Page 93 of Married to a Frozen Duke
"What? I'm simply observing that perhaps the nobility might function just as well without quite so much ceremony attached to every minor daily activity. We manage to feed ourselves at home without a parade of servants to pour our tea and butter our bread."
"Indeed, a method which has done wonders for your table manners," Alexander observed, his gaze pointedly fixed on the marmalade stains that Charles had managed to spread across not just the tablecloth but also his cuff.
Edward laughed, but it wasn't a pleasant sound. "At least our table manners are honest, Your Grace. We don't pretend that needing three footmen for one meal makes us superior to those who manage quite well with one."
"The different footmen serve different purposes, as anyone with a proper education would understand," Alexander said, and Ophelia saw both her brothers flush at the implied insult.
"A proper education," Charles set down his fork with deliberate force. "You mean the kind that teaches you to look down on anyone who actually works for their fortune rather than inheriting it from ancestors who probably stole it in the first place?"
"Charles!" Ophelia's voice was sharp now, but her brother was building to something, she could see it in the way he leaned forward, his usual joviality replaced by something harder.
"No, Phee, I think His Grace should hear this. He sits here in his castle built on centuries of other people's labor, sneering at us because our money comes from trade, as if that's somehow more shameful than living off rents from tenants who can barely feed their families after paying for the privilege of farming land their ancestors probably owned before some Montclaire ancestor decided he wanted it."
Alexander went very still, the kind of stillness that preceded storms, and Ophelia felt her stomach clench with dread. "Youknow nothing about how this estate is run or how our tenants are treated."
"Don't I?" Edward jumped in, apparently feeling brave with his brother's support. "We passed through the village yesterday evening while you were closeted away with your very important correspondence, and we heard plenty. Did you know there's a family about to be evicted from their cottage because they're a month behind on rent after their child fell ill and they couldn't afford both medicine and payment?"
Ophelia looked at Alexander in surprise. "Is this true?"
"Estate matters are not breakfast conversation," he said stiffly, but she saw something flicker in his eyes—perhaps he hadn't known about this particular situation.
"Estate matters," Charles scoffed. "You mean the lives of people you've never met and don't care about as long as the money keeps flowing into your coffers?"
"That's enough," Alexander's voice was dangerously quiet now, and Ophelia recognized the signs of his temper reaching its limits.
"Is it? Because I think we're just getting started on the hypocrisy of the noble classes. You bring our sister here, force her to abandon everything familiar and comfortable, make her dress like a doll and parade her around as your duchess, and for what? To satisfy a dead man's requirement so you can keep your precious inheritance that you've done nothing to earn except be born with the right name."
"At least I know how to conduct myself with dignity rather than spreading marmalade across the table like a child finger-painting," Alexander shot back, his composure finally cracking.
"Better to be a child than a statue," Edward retorted. "Do you ever actually feel anything, Your Grace, or did they breed that out of your bloodline along with the ability to smile?"
"Edward!" Ophelia stood, her hands flat on the table. "That is quite enough from both of you."
"Defending your duke, Phee?" Charles's tone had turned bitter. "How quickly you've forgotten where you come from."
"I haven't forgotten anything, but you're guests in this house and you're being deliberately provocative and rude."
"Rude? We're being honest, something that seems to be in short supply in this museum you call a home." Edward stood as well, his napkin thrown down with theatrical disdain. "Come on, Charles, let's go explore more of His Grace's domain and count how many empty rooms there are that could house entire families but instead sit gathering dust for the sake of appearances."
They left, not quite slamming the door but closing it with enough force to make their displeasure known, and Ophelia sank back into her chair, her appetite completely gone.
"Your brothers," Alexander said after a moment of ringing silence, "are exactly what I expected."
"They're angry," she said quietly, not looking at him. "They feel like you've taken me away from them, and they don't know how else to express it except through resentment."
"They express it through rudeness and deliberate disrespect in my own home."
"Your home," she repeated, finally meeting his gaze. "Not our home anymore?"
"You're defending them? After that display?"
"I'm trying to explain them. There's a difference."
"Explain what? That they resent my existence? That they think centuries of tradition and responsibility are worthless? That they believe their merchant money somehow makes them morally superior to old families who've stewarded this land for generations?"
"Stewarded," Ophelia said, and there was something in her tone that made him look at her sharply. "Is that what you call it? Because from where they sit, it looks more like hoarding resources you've done nothing to earn while looking down on people who actually work for their success."
"You agree with them." It wasn't a question, and his voice had gone cold again.
