the ripple of reaction through the assembled servants. The family jewels. That was significant, apparently.
"Shall I show Her Grace to her chambers?" Mrs. Morrison asked.
"I'll do it," Alexander said, surprising everyone, including Ophelia. "The rest of you, return to your duties."
The servants dispersed with the kind of organized efficiency that spoke of years of training, though Ophelia caught several backward glances and heard the whisper of conversation beginning the moment they thought they were out of earshot.
Alexander led her up the imposing staircase, their footsteps echoing in the vast space. Portraits of dead Montclaires watched their progress with painted disapproval.
