Page 77 of Married to a Frozen Duke
James looked pleased that she had remembered. "Much better, Your Grace, thank you for asking. The tonic from the village seems to have helped her cough considerably."
"I'm so glad to hear it. There's nothing worse than a lingering cough, especially at her age. My grandmother swore by honey and lemon in hot water, taken three times daily. Perhaps that might help as well?"
"I'll suggest it to her, Your Grace. Very kind of you to remember."
The newspaper lowered slightly, and Alexander's grey eyes appeared over the top, watching the exchange with an expression Ophelia couldn't quite read. She met his gaze briefly, then turned her attention to the breakfast that had been set before her.
They ate in silence for several minutes, the only sounds the clink of china and the rustle of Alexander's paper. Ophelia had letters from home and as she was denying to follow rules she opened them at the breakfast table—one from her mother, one from Henry that would undoubtedly be full of dry observations about something, and one in the twins' shared handwriting that she was almost afraid to open.
She started with her mother's letter, full of local gossip and careful inquiries about her wellbeing that didn't quite ask if she was miserable. Henry's was, as expected, a satirical commentary on the latest Parliamentary debate that actually made her smile despite herself.
"Something amusing?" Alexander asked, his paper now folded beside his plate.
"My brother Henry is describing Lord Carrington's speech in the House as 'an assault upon both logic and the English language, a feat previously thought impossible to achieve simultaneously.'"
Alexander's mouth twitched slightly. "That's actually rather accurate. I was there for that particular disaster. The man managed to mix his metaphors so thoroughly that by the end, no one was quite sure what he was talking about."
It was the closest they came to actual conversation most days—brief moments of shared observation before retreating back into their separate silences. Ophelia had learned not topush these moments, to let them exist and end naturally rather than trying to build upon them.
She opened the twins' letter and immediately regretted it.
Dearest Phee,it began in Charles's enthusiastic scrawl,We're coming to visit! Can't leave our favourite sister languishing in that museum without checking that you're still alive. Edward says to tell you we promise to behave (we absolutely don't promise that). Arriving Thursday if the weather holds. Don't let your duke frighten us away—we've been practicing our elegant accents and everything else.
The letter continued in Edward's slightly neater hand:Also, Robert wants a full report on your circumstances, Henry sends his regards and a book he thinks you'll find amusing, and Father says something incomprehensible about duty and honour that we've chosen to interpret as approval. Mother sends her love and several jars of that preserve you like, though how she expects us to transport them without eating them ourselves is a mystery.
"Bad news?" Alexander asked, and she realized her expression must have given something away.
"My brothers are planning to visit," she said carefully, watching his reaction.
His face went very still, the way it did when he was controlling his immediate response. "I see. When?"
"Thursday, apparently. The day after tomorrow."
"Rather short notice."
"That's Charles and Edward for you. They don't really understand the concept of proper planning." She tried to keep her tone light, but she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw had tightened.
"I suppose it was inevitable," he said after a moment, his tone suggesting he was discussing an upcoming execution.
"I could write and tell them to postpone," she offered, though she knew it was probably too late.
"No, that would only delay the inevitable. Besides, they're your family. You have a right to see them."
The words were correct, proper, but delivered with all the warmth of a legal contract. He rose from the table, his breakfast largely untouched. "If you'll excuse me, I have correspondence to attend to."
He left, and Ophelia sat alone in the morning room, staring at the letter and wondering how two days could feel simultaneously too soon and too far away.
After breakfast, she wandered the house as had become her custom. It was too large to know completely even after two weeks, and she kept discovering new rooms, new corridors, new portraits of disapproving ancestors. Today she found herself in the servants' hall during their morning tea break, having taken a wrong turn while looking for the hothouse.
The conversation stopped when she appeared in the doorway, everyone beginning to rise, but she waved them back down. "Please, don't let me interrupt. I was just exploring and got rather turned around. This house is like a maze."
Mrs. Morrison looked uncertain, caught between protocol and the duchess's apparent wishes. "Your Grace, perhaps I should escort you back to the main house?"
"In a moment, perhaps. But first, might I ask—who arranges the flowers in the front hall? They're absolutely beautiful."
A young housemaid, barely out of her teens, blushed and raised her hand slightly. "That would be me, Your Grace. I hope they're satisfactory?"
"More than satisfactory, they're artistic. Where did you learn to arrange flowers so beautifully?"
