Page 72 of Married to a Frozen Duke
"It's not urgent. Just... expected."
"By whom?"
"By me, I suppose."
"Then disappoint yourself and show me the house."
For a moment she thought he'd refuse, retreat to his study and leave her to wander alone. But then he offered his arm...formally, properly, but still.
"Very well. We shall start with the portrait gallery. You should know your predecessors."
The portrait gallery was a long room lined with dead Montclaires, all looking remarkably similar in their noble bearing and complete lack of humor. Alexander provided commentary as they walked.
"That's the third duke. He built the east wing. That's the fifth duke. He lost the east wing gambling and had to marry an heiress to get it back."
"Family tradition of marrying for money, then?"
"Family tradition of pragmatism."
"Is that what we're calling it?"
"What would you call it?"
"Survival."
They moved on to the library, which was magnificent—two stories of books reaching to a painted ceiling where cherubs cavorted with unlikely enthusiasm.
"Have you read all of these?" Ophelia asked, craning her neck to see the upper shelves.
"Hardly any. Most are for display."
"Books for display? That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
"Sadder than our wedding?"
"Our wedding was a disaster. These books being unread is a tragedy."
"You're welcome to read them."
"Really?"
"Why would I stop you?"
"I don't know. It just seems... intimate. Reading someone else's books."
"They're our books now," he said although‘our’sounded like a really strange word coming from him.
They wandered through music rooms and morning rooms and rooms whose purposes Ophelia couldn't fathom. Each was perfect, cold, and utterly impersonal.
"Does anyone actually live here?" she asked finally.
"I do."
"No, I mean really live. Not just exist in perfect rooms, but actually live?"
"What's the difference?"
"Living leaves marks. Existence doesn't."
